by Nora Roberts
Absorbing the sensations, Pandora searched her mind for another easy answer. “If you were hurt, you couldn’t work. I’d have to live with your foul temper.”
“I thought you were already living with it.”
“I’ve seen it fouler.”
He kissed her eyes closed in his slow, sensuous way. “Try one more time.”
“I care.” She opened her eyes, and her look was tense and defiant. “Got a problem with that?”
“No.” His kiss wasn’t gentle this time, it wasn’t patient. He had her caught close and reeling within moments. If there was tension in her still, he couldn’t feel it. “The only problem’s been dragging it out of you.”
“You’re family after all—”
With a laugh, he nipped the lobe of her ear. “Don’t try to back out.”
Indignant, she stiffened. “I never back out.”
“Unless you can rationalize it. Just remember this.” He had her molded against him again. “The family connection’s distant.” Their lips met, urgently, then parted. “This connection isn’t.”
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispered.
“You’re usually so quick.”
“Don’t joke, Michael.”
“It’s no joke.” He drew her away, holding her by the shoulders. Briefly, firmly, he ran his hands down to her elbows, then back. “No, I’m not going to spell it out for you, Pandora. I’m not going to make it easy on you. You have to be willing to admit we both want the same thing. And you will.”
“Arrogant,” she warned.
“Confident,” he corrected. He had to be, or he’d be on his knees begging. There’d come a time, he’d promised himself, when she’d drop the last of her restrictions. “I want you.”
A tremor skipped up her spine. “I know.”
“Yeah.” He linked his fingers with hers. “I think you do.”
Chapter Eleven
Winter raged its way through February. There came a point when Pandora had to shovel her way from the house to her workshop. She found herself grateful for the physical labor. Winter was a long quiet time that provided too many hours to think.
In using this time, Pandora came to several uncomfortable realizations. Her life, as she’d known it, as she’d guided it, would never be the same. As far as her art was concerned, she felt the months of concentrated effort with dashes of excitement had only improved her crafting. In truth, she often used her jewelry to take her mind off what was happening to and around her. When that didn’t work, she used what was happening to and around her in her work.
The sudden blunt understanding that her health, even her life, had been endangered made her take a step away from her usual practical outlook. It caused her to appreciate little things she’d always taken for granted. Waking up in a warm bed, watching snow fall while a fire crackled beside her. She’d learned that every second in life was vital.
Already she was considering taking a day to drive back to New York and pack what was important to her. More than packing, it would be a time of decision making. What she kept, what she didn’t, would in some ways reflect the changes she’d accepted in herself.
Both the lease on her apartment and the lease on the shop over the boutique were coming up for renewal. She’d let them lapse. Rather than living alone, she’d have the company and the responsibility of her uncle’s old servants. Though she’d once been determined to be responsible only to herself and her art, Pandora made the choice without a qualm. Though she had lived in the city, in the rush, in the crowds, she’d isolated herself. No more.
Through it all wove Michael.
In a few short weeks, what they had now would be over. The long winter they’d shared would be something to think of during other winters. As she prepared for a new and different life, Pandora promised herself she’d have no regrets. But she couldn’t stop herself from having wishes. Things were already changing.
The police had come, and with their arrival had been more questions. Everything in her shop had to be locked up tightly after dark, and there were no more solitary walks in the woods after a snowfall. It had become a nightly ritual to go through the Folley and check doors and windows that had once been casually ignored. Often when she walked back to the house from her shop, she’d see Michael watching from the window of his room. It should have given her a warm, comfortable feeling, but she knew he was waiting for something else to happen. She knew, as she knew him, that he wanted it. Inactivity was sitting uneasily on him.
Since they’d driven into New York to deal with the break-in at his apartment, he’d been distant, with a restlessness roiling underneath. Though they both understood the wisdom of having the grounds patrolled, she thought they felt intruded upon.
They had no sense of satisfaction from the police investigation. Each one of their relatives had alibis for one or more of the incidents. So far the investigation seemed to have twin results. Since the police had been called in, nothing else had happened. There’d been no anonymous phone calls, no shadows in the woods, no bogus telegrams. It had, as Pandora had also predicted, stirred things up. She’d dealt with an irate phone call from Carlson who insisted they were using the investigation in an attempt to undermine his case against the will.
On the heels of that had come a disjointed letter from Ginger who’d had the idea that the Folley was haunted. Michael had had a two-minute phone conversation with Morgan who’d muttered about private family business, overreacting and hogwash. Biff, in his usual style, had wired a short message:
Cops and robbers? Looks like you two are playing games with each other.
From Hank they heard nothing.
The police lab had confirmed the private analysis of the champagne; Randall was plodding through the investigation in his precise, quiet way. Michael and Pandora were exactly where they’d been weeks before: waiting.
