The Key Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  “Nice save.”

  “Thanks. I like your face, too.”

  “If you’re about to say something about it being full of character, I’m going to hurt you.”

  “Those deep, dark eyes.” He laid her on the bed as he looked into them. “I never could get the image of those eyes out of my head. Then there’s that mouth. All soft and ripe and tasty.” He nipped into her bottom lip, tugged gently. “I could spend hours thinking about your mouth.”

  She wasn’t going gooey, exactly, but she had to admit something inside was definitely warming up. “You’re better at this than you used to be.”

  “Shut up. I’m working here.” He cruised his lips over her cheeks. “Then there’s the dimples. Unexpected, capricious, strangely sexy. I’ve always loved the look of you.”

  He took her mouth again, long, slow, and deep until the pleasure spread from that point of contact through her body and straight down to her toes.

  Oh, yes, she thought, he was much, much better at it now.

  “Remember that first time with us?”

  She arched a little, shifted a little as he nuzzled at her neck. “Since we all but set the living room rug on fire, it’s a little tough to forget it.”

  “All that pent-up passion and energy. It’s a wonder we survived it.”

  “We were young and resilient.”

  He eased back, smiled at her. “Now we’re older and smarter. I’m going to drive you crazy, and it’s going to take a very long time.”

  The muscles in her belly quivered. She needed to be touched. She needed to be shared, and with him—always with him—she could have both.

  She’d known they would end up here when she’d walked out of her apartment. Maybe she’d known, down deep, they’d end up here the minute she’d opened Flynn’s door and seen Jordan standing outside.

  She wanted, he wanted. She could only hope that could be enough for her.

  “It happens I have some time on my hands just now.”

  “Let’s start . . . right here.”

  His lips took hers with a kind of restrained urgency that shot shock waves of hot need through her system. Even as her heart leaped, he changed the tone, gentled it until that raging beat went slow and thick.

  She floated back on the memory of what had been between them. The fire and the sinew of it. And forward again, to what was now. A kind of wonder and depth.

  Helpless to resist either, hungry for the familiar and the new, she wrapped herself around him.

  His body was familiar. The years hadn’t really changed it. Long, broad at the shoulder, lean at the hips. The play of muscles under her hands, so much the same. The good solid weight of him, the shape of his mouth, his hands, so much the same.

  How she’d missed this knowing of another. And the rush of love that streamed through the pleasure of being known by him.

  Yet even as she slid into the old rhythm, he eased back and just looked at her.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I just want to look at you.” He unbuttoned her shirt, taking his time about it, skimming the backs of his fingers over the exposed skin. And never taking his eyes off hers. “I want you to look at me. Who we were, who we are. Not so far apart, really.” Still watching her face, he trailed his fingers over the thin cotton of her bra. “But just far enough to be interesting, don’t you think?”

  “You want me to think?” She shivered as those lazy fingers brushed her nipples.

  “You’re always thinking.” He drew her up, slipped the shirt away. “Such a busy mind. Just one more thing about you that appeals to me.”

  As his hands stroked her back, she linked her arms around his neck. “You’re awfully chatty, Hawke.”

  “Just gives you one more thing to think about, doesn’t it?”

  He opened the clasp of her bra, then walked his fingers over her shoulders to nudge the straps down.

  His lips touched hers, retreated, touched and retreated until her arms locked around him and with a catch of breath her mouth fused to his.

  He’d wanted that—that quick flash of need. For him. Because no, he didn’t want her to think, but only to feel what they could bring to each other. Here and now.

  His fingers tangled in her hair, then his hands fisted there, drawing her head back so that he could plunder her mouth, her throat. So that he could, for a moment, release the restless animal that prowled inside him.

  He could have devoured her in one reckless bite. But that was too fast, that was too easy. Instead he let the heat rage and tormented them both.

  He feasted on her, then sampled. His hands rushed over her, then slowed and lingered. When she trembled, so did he.

  Her body had always been the purest of pleasures to him. Not just the shape and texture, but its eagerness to enjoy, its openness to the adventure of sex. The thunder of her heart under his lips aroused him as much as the ripe breasts.

  All that lovely smooth skin that shivered under the pass of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, was only more of a thrill when the woman urged him to take more.

  Her hands rushed over him, tugging at his shirt. And the throaty purr of approval as her nails scraped his flesh had his blood burning so he had to fight a vicious war not to hurry.

  But he wasn’t going to gulp when he could sip.

  Where had this patience come from? He would drive her mad with it. How could his mouth be so fevered and his hands so exquisitely controlled? His muscles quivered under her hands, and she knew him, oh, she knew him well enough to exploit his wants and weaknesses. Yet even as he met her demands, even as he pushed her to the trembling edge, he held back and left her quaking.

  “For God’s sake, Jordan.”

  “You’re not crazy enough yet.” His breath tore out of his lungs, but he pinned her arms down and continued to fuel the flames with his mouth. “Neither am I.”

  There was so much of her, and he needed it all. The sumptuous body, the questing mind, and that part of her heart he’d lost through carelessness. He needed more than her desire and heat. He needed her trust again, and would settle for a glimmer of the affection they’d once shared. He wanted back what he’d given up in order to survive.

