The Key Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  “Your editor’s a woman? How does it work? Do you work with her all the way through a book, or does she tell you what she wants you to do, or . . .” She trailed off, shook her head. “Sorry. Way, way off topic.”

  “It’s okay. Do you want to write?”

  “Write? Me?” The idea had her exotic eyes going wide before she laughed. “No. I just like knowing how things work.”

  “Speaking of work, we’ve got a full day of it tomorrow.” Malory gave Flynn’s hand a pat.

  “That’s my cue. I’ll go round up Moe for you,” Flynn told Dana.

  “I’m running low on dog food. He eats like an elephant.”

  “I’ll drop some off.” He caught her face in his hands. “Keep him close, okay?”

  “He doesn’t give me a lot of choice.”

  “Flynn, would you round up Simon, too?” Automatically, Zoe began stacking dishes. “He’s probably attached to Moe at the hip, so he shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

  “Sure.”

  “We’d better cut out too. I’m going to see if I can get this one started on his homework.” Dana jerked a thumb at Jordan. “Any tips for that, Zoe?”

  “Bribery. That’s my method.”

  Brad stepped over, laid a hand on Zoe’s. And made her jump like a rabbit. “You don’t have to bother with those.”

  “Sorry.” She instantly set the plates down. “Habit.”

  It seemed to Brad that the woman deliberately misinterpreted every second word out of his mouth. “I just meant you don’t have to pick up. Anybody want coffee?”

  “I do.”

  “No, you don’t.” Dana gave Jordan a nudge toward the doorway. “It’s work for you, pal. You can have coffee when you’ve gotten a couple of pages done.”

  “Bribery.” Zoe nodded approval. “It never fails.”

  Moe bounded into the room, a wild blur of fur. In his delight to see everyone, he leaped, licked, swept glasses off the coffee table with an exuberant tail, and nosed his way into a plate of cocktail shrimp before he could be controlled.

  “Sorry, sorry.” With one hand hooked in Moe’s collar, Flynn dragged the dog, or was dragged by him, toward the door. “I’ll put him in Jordan’s car. Bill me for damages. See you. Oh, Zoe, Simon needs a few more minutes to finish a game. Jesus Christ, Moe! Hold up!”

  “This is my life now,” Malory said happily. “It’s kind of great. Thanks, Brad, sorry about the dishes. See you tomorrow, Zoe, Dana. ’Night, Jordan.”

  “I have to go save my upholstery.” Jordan grabbed Dana’s arm and pulled her toward the door. “Later.”

  “Stop yanking me. Smooches, Brad. See you in the morning, Zoe.”

  The door slammed behind them, and there was absolute silence.

  It had all happened so fast, was all Zoe could think. She’d never intended to be the last one to leave. It was horrible. Horrifying.

  She considered running into the game room and grabbing Simon, but she wasn’t exactly sure where it was. And she could hardly stand where she was and shout for him. Still, she needed to do something.

  She bent down to pick up the glasses Moe had knocked to the floor. At exactly the same moment, so did Brad.

  Their heads bumped. Each of them straightened quickly, then stood taut as bows.

  “I’ll get them.” He crouched, gathered up the glasses, set them on the coffee table. He was close enough to catch her scent now. It was always different, sometimes earthy, sometimes light, always very female.

  It was one of the fascinating things about her, he mused. The variety of her.

  “Coffee?”

  “I really should just get Simon. It’s nearly his bedtime.”

  “Oh. Well. Okay.”

  When he just stood, looking at her, Zoe felt embarrassed heat creeping up the back of her neck. Had she done something wrong? Left out something?

  “Thanks for having us.”

  “Glad you could make it.”

  During the next long pause, she had to make a conscious effort not to bite her lip. “Simon? I don’t know exactly where he is.”

  “The game room. Oh.” Amused at both of them, Brad laughed. “You don’t know where the game room is. Come on, I’ll take you back.”

