by Nora Roberts
Styrofoam cup. Since then, Michael had dispensed with the milk altogether. Before he could sit and enjoy, he was interrupted by a banging on the back screen door.
At first glance it appeared to be a five-foot gray mat. But mats didn’t have wagging tails or lolling pink tongues. Michael pushed open the screen and was greeted exuberantly by the scruffy, oversized dog.
“Don’t try to make up.” Michael shoved the huge paws off his bare chest. The paws hit the floor, but most of the mud on them remained on Michael.
Conroy, pedigree unknown, sat on the linoleum and grinned. He smelled almost as bad as a dog could possibly smell, but was apparently unoffended by his own aroma. His hair was matted and full of burrs. Michael found it hard to believe that he’d picked Conroy out of a litter of cute, gamboling pups less than two years before. As an adult, Conroy had turned out ugly —not homely but down-to-the-ground ugly. This little trick of nature didn’t bother the dog, either.
Conroy continued to grin as he lifted a paw in what both he and Michael knew had nothing to do with subservience.
“I’m not going to shake that paw. I don’t know where it’s been. You went back to that slut again, didn’t you?”
Conroy slid his eyes to the left. If he could have whistled between his teeth, he would have.
“Don’t try to deny it. You’ve spent all weekend rolling in the dirt and slobbering over that half-breed beagle tramp. Never a thought to the consequences or my feelings.” Turning away, Michael rooted in the refrigerator. “If you knock her up again, you’re on your own. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Safe sex. It’s the eighties, bucko.”
He tossed over a slice of bologna, which Conroy caught nimbly and swallowed in one gulp. Softening, Michael tossed him two more before he settled down with his coffee-soaked shredded wheat.
He liked his life. Moving to the burbs had been the right decision for him. It had exactly what he wanted: A nice patch of lawn he could grumble about mowing, a few leafy trees, and what remained of the previous owner’s flower bed.
He’d given gardening a shot, but when he’d proven inept, had abandoned it. That suited Conroy as well. No one got antsy when he dug up the snapdragons.
He’d bought the small brick rancher on impulse, right after the end of his brief and ill-advised affair with Angie Parks. He’d learned something from her, other than kinky sex. And that was that Michael Kesselring was and always would be middle class.
It had been strange to watch her on the screen after he’d been replaced with a twenty-year-old hockey player. It had given him an eerie, almost creepy feeling to see her depiction of Jane Palmer, and to realize that she’d played that part with him all during the three frenzied months they’d been lovers.
He’d gone alone to the theater. A kind of test to make certain he’d gotten rid of any residual, and unhealthy, attraction for her. When she’d bared those beautiful breasts, he’d felt nothing but discomfort. Though it had been by proxy, he knew he had been to bed with Emma’s mother.
And he had wondered, sitting under the dark cloak of the theater, if Emma would see the movie.
But he didn’t like to think of Emma.
There had been other women. No one serious, but other women. He had his work. It no longer amazed him that he had both a talent and an affection for law enforcement. Perhaps he didn’t have his father’s patience and skill with paperwork, but he thought well on his feet, accepted the long, often monotonous hours of legwork and stakeouts, and had a healthy enough respect for his life not to be trigger-happy.
“I got shot at yesterday,” he said conversationally to Conroy. The dog began, disinterestedly, to scratch for fleas. “If that pervert had gotten lucky, you’d be out in the cold, pal. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that slut would take you in.”
Conroy glanced over, burped, and went back to his fleas.
“One trip to the vet,” Michael muttered as he spooned up cereal. “Just one trip and a couple of snips, and your letching days are over.” Pleased that he’d had the last word, Michael opened the paper.
There was the usual business about the Middle East, the latest in terrorism. Some routine bitching about the economy. Beneath the fold in section B was an article about the capture and arrest of one Nick Axelrod, a small-time second-story man who had hopped himself up on PCP and axed his lover.
“Here’s the guy,” Michael said, holding out the paper for Conroy’s perusal. “Found him in an apartment downtown, shooting up the walls and screaming for Jesus. See, here’s my name. Detective Michael Kettlerung. Yeah, I know, I know, but it’s supposed to be my name. If you’re not interested in current events, why don’t you do something useful, like getting my cigarettes. Go on, fetch.”
Moaning, Conroy started off. He tried a limp, but Michael had gone back to the paper and wasn’t paying attention. Scratching his bare chest, Michael turned to the Entertainment section.
His fingers curled in, fisted, and held against his heart as he stared at the picture.
It was Emma. She looked—God, he thought, she looked outrageous. That shy little smile, those huge, quiet eyes. She was wearing some skimpy strapless dress, and her hair was down, raining over her shoulders in thick, wild waves.
There was an arm over her shoulders as well, and the arm was attached to a man. Michael tore his eyes from Emma’s face long enough to stare at the man.
Drew Larimer. His brain connected face and name. He was smiling, too. Positively fucking beaming, Michael thought. He shifted back to Emma, studying every inch, every angle of her face for a long time. Conroy came in and dumped a slobbery pack of Winstons on his lap. But he didn’t move.
Very slowly, as if it were a foreign language, he read the headline.
ROCK PRINCESS EMMA MCAVOY
MARRIES HER PRINCE
In a secret ceremony two days ago, Emma McAvoy, daughter of Devastation’s Brian McAvoy and author Jane Palmer, married Drew Larimer, twenty-six, lead singer and guitarist for the rising rock group, Birdcage Walk. The newlyweds met on Devastation’s recent European tour.