  He released her hands to embrace her, to hold her tight, tight as they rolled over the bed.

  Her skin was slick with sweat, and she was hot and wet and ready. He had only to cup her to fling her over the edge. She sobbed out his name as her body erupted. And he knew when she went limp beneath him she’d given him something he hadn’t known he’d craved.

  Her surrender.

  “Dana.” He said her name over and over as his lips rushed over her face. When her eyes, so dark and heavy, opened and looked into his, he slid silkily inside her.

  It was coming home and finding that what you’d left was only richer, truer, stronger than what had been. Impossibly moved, he linked his fingers with hers, gripped tight, and gave himself.

  Accepting, she arched to him, then lifting her lips, found his and joined them. The sweetness of it brought an ache to her throat as pleasure built on top of pleasure. They matched, beat for beat, then thrust for thrust when sweetness became desperation.

  They were still joined, lips, hands, loins, when they fell.

  IT could be, Dana thought as she lay sprawled over Jordan, that she had just experienced the most intense, spectacular sex of her life.

  Not that she intended to mention it. Despite the afterglow and the filmy haze of love, she didn’t have to feed his ego.

  But if she were going to mention it, she would have to say her body had never felt more deliciously used. She wouldn’t object to having it used in just that way on a regular basis.

  Then again, sex had never been their problem. Wasn’t their problem the fact she didn’t know what their problem had been? Or was. Or might be.

  Hell with it.

  “You’re thinking again,” Jordan murmured, and ran a finger slowly down her spine. “You think so damn loud. I don’t suppose you could
put it off another few minutes, just until I regenerate some brain cells.”

  “When they’re dead they’re dead, smart guy.”

  “That was a metaphor, a delicate euphemism.”

  “Nothing delicate about you, especially your euphemism.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.” He tugged on her hair until she lifted her head. “You sure look good, Stretch, all rumpled and had. Are you going to stay?”

  She cocked her head. “Am I going to get rumpled and had again?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Then I guess I can stick around for round two.” She rolled aside, sat up and raked her fingers through her hair. And when he reached out, she cocked her brows knowingly.

  Until he frowned and trailed his fingers gently over her breast. “Rubbed you a little raw here and there.” He scraped his knuckles over his own chin. “If I’d known you were dropping by, I’d have shaved.”

  “I take it ‘dropping by’ is another euphemism.” She needed to keep it light or her heart was going to melt right into his hands. “Besides, it was that unshaven, bohemian look that helped get me into bed with you.”

  She gave his cheek a friendly rub, then stretched. “God. I’m starving.”

  “Want to order a pizza?”

  “I can’t wait for pizza. I need immediate fueling. There’s got to be something that passes for food in the kitchen.”

  “Wouldn’t count on it. Kitchen’s pretty torn up. Construction zone.”

  “A real man would go down and hunt up provisions.”

  “I hate when you do that. I always did.”

  “I know.” It absolutely warmed her cockles. “Does it still work?”

  “Yeah. Shit.” He got out of bed, dragged on his jeans. “You’re going to take what you get. No bitching.”

  “Deal.” Satisfied, she lay back down on her side, snuggled into the pillow. “Problem?” she asked when he only stood, staring at her.

  “No. Brain cells regenerating.”

  Her dimples flashed. “Food.”

  “I’m on it.”

  She felt quite smug as he walked out of the room. Maybe it was just a little small of her to gloat, even mentally, that she still knew how to push his buttons. But it brought her such a nice glow, how wrong could it be?

  And it was better, wasn’t it, then letting herself get all worried and churned up about what was going to happen next. This time around she would be smarter, enjoy the moment and restrain herself from expecting more.

  They enjoyed each other’s company, even when they were poking at each other. They shared people who mattered, very much, to both of them. And they had a strong sexual connection.

  It was the basis of a good, healthy relationship.

  So why the hell did she have to be in love with him? If not for that one little thing, it would be perfect.

  Still, when you approached it realistically, it really was her problem. Just as it had been her problem before. He wasn’t obliged to love her back, and whatever she put into or took out of the situation was her own doing.

  He cared about her. She closed her eyes and bit back a sigh. Jesus, that was a sting. Was there anything more painful or lowering than being in love with someone who sincerely cared about you?

  Better not to think about it, to turn that part of herself off, as long as she could manage it. She didn’t have any illusions this time around about them being together forever, building a home, making a family, forging a future.

  His life was in New York, and hers was here. And God knew she had enough in her life to satisfy and occupy her without adding to it by spinning dreams that included Jordan Hawke.

  He’d only hurt her before because she’d let herself be hurt. She wasn’t just older, she decided. She was smarter and stronger now.

  While she was trying to convince herself, she stared at his laptop. His screen saver had come on, and was nothing but a shifting spiral of color that was already making her dizzy.

  How did he stand it?

  As soon as she thought it, she had the answer. It would irritate him enough to push him back to work.

  Considering, she sat up. He hadn’t turned the machine off when she’d interrupted him. He hadn’t closed the document . . . had he?