  The more Zoe saw of the house, the more in love with it, and intimidated by it, she was. To begin with, there was so much of it, all of it charming or stunning or just lovely. She imagined the things she noticed on tables or shelves were several levels up from knickknacks.

  Brad veered off through an archway into what she assumed was some sort of library. The soaring ceiling was done in wood and made the room feel open while still managing to be cozy.

  “There’s so much room.” She stopped, appalled that she’d spoken out loud.

  “The story is, once my father got started, he couldn’t stop. He’d get another idea, add it into the design.”

  “It’s a wonderful house,” she said quickly. “So much detail without being fussy. You must’ve loved growing up here.”

  “I did.”

  He stepped into another room. Zoe already heard the roar of engines, the vicious gunfire, the breathless chant—come on, come on, come on—of her son.

  The video game was some sort of urban car war that flashed over an enormous wall-size TV screen. Simon sat cross-legged on the floor rather than in one of the cushy recliners in a room that fulfilled every boy’s fantasy.

  A pool table, three pinball machines, two video-arcade games. Slot machines, a soda machine, a jukebox.

  The ceiling here was coffered, framed in honey-toned wood that shielded strips of lights.

  There was another fireplace, with cheerful flames snapping, as well as a small, glossy bar and a second television with an entire cabinet devoted to various components.

  “Gosh. This is Simon Michael McCourt’s personal version of heaven.”

  “My dad loves toys. We spent a lot of time in here.”

  “I bet.” She stepped up behind her son. “Simon. We have to go.”

  “Not yet, not yet.” His face was fierce with concentration. “This is Grand Theft Auto Three! I’m really close, really close to having them call out the National Guard. Tanks and everything! I’m kicking Swat Team butt. I could set a record. Ten more minutes.”

  “Simon. Mr. Vane needs his house back.”

  “Mr. Vane is fine with this,” Brad corrected.

  “Please, Mom. Please. Tanks.”

  She wavered. She saw more than the heat of competition on his face as he stared at the screen. She saw joy.

  Someone died on-screen with a great deal of splashing blood, and from the delighted cackle she figured it wasn’t Simon.

  “It’s a little violent,” Brad realized and winced. “If you don’t want him playing this sort of thing—”

  “Simon knows the difference between reality and video games.”

  “Right. Good. Why don’t we go have that coffee?” Brad suggested. “A few more minutes can’t hurt.”

  “All right. Ten minutes, Simon.”

  “Okay, Mom, thanks, Mom. I’m going to do it,” he mumbled, already back in the groove. “I’m going to do it.”

  “It’s nice of you to let him play with your things,” Zoe began as they left Simon to the battle. “He talked about being out here before for days.”

  “He’s a great kid. Fun to be around.”

  “I certainly think so.”

  She found herself in the kitchen with him—another spacious, stunning room. This one done in bright, cheerful white and toasty yellows that would make it seem sunny even on a gloomy day.

  She coveted the acres of counter space, the forest of cupboards, some with gorgeous seeded glass. She admired the sleek appliances that had to make cooking a creative joy rather than a mundane chore.

  Then it occurred to her that she was, once again, alone with him.

  “You know, I should just go back with Simon, and let you . . . do whatever. We’ll be out of your way quicker.”

  H
e finished measuring out coffee before he turned to her. “Why do you think I want you out of my way?”

  “I’m sure you have things to do.”

  “Not so much.”

  “Well, I do. A million things. I should really be ready to pry Simon away before he loses control and starts another game. I’ll just go get him, and we’ll let ourselves out.”

  “I don’t get it.” Forgetting the coffee, Brad stepped closer to her. “I really don’t get it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re comfortable enough with Flynn and Jordan to flirt with them, but two minutes with me and you’re not only blowing cold, you’re halfway out the door.”

  “It’s not flirting.” Her voice went sharp. “Not like that. We’re friends. They’re Malory’s and Dana’s boyfriends, for Pete’s sake. And if you think I’m the sort of person who’d—”

  “Then there’s that,” Brad continued with what he considered admirable calm. “The way you automatically jump to conclusions, usually the wrong ones, when it comes to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. In the first place, I barely know you.”