Michael didn’t read any more. Couldn’t. “Jesus, Emma.” He closed his eyes and let the paper fall back to the table. “Oh, Jesus.”
EMMA WAS THRILLED to be back in New York. She could hardly wait to show off the city to Drew, and to spend their first Christmas together in the loft.
It hadn’t mattered to her that their plane had been late, or that a fine icy sleet had been falling. They would have four weeks for the honeymoon that had been delayed by the completion of Drew’s new album. She wanted to spend that time in New York, in her home, as she made the transition from bride to wife.
She had the limo driver take them through midtown so she could show Drew the lights, the people, the majestic tree in Rockefeller Center, the carnival of Times Square.
It delighted her to arrive at the loft knowing she was alone. Finally alone, with no Sweeney in residence downstairs.
“It feels like years since I’ve been here.” She knew Marianne’s father had complained bitterly over their refusal to sublet, but she was glad, so glad to know that no one had lived there in her absence.
“Well?” She combed her fingers through her damp hair. “What do you think?”
“It’s quite a space.” He skimmed over the plaster walls, the bare floors, the kitschy china owl Emma had discovered in a neighborhood thrift shop. “A bit … spartan.”
“Wait until I start decorating for Christmas. Marianne and I collected some truly awful decorations.” She fumbled in her bag for a tip when the driver deposited their luggage with a discreet cough. “Thank you.”
He pocketed the twenty. “Thank you, ma’am. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” She tossed off her coat and raced to the windows. “Drew, come look at the view. It’s better from Marianne’s studio, but I get dizzy.”
“Very nice.” He saw a dirty street and a maddening crush of traffic. “Emma, I wonder why you neve
r moved into something more upscale.”
“I never wanted to.”
“Well, this is certainly charming, and I’m sure it was fine for two college girls. But we’ll have to do some rethinking.” When she turned, he reached out to brush a hand over her hair. “After all, we don’t want to share our living quarters with Marianne, however delightful she is.”
“I hadn’t thought … She won’t be back for a couple of months yet.”
“You’d better start thinking.” He took the sting out of the words by kissing her brow. Pretty face and slow wits, he thought, and patted her cheek. “From what I’ve heard it takes a great deal of time, money, and energy to find a place in New York. Since you want to divide our time between here and London, we’ll need the right kind of accommodations. Jesus Christ, it’s cold in here.”
“I had the agent keep the heat back while we were gone.” She hurried over to turn it up.
“Always practical, aren’t you, love?” There was a sneer in his voice, but he was smiling when he turned back to her. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy ourselves here for a couple of weeks. After all, a honeymoon, even a delayed one, doesn’t require much more than a bed.” He laughed when she blushed, then walked over to sweep her up in a long, lusty kiss. “We do have a bed, don’t we, Emma?”
“Yes.” She held him close. “Right through there. It needs fresh linens.”
“We’ll worry about the linens later.” He pulled her through the doorway, tugging at her sweater.
She knew it would be quick, not fierce and painful as it had been on her wedding night, but speedy and soon over. She didn’t know how to ask for more. Though she felt, somewhere in her heart, that there should be more than the rapid groping in the dark. The mattress was cold on her back. But his body, as it entered hers long before she was ready, was hot. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to the warmth and waiting for the starburst she had only read about.
She shivered when he was done. From the cold, she told herself. Moments later, Drew echoed her thoughts.
“Christ Almighty, it’s like an ice box in here.”
“It won’t take much longer to heat up. I’ve got some blankets in the chest.”
She reached for her sweater, but he closed a hand over hers. “I like looking at your body, Emma. Such a sweet little body, just this side of ripe. There’s no need to be shy in front of me anymore, is there?”
“No.” Awkward, she rose to lift the top of the chest. He fumbled in the pocket of the jacket that was tangled on the floor and found his cigarettes.
“I don’t suppose there’s any food in this place, or a bottle of something to ward off pneumonia.”
“There’s some cognac in the kitchen.” She remembered the bottle she’d opened for Luke. Luke, who was back in Miami, fighting to hang on to life. She laid the pile of sheets and blankets on the foot of the bed. Already she’d shared nearly all her secrets with Drew—except about Johnno, and Luke.
“I didn’t even think about food.” She saw him frown as he brought the cigarette to his lips. “Why don’t I run around the corner to the market? Pick up some things. You can have some cognac and a hot bath. I’ll fix us some dinner.”
“Fine.” It didn’t occur to him to offer to go with her. “Pick me up some cigs too, will you?”
“Sure.” He didn’t stop her when she reached for her sweater again. “It won’t take me long.”
He got up when she left, tugging on his jeans more for comfort than modesty. He poured the cognac first, and though he was annoyed there wasn’t a proper glass for it, he approved the brand.
It amazed him that she’d expected him to applaud the silly barn of a room. A downtown loft, he thought and drank more cognac. He had no intention of living downtown. He’d been waiting to move up all of his life. It was laughable to think that now that he was on his way he would settle for anything less than the best.
He’d grown up in worse, certainly. Sipping, he studied the mural of Emma on the plaster wall and thought of where he’d come from, and where he was going. He couldn’t claim a life in the slums, digging in poverty. But he’d been only shades above it.
A rented house, a muddy yard, mended jeans. He detested coming from the working class, and the father who had kept them there because he’d never had an ounce of ambition. Stoop-shouldered old man, he thought. No spine or balls. Why else would his wife have walked out on him and her three children?
So she’d wanted something better than just eking out a living, Drew mused. How could he blame her? He detested her.
He was going his own way, and that way was straight to the top. Lifting the glass, he toasted