  She bit her lip, glanced toward the doorway.

  That meant whatever he’d been writing was still on the screen, and if she just happened to give the mouse a little shake, it would pop right up. And if she just happened to read what he’d written, what was the harm?

  Keeping an ear out for footsteps, she slid out of bed, tiptoed over to the desk. She tapped the mouse gently with a fingertip to flick the screen saver off.

  With one last glance toward the doorway, she scrolled back two pages in the document, then began to read.

  She was caught up quickly, though she hit what was obviously the middle of a descriptive paragraph. He had a way of pulling you into the scene, surrounding you with it.

  And this one was dark and cold and quietly terrifying. Something lurked. By the first page she was in the hero’s head, knowing his sense of urgency and the underlying fear. Something hunted, and was already feeding off pain.

  When she came to the end of what he’d written, she swore. “Well, damn it, what happens next?”

  “That’s a hell of a compliment from a naked woman,” Jordan commented.

  She jumped. She cursed herself, but she all but jumped out of her skin, which was all she was wearing. And she flushed, which was considerably worse. She felt the heat spread over her as she whirled to see Jordan standing in the doorway, jeans carelessly unbuttoned, hair mussed, a bag of Fritos, a can of Coke, and an apple in his hands.

  “I was just . . .” There wasn’t any way out of it, she realized, and so she simply told the embarrassing truth. “I was curious. And rude.”

  “No big deal.”

  “No, really, I shouldn’t have poked around in your work. But it was just there, which is your fault for not closing the file.”

  “Which would make it your fault for interrupting me, then distracting me with sex.”

  “I certainly didn’t use sex just so I could . . .” She broke off, heaved out a breath. He was grinning at her, and she could hardly blame him. “Hand over the Fritos.”

  Instead, he walked to the bed, sat back against the pillow. “Come and get them.” He reached into the bag, took out a handful, and began to munch.

  “Anyway, it was the screen saver. It was making me cross-eyed.” Casually, she thought, she sat back down on the bed and tugged the bag of chips out of his hand.

  “I hate that bastard.” He crunched into the apple, handed her the soda. “So, you want to know what happens next?”

  “I was mildly interested.” She popped the top of the Coke, took a long sip. She ate some Fritos, traded them for the apple, traded them back. And, she thought in disgust, he wasn’t going to crack.

  “Okay, who is he? What’s after him? How did he get there?”

  He took the Coke. Was there anything more satisfying than having someone who shared your love of books being so interested in one of yours? he wondered.

  If you added the fact that your literary partner was a very sexy, very naked woman, it was just gravy.

  “It’s a long story. Let’s just say he’s a man who’s made mistakes, and he’s looking for a way to fix them. Along the way he finds out there aren’t any easy answers, that redemption—the real thing—carries a price. That love, the kind that matters, makes the price worth paying.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Betrayed a woman, killed a man.” He ate more chips, listened to the rain drum and patter—outside the window, and in the forest in his mind. “He thought he had reasons for both. Maybe he did. But were they the right reasons?”

  “You’re writing it, you ought to know.”

  “No, he has to know. That’s part of the price of redemption. The not-knowing haunts him, hunts him as much as what’s with him in th
e woods.”

  “What is with him in the woods?”

  He chuckled. “Read the book.”

  She bit into the apple again. “That’s a very underhanded method of making a sale.”

  “A guy’s gotta make a living. Even if it is with ‘mundane and predictable commercial fiction.’ One of your pithy reviews of my work.”

  She felt a twang of guilt, but shrugged it off. “I’m a librarian. Former librarian,” she corrected. “And I’m about to become a bookstore owner. I value all books.”

  “Some more than others.”

  “That would be a matter of personal taste rather than a professional outlook.” Now she wanted to squirm. “Certainly your commercial success indicates you write books that satisfy the masses.”

  He shook his head and abruptly craved a cigarette. “Nobody damns with faint praise better than you, Dana.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” She was, she realized, digging a hole for herself. But she could hardly confess to being a fan of his work when she was sitting in his bed naked and eating corn chips. It was a sure way to make both of them feel ridiculous.

  And would make any honest praise seem like pandering.

  “You’re doing what you always wanted to do, Jordan, and successfully. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “No argument there.” He polished off the Coke, set the can aside. Wrapped his fingers around her ankle. “Still hungry?”

  Relieved that the topic had been tabled, she rolled up the bag of chips, tossed it on the floor beside the bed. “As a matter of fact,” she began, then jumped him.

  IT shouldn’t bother him so much, and it irritated the hell out of him that it did. He didn’t expect everyone to like his work. He’d long ago stopped being bruised or deflated by a poor review or a disgruntled comment from a reader.

  He wasn’t some high-strung, temperamental artist who fell into funks at the slightest criticism.

  But damn it, Dana’s dismissal of his work dug holes in him.

  It was worse now, Jordan thought as he gazed out the bedroom window and brooded. Worse that she’d been kind about it. It had been easier to take her scathing and unsolicited opinions of his talent, her snotty, elitist dismissal of his field than her gentle and kindly meant pat on the head.