  “That’s not true. People get to know each other pretty quickly in intense situations. We’re in one, and we’ve been in one for close to two months now. We’ve spent time together, we have good mutual friends, and you’ve cooked me dinner.”

  “I didn’t cook you dinner.” Her chin came up. “You happened to be at the house when I cooked dinner. You ate. That’s different.”

  “Point for you,” he acknowledged. “You know, for some reason your response to me causes me to start sounding like my father when he’s annoyed. There’s this tone he gets in his voice, this change of body language. Used to bug the hell out of me when I was a kid.”

  “I have no intention of bugging the hell out of you. We’ll leave.”

  In Brad’s mind there was a time for talk and there was a time for action. When you were fed up, it was time for action. He closed a hand over her arm to keep her in place, watched temper and nerves rush across her truly spectacular face.

  “There it is,” he told her. “Your usual response to me. Annoyance and/or nervousness. I’ve been asking myself why that is. I spend a lot of time asking myself questions about you.”

  “Then you must have a lot of time to waste. Let go. I’m leaving.”

  “And one of my theories is,” he continued easily, “this.”

  He cupped his other hand at the nape of her neck, pulled her forward, and kissed her.

  He’d wanted to kiss her for weeks. Maybe for years. He’d wanted the taste of her on his lips, on his tongue, in his blood. And the feel of her, he thought as he slipped an arm around her waist to bring her more firmly against him.

  Her mouth was so full, so ripe, and much more potent than he’d anticipated. Her body quivered once against his, in shock, in response. At the moment it didn’t matter.

  Just as it didn’t matter if this single act was taken as a declaration of war or an offer of peace. He only knew he’d slowly been going mad waiting to hold her.

  She’d hesitated instead of pushing him away. And that, she would think later, when thinking was an option again, was her mistake.

  He was warm and hard, and his mouth was skilled. And God, it had been so long since she’d been pressed against a man. She felt the need lift inside her, from the toes to the belly to the throat, followed by that long, lovely pull and flutter that took it all the way back down.

  For one mad moment, she drew him in. The male scent and flavor, the strength and the passion, and let it tumble through her in a kind of joyful spree.

  It was like a carnival, like the giddiest of rides when you couldn’t be sure—not absolutely—that you wouldn’t be flung out of your seat and into the air.

  And wasn’t that fabulous?

  Then she slammed on the brakes. What choice did she have? She knew what happened when you rode too fast, too hard, too high.

  And this wasn’t her place, this wasn’t her man. What was hers—her child—was playing in the next room.

  She pulled out of Brad’s arms.

  He was shaken, right down to the soles of his feet, but he stared into her eyes and nodded coolly. “I think that made my point.”

  She was no quaking virgin, and a long way from being an easy mark. She didn’t step back, that would have been retreat, but stood firm and kept her eyes level with his. “Let’s get a few things straight. I like men. I like their company, their conversation, their humor. I happen to be raising one of my own, and I intend to do a good job of it.”

  She looked, he thought, like an angry, and aroused, wood nymph. “You are doing a good job of it.”

  “I like kissing men—the right man, the right circumstances. I like sex, under the same conditions.”

  His eyes warmed to a deep, foggy gray that was unexpected and compelling. The charming creases in his cheeks—too manly, Zoe thought, to be called dimples—deepened. Her fingers itched to trace those creases, and the sensation warned her she was in trouble.

  “That’s a relief to me.”

  “You’d better understand that I make the conditions at this point in my life. The fact that I have a kid and I’m not married doesn’t make me easy.”

  Angry shock leaped into his face. “For Christ’s sake, Zoe. Where did we veer from me finding you interesting and attractive and wanting to kiss you to finding you easy?”

  “I want to be clear, that’s all. Just like I’m going to be clear that nobody uses my kid to get to me.”

