River's End

by Nora Roberts

  murder.” He smiled thinly. “I’m sure you know that.”

  “There are a lot of rumors around this town,” Noah said equably. “I let my agent worry about that end of it. I just do the work.”

  “Lydia said you were sharp. You’re going to write the book,” he repeated. “I’m part of the story. So I’ll answer the questions I’ve refused to answer for the last twenty years. Julie and I were never lovers. Tanner and I never fought over her. The fact is, I’d have been delighted if both of those misconceptions had been true. The morning I heard what had happened to her remains the worst day of my life.”

  “How did you hear?”

  “David Melbourne called me. Julie’s family wanted to block as much media as possible, and he knew the minute the press got wind of it, they’d start hammering me for comments, interviews, statements. Of course he was right,” Manning murmured. “It was early. The call woke me. My private number. Julie had my private number.”

  He closed his eyes and pain flickered over his face. “He said, ‘Lucas, I have terrible, terrible news.’ I remember exactly how his voice broke, the grief in it. ‘Julie’s dead. Oh God, God, Julie’s dead. Sam killed her.’ ”

  He opened his eyes again, emotion rushing into them. “I didn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. It was like a bad dream, or worse, worse, some scene I’d be forced to play over and over again. I’d just seen her the day before. She’d been beautiful and alive, excited about a script she’d just read. Then David told me she was dead.”

  “Were you in love with her, Mr. Manning?”

  “Completely.”

  Manning gave him two full hours. Noah had miles of tape, reams of notes. He believed part of Manning’s interview had been calculated, rehearsed. Timing, phrasing, pause and impact. But in it there was truth.

  And with truth there was progress.

  He decided to celebrate by meeting Mike at an off-the-strip bar called Rumors for a couple of drinks.

  “She’s giving me the eye.” Mike rolled his own watering eyes to the left and muttered into his pilsner.

  “Which eye?”

  “The eye, you know. The blonde in the short skirt.”

  Noah considered his order of nachos. The energy from a good day’s work bubbled under the surface of his skin and conversely helped him relax. “There are one hundred and thirty-three blondes in short skirts in here. They all have eyes.”

  “The one two tables over to the left. Don’t look.”

  Though he hadn’t intended to, Noah shrugged. “Okay. I’m going up to San Francisco again in a couple of days.”

  “Why?”

  “Work. The book. Remember?”

  “Oh yeah, yeah. I’m telling you, she’s definitely eyeing me. She just did the hair flip. Hair flipping’s the second stage.”

  “Go make a move, then.”

  “I’m biding my time, scoping it out. What’s it like inside San Quentin, anyway?” Mike tried a little eyebrow wiggle on the blonde to get her reaction.

  “Depressing. You walk through a door, it locks behind you. Your hair stands on end when you hear that click.”

  “So does he still look like a movie star? You never said.”

  “No, he looks like a man who’s spent twenty years in prison. Are you going to eat any of these?”

  “After I talk to the blonde. I don’t want nacho breath. Okay, that was five full seconds of eye contact. I’m going in.”

  “My money’s on you, pal.” Then Noah muttered as Mike swaggered away, “She’ll eat him alive.”

  He amused himself watching the action. The dance floor was packed, bodies crammed against bodies in a shower of flashing colored lights and all bumping and twisting to the music.

  It made him think of the night he’d taken Olivia dancing. And how he’d stopped hearing the music or anything but the beat of his own blood once his mouth tasted hers.

  “Put it away, pal,” he muttered, and, scowling, picked up his beer. “You blew that one.”

  He sipped his beer and watched the show. He’d always enjoyed an occasional night in a club, getting blasted with music and voices, being pressed in with people and movement. Now he was sitting alone, while his oldest friend worked the blonde, and wishing he’d stayed home.

  He pushed aside the nachos without interest, lifted his beer again and spotted Caryn crossing the floor toward his table.

  “Of all the gin joints in all the towns,” he mumbled and took a longer, deeper drink.

  “I thought you were playing hermit.” She’d decked herself out in a leather dress of electric blue that coated her like a tattoo and screamed to an abrupt halt just past her crotch. Her hair was in a thousand wild fuck-me curls, and her mouth was painted a hot, wet red.

  It occurred to him that it was just that look that had made him think with his glands when he’d first seen her. He said nothing, lifted his glass again and did his best to stare through her.

  “You set the cops on me.” She leaned down, planting her palms on the table and her impressive breasts directly at eye level. “You got some nerve, Noah, getting your father to call out his gestapo friends to give me grief.”

  He flicked his gaze up to hers, then over her shoulder where one of her friends was pulling desperately at her arm and muttering her name.

  His lips curved in a viciously cold smile, and he pitched his voice just over the roar of music. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and get her out of here?”