He didn’t know how she could stand it. As Michael made his way down the narrow path Pandora had shoveled, he wondered how she could remain so calm when he was ready to chew glass. It had only taken him a few days of hanging in limbo to realize it was worse when nothing happened. Waiting for someone else to make the next move was the most racking kind of torture. Until he was sure Pandora was safe, he couldn’t relax. Until he had his hands around someone’s throat, he wouldn’t be satisfied. He was caught in a trap of inactivity that was slowly driving him mad. Pausing just outside her shop, he glanced around.
The house looked big and foolish with icicles hanging and dripping from eaves, gutters and shutters. It belonged in a book, he thought, some moody, misty gothic. A fairy tale—the grim sort. Perhaps one day he’d weave a story around it himself, but for now, it was just home.
With his hands in his pockets he watched smoke puff out of chimneys. Foolish it might be, but he’d always loved it. The longer he lived in it, the surer he was that he was meant to. He was far from certain how Pandora would take his decision to remain after the term was over.
His last script for the season was done. It was the only episode to be filmed before the show wrapped until fall. He could, as he often did, take a few weeks in the early spring and find a hot, noisy beach. He could fish, relax and enjoy watching women in undersize bikinis. Michael knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
For the past few days, he’d been toying with a screenplay for a feature film. He’d given it some thought before, but somehow something had always interfered. He could write it here, he knew. He could perfect it here with Pandora wielding her art nearby, criticizing his work so that he was only more determined to make it better. But he was waiting. Waiting for something else to happen, waiting to find who it was who’d used fear and intimidation to try to drive them out. And most of all, he was waiting for Pandora. Until she gave him her complete trust, willingly, until she gave him her heart unrestrictedly, he had to go on waiting.
His hands curled into fists and released. He wanted action.
He tried the door and satisfied himself that she’d kept h
er word and locked it from the inside. “Pandora?” He knocked with the side of his fist. She opened the door with a drill in her hand. After giving her flushed face and tousled hair a quick look, Michael lifted his hands, palms out. “I’m unarmed.”
“And I’m busy.” But her lips curved. There was a light of pleasure in her eyes. He found it easy to notice such small things.
“I know, I’ve invaded scheduled working hours, but I have a valid excuse.”
“You’re letting in the cold,” she complained. Once, she might have shut the door in his face without a second thought. This time she shut it behind him.
“Not a hell of a lot warmer in here.”
“It’s fine when I’m working. Which I am.”
“Blame Sweeney. She’s sending me in for supplies, and she insisted I take you.” He sent Pandora a bland look. “‘That girl holes herself up in that shed too much. Needs some sun.’”
“I get plenty of sun,” Pandora countered. Still, the idea of a drive into town appealed. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the jeweler in the little shopping center. She was beginning to think her work should spread out a bit, beyond the big cities. “I suppose we should humor her, but I want to finish up here first.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
“Good. Half an hour then.” She went to exchange the drill for a jeweler’s torch. Because she didn’t hear the door open or shut, she turned and saw Michael examining her rolling mill. “Michael,” she said with more than a trace of exasperation.
“Go ahead, take your time.”
“Don’t you have anything to do?”
“Not a thing,” he said cheerfully.
“Not one car chase to write?”
“No. Besides, I’ve never seen you work.”
“Audiences make me cranky.”
“Broaden your horizons, love. Pretend I’m an apprentice.”
“I’m not sure they can get that broad.”
Undaunted, he pointed to her worktable. “What is that thing?”
“This thing,” she began tightly, “is a pendant. A waterfall effect made with brass wire and some scraps of silver I had left over from a bracelet.”
“No waste,” he murmured. “Practical as ever. So what’s the next step?”
With a long breath, she decided it would be simpler to play along than to throw him out. “I’ve just finished adjusting the curves of the wires. I’ve used different thicknesses and lengths to give it a free-flowing effect. The silver scraps I’ve cut and filed into elongated teardrops. Now I solder them onto the ends of the wires.”
She applied the flux, shifting a bit so that he could watch. After she’d put a square of solder beside each wire, she used the torch to apply heat until the solder melted. Patient, competent, she repeated the procedure until all twelve teardrops were attached.
“Looks easy enough,” he mused.
“A child of five could do it.”
He heard the sarcasm and laughed as he took her hands. “You want flattery? A few minutes ago I saw a pile of metal. Now I see an intriguing ornament. Ornate and exotic.”
“It’s supposed to be exotic,” Pandora replied. “Jessica Wainwright will wear it in the film. It’s to have been a gift from an old lover. The countess claims he was a Turkish prince.”
Michael studied the necklace again. “Very appropriate.”
“It’ll droop down from brass and silver wires twisted together. The lowest teardrop should hang nearly to her waist.” Pleased, but knowing better than to touch the metal before the solder cooled, Pandora held up her sketch. “Ms. Wainwright was very specific. She wants nothing ordinary, nothing even classic. Everything she wears should add to the character’s mystique.”
She set the sketch down and tidied her tools. She’d solder on the hoop and fashion the neck wire when they returned from town. Then if there was time, she’d begin the next project. The gold-plated peacock pin with its three-inch filigree tail would take her the better part of two weeks.
“This thing has potential as a murder weapon,” Michael mused, picking up a burnisher to examine the curved, steel tip.
“I beg your pardon?”
He liked the way she said it, so that even with her back turned she was looking down her nose. “For a story line.”
“Leave my tools out of your stories.” Pandora took the burnisher from him and packed it away. “Going to buy me lunch in town?” She stripped off her apron then grabbed her coat.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I asked first.” She locked the shop and welcomed the cold. “The snow’s beginning to melt.”
“In a few weeks, the five dozen bulbs Jolley planted during his gardening stage will be starting to bloom.”
“Daffodils,” she murmured. It didn’t seem possible when you felt the air, saw the mounds of snow, but spring was closing in. “The winter hasn’t seemed so long.”
“No, it hasn’t.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I never expected six months to go so quickly. I figured one of us would’ve attempted murder by this time.”
With a laugh, Pandora matched her step to his. “We’ve still got a month to go.”
“Now we have to behave ourselves,” he reminded her. “Lieutenant Randall has his eye on us.”
“I guess we blew our chance.” She turned to wind her arms around his neck. “There have been times I’ve wanted to hit you with a blunt instrument.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” he told her as he lowered his mouth. Her lips were cool and curved.
At the side window, Sweeney drew back the drape. “Look at this!” Cackling, she gestured to Charles. “I told you it would work. In a few more weeks, I’ll be putting bells on a wedding cake.”
As Charles joined Sweeney at the window, Pandora scooped a hand into the snow and tossed it in Michael’s face. “Don’t count your chickens,” he muttered.
In a desperate move to avoid retaliation, Pandora raced to the garage. She ducked seconds before snow splattered against the door. “Your aim’s still off, cousin.” Hefting the door, she sprinted inside and jumped into his car. Smug, she settled into the seat. He wouldn’t, she was sure, mar his spotless interior with a snowball. Michael opened the door, slid in beside her and dumped snow over her head. She was still squealing when he turned the key.
“I’m better at close range.”
Pandora sputtered as she wiped at the snow. Because she’d appreciated the move, it was difficult to sound indignant. “One would have thought that a man who drives an ostentatious car would be more particular with it.”
“It’s only ostentatious if you buy it for status purposes.”
“And, of course, you didn’t.”
“I bought it because it gets terrific gas mileage.” When she snorted, he turned to grin at her. “And because it looks great wrapped around redheads.”
“And blondes and brunettes.”
“Redheads,” he corrected, twining her hair around his finger. “I’ve developed a preference.”
It shouldn’t have made her smile, but it did. She was still smiling when they started down the long, curvy road. “We can’t complain about the road crews,” she said idly. “Except for those two weeks last month, the roads’ve been fairly clear.” She glanced toward the mounds of snow the plows had pushed to the side of the road.
“Too bad they won’t do the driveway.”
“You know you loved riding that little tractor. Uncle Jolley always said it made him feel tough and macho.”
“So much so he’d race it like a madman over the yard.”
As they came to a curve, Michael eased on the brake and downshifted. Pandora leaned forward and fiddled with the stereo. “Most people have equipment like this in their den.”
“I don’t have a den.”
“You don’t have a stereo to put in one, either,” she remembered. “Or a television.”
He shrugged, but mentally listed what he’d lost from his apartment. “Insurance’ll cover i
t.”
“The police are handling that as though it were a normal break-in.” She switched channels. “It might’ve been.”
“Or it might’ve been a smoke screen. I wish we—” He broke off as they approached another curve. He’d pressed the brake again, but this time, the pedal had gone uselessly to the floor.
“Michael, if you’re trying to impress me with your skill as a driver, it’s not working.” Instinctively Pandora grabbed the door handle as the car careered down the curve.
Whipping the steering wheel with one hand, Michael yanked on the emergency brake. The car continued to barrel down. He gripped the wheel in both hands and fought the next curve. “No brakes.” As he told her, Michael glanced down to see the speedometer hover at seventy.
Pandora’s knuckles turned white on the handle. “We won’t make it to the bottom without them.”
He never considered lying. “No.” Tires squealed as he rounded the next curve. Gravel spit under the wheels as the car went wide. There was the scrape and scream of metal as the fender kissed the guardrail.
She looked at the winding road spinning in front of her. Her vision blurred then cleared. The sign before the S-turn cautioned for a safe speed of thirty. Michael took it at seventy-five. Pandora shut her eyes. When she opened them and saw the snowbank dead ahead, she screamed. With seconds to spare, Michael yanked the car around. Snow flew skyward as the car skidded along the bank.
Eyes intense, Michael stared at the road ahead and struggled to anticipate each curve. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He knew the road, that’s what terrified him. In less than three miles, the already sharp incline steepened. At high speed, the car would ram straight through the guardrail and crash on the cliffs below. The game Jolley had begun would end violently.
Michael tasted his own fear, then swallowed it. “There’s only one chance; we’ve got to turn off on the lane leading into the old inn. It’s coming up after that curve.” He couldn’t take his eyes from the road to look at her. His fingers dug into the wheel. “Hang on.”