  The shock, the anger iced over. The chill hit him from a foot away. “If you assume that’s what I’m doing, you’re insulting all three of us.”

  She felt twin jolts of guilt and embarrassment. As she started to speak, Simon flew into the room. “I rule! Beat your high score, sucker!” He danced around Brad, shaking his index fingers in the air in a victory dance.

  With effort, Brad folded his emotions further inside, then hooked an arm around Simon’s neck. “A momentary event, I promise you. Gloat while you have the chance, you midget.”

  “Next time I’m beating your butt in the NBA play-offs.”

  “Never happen. And when I humiliate you, you will crawl to me on your belly like the insignificant worm you are.”

  As she watched the exchange, saw their obvious enjoyment of each other, her guilt only increased. “Simon, we have to go.”

  “Okay. Thanks for letting me mop the floor with ya.”

  “I’m just luring you in, so crushing you will be more gratifying.” With his arm still around the boy, he looked at the mother. “I’ll get your coats.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  SINCE it became apparent, very quickly, that Dana wasn’t handy with home improvement chores that involved tools, she was designated head painter. Which meant, she thought, a little sulkily, that she spent all day slapping paint on walls while Zoe went around doing stuff with a cool little electric screwdriver or drill and Malory putzed around with the leak under the kitchen sink.

  The fact that Malory was the girliest girl of Dana’s acquaintance and that she got a wrench was lowering.

  It wasn’t that she minded painting so much—even though it was incredibly boring, despite the magic roller machine. She just could’ve used a little variety on her job list.

  Still, watching the walls take on color was satisfying. Malory and Zoe had been on the money in the choice. Her bookstore section was going to look not only warm but stylish.

  Zoe swore that once the floors were sanded and sealed, they would glow.

  She knew how it could look. Kane had shown her. And if he’d used her own fantasy to build the image, that was fine. This was one fantasy she was going to make sure came true.

  As an idea struck, she stopped, turned off the machine, set the roller aside.

  The truth in his lies. Her fantasy, and his manipulation of it.

  What if the key was here, as Malory’s had been? Why couldn’t it be that s
imple? He’d shown her, hadn’t he? Look what you can have, if you only cooperate with me: your dream bookstore, full of customers and stock. Not real, she thought now, not truth. But there’d been truth in it. It was what she wanted, what she intended to work for. What she could have, with her own effort and on her own merits.

  Maybe the key was right here, if she could only see it. If she could bring it out as Malory had.

  She took some deep breaths, shaking her arms, rolling her shoulders, like a diver about to spring off the high platform.

  Then she closed her eyes, tried to let herself drift.

  She could hear the whirr of Zoe’s drill, and the cheerful music that Malory had playing on the radio.

  What was that? ABBA? Jesus, couldn’t she find a station that recognized music from this millennium?

  Annoyed with herself, Dana struggled to erase the image of a teenage dancing queen from her mind.

  The key. The pretty gold key. It was small, shiny, with that looping Celtic pattern at the hilt. Was it a hilt when it was a key? she wondered. It wasn’t a damn sword, so there had to be another word for it. She’d have to look that up.

  Oh, stop it!

  She huffed out another breath, and focused.

  The whirr of the drill, the tinkle of music, and beyond that, the muffled sound of cars passing on the street outside. The hum of the furnace as it kicked on.

  And if you listened hard enough, she realized, the creaks and whispers of an old house settling into its own bones.

  Her house. Hers. The first she’d ever owned. A step out of the past toward the future. A single, definite move that changed the pattern of what had been toward what would be.

  She could smell fresh paint, a testament to a new start.

  Those things were real, as real as her own flesh and blood. Those things were truth.

  The key was real. She had only to see it, to touch it, to take it.

  She saw it now, floating on a field of peacock green, shimmering against that deep color. But when she reached out, her hand passed through it as if it, or she, was insubstantial.

  I’m the key. It’s meant for me.

  She tried again, again, bearing down with the effort until sweat pearled on her forehead.