  “I’m talking to you.” Caryn jabbed a nail, painted the same wild blue as her dress, into his chest. “You pay attention to me when I’m talking to you, you bastard.”

  The control snapped in, even as he imagined squeezing his hands around her neck until her eyes popped. “Back off.”

  She jabbed him again, hard enough this time to break skin. Then let out a squeal of shock when he grabbed her wrist.

  “Keep out of my way. You think you can trash my house, destroy my things and I’ll do nothing? You keep the hell out of my way.”

  “Or what?” She tossed her hair back, and to his disgust he saw it wasn’t fear in her eyes, but excitement, edged with a glint of lust. “Going to call Daddy again?” She raised her voice now, to just under a scream. Even in the din, it cut and had heads turning. “I never touched your precious things. I wouldn’t lower myself to go back in that house after the way you treated me, and you can’t prove any different. If I’d been there I’d have burned it down—and I’d have made sure you were inside when I did.”

  “You’re sick.” He shoved her hand aside. “And you’re pitiful.” He was pushing his chair back when she slapped him. The ring on her finger nicked the corner of his mouth, and he tasted blood. His eyes went dark and flat as he got to his feet. “You keep crossing that line, Caryn, and you’re going to get run over.”

  “We got a problem here?”

  Noah merely glanced at security. The man’s shoulders were wide as a canyon and his big, sharp smile didn’t hold any humor. Before he could speak, Caryn had launched herself against the boulder of his chest, blinking until her eyes filled.

  “He wouldn’t leave me alone. He grabbed me.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “That’s a damn lie.” This from Mike, who’d hopped to Noah’s side. “She started on him. She’s a lunatic, wrecked his house last week.”

  “I don’t know what they’re talking about.” Tears slid gracefully down her cheeks as she tipped her face back to the bouncer’s. “He hurt me.”

  “I saw what happened.” A brunette with amused eyes and a slight Southern drawl strolled up. “I was sitting right over there.” She gestured behind her, kept her voice low. “This guy was having a beer at this table, minding his own business. She came up to him, got in his face, started poking at him and yelling abuse. Then she slugged him.”

  The outrage had Caryn shrieking. She took a swipe at the brunette, missing by a mile as the bouncer nipped her around the waist. Her exit, kicking and screaming, caused quite a stir.<
br />
  “Thanks.” Noah dabbed the back of his hand on his lip.

  The brunette’s smile was slow and friendly. “Anytime.”

  “I’m going to get you a fresh beer. Sit, relax.” Mike fussed around him like a mother. “Man, that woman is over the edge and then some. I’ll get the beer and some ice.”

  “Your friend’s very sweet.” She offered Noah a hand. “I’m Dory.”

  “Noah.”

  “Yes, I got that from Mike already. He likes my friend.” She fluttered a hand toward the table where the blonde sat looking wide-eyed and prettily distressed. “She likes him. Why don’t you join us?”

  She had a voice like cream, and skin to match, intelligent interest in her eyes and a sympathetic smile. And he was just too damn tired to start the dance. “I appreciate it, but I’m going to take off. Go home, soak my head. I’m considering entering a monastery.”

  She laughed, and because he looked as if he could use it, touched a light kiss to his cheek. “Don’t do anything rash. Ten, twenty years from now, you’ll look back and smile at this little incident.”

  “Yeah, that’s about right. Thanks again, and tell Mike I’ll catch him later.”

  “Sure.” She watched him go with a little tug of regret.

  He was lost in the forest, the lovely, deep woods with the low glow of light edged with green. There was silence, such silence he could swear he heard the air breathing. He couldn’t find his way over the slick carpet of moss, through the tangle of dripping vines, beyond the great columns of trees that rose like an ancient wall.

  He was looking for something . . . someone. He had to hurry, but whichever direction he took, he remained cupped there, in the ripe and green darkness. He heard the faint murmur of water from a stream, the sigh of the air and the drumming inside his head that was the frantic beat of his own blood.

  Then, under it, like a whisper, came his name. Noah . . . Noah . . .

  “Noah.”

  He shot up in bed, fists raised, eyes still glazed and blinded by the dream, his heart cartwheeling madly in his chest.

  “And you used to wake up with a smile on your face.”

  “What? What?” He blinked his vision clear as the sharpest edge of the dream dulled and faded. “Mom?” He stared at her, then flopped back, buried his face in his pillow. “Jeez. Why don’t you just bash me over the head with a tire iron next time?”

  “Let’s just say I didn’t expect to find you still in bed at eleven o’clock in the morning.” She sat on the edge of the bed, then rattled the bakery box she carried. “I brought pastries.”

  His pulse had nearly leveled out, so he opened one eye—and it was full of suspicion. “Not that carob crap?”

  She sighed heavily. “All my hard work for nothing. You still have your father’s stomach. No, not carob. I brought my only son poisonous white sugar and fat.”

  The suspicion remained, but around it was greedy interest. “What do I have to do for them?”

  She leaned over, kissed the top of his head. “Get out of bed.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Get out of bed,” she said again. “I’ll go make coffee.”

  The idea of coffee and food thrilled him so much he was out of bed and pulling on his jeans before it struck him how weird it was to have his mother drop by with pastries on a Sunday morning.

  He started out, rolled his eyes and went back for a T-shirt. She’d never let him chow down bare-chested. Since he’d gone that far, he brushed his teeth and splashed some water on his face.

  Coffee was just scenting the air when he walked out.

  “You know, you’re a very creative young man,” Celia began. “It baffles me that you didn’t take a little more time, a little more care in furnishing your home.”

  “I just live here.” He slid onto a stool at the counter. “And this stuff suits the place.”

  “Actually, it does.” She glanced back at the simple, straight lines and dark blue cushions. “There’s just not much of Noah around here.”

  “I lost a lot of stuff.” He lifted his shoulder. “I’ll pick it up here and there, eventually.”

  “Hmm.” She said nothing more, and turned away to get out mugs and plates until she could bank some of the fury. Every time she thought about what had been done to him, she wanted to march over to wherever that Caryn creature lived and wade in.

  “So, what’s Dad up to?”

  “A basketball game, what else?” She poured the coffee, arranged the pastries on a plate. He’d already grabbed one when she turned and opened the fridge. “You know, you’d be so much better off using your juicer than buying this processed stuff.”

  His answer was muffled around Bavarian cream and only made her shake her head as she poured orange juice into a glass for him.

  Leaning on the counter, she watched him eat. His eyes were heavy, she noted, his hair tousled and his T-shirt torn at the shoulder. Love, wonderfully warm, spurted through her.

  He grinned a little, licking cream and chocolate off his thumb. She was so damn pretty, he thought, her hair bright as polished copper, her eyes an all-seeing blue. “What?”

  “I was just thinking how good-looking you are.”

  The grin widened as he reached for another pastry. “I was thinking the same thing about you. I get my good looks from my mom. She’s a beaut. And right now, she’s got something on her mind.”

  “Yes, she does.” Taking her time, Celia moved around the counter, took a stool. She propped her feet on the stool between them, lifted her coffee and sipped. “You know how I’ve made it a policy not to interfere in your life, Noah?”

  His grin faded. “Ah . . . yeah. I always appreciated that.”

  “Good. Because with that foundation between us, I expect you to listen to what I have to say.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  She let that pass, tossed back the hair she still wore long enough to wrap into a fat braid. “Mike called me this morning. He told me what happened last night.”

  “Biggest mouth in the west,” Noah muttered.

  “He was worried about you.”

  “Nothing to worry about, and he shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

  “Like he shouldn’t have bothered me when you were twelve and that pimply-faced bully decided you’d make a nice punching bag every day after school?” She cocked an eyebrow. “He was three years older and twice your size, but did you tell me he was pounding on you?”

  Noah tried to sulk into his coffee, but his lips curved. “Dick Mertz. You drove over to his house and went head-to-head with his Neanderthal father, told him to send his little Nazi out and you’d go a couple of rounds with him.”

  “There are times,” Celia said primly, “when it’s difficult to remain a pacifist.”

  “It was a proud moment in my life,” Noah told her, then sobered. “I’m not twelve anymore, Mom, and I can handle my own bullies.”

  “This Caryn isn’t some playground misfit either, Noah. She’s proven she’s dangerous. She threatened you last night. For God’s sake, she talked about burning your house down around you.”

  Mike, you moron. “It’s just talk, Mom.”

  “Is it? Are you sure?” When he opened his mouth, she merely stared until he shut it again. “I want you to get a restraining order.”

  “Mom—”

  “It’s basically all the police can do at this point, and it might very well intimidate her enough to make her stop, go away.”

  “I’m not getting a restraining order.”

  “Why?” A trickle of the genuine fear she felt broke through in the single word. “Because it’s not macho?”

  He inclined his head. “Okay.”

  “Oh!” Frustrated, she slammed her coffee down and pushed off the stool. “That’s unbelievably stupid and shortsighted. What is your penis, your shield?”

  “It’s about as effective a shield as a piece of paper would be,” he pointed out as she stormed around the room. “She’ll lose interest qui
cker if I lie back a bit, then she’ll latch onto some other poor bastard. The fact is, I’m going to be doing a lot of traveling over the next several months. I’m heading up to San Francisco in a few days.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t come back to a pile of ashes,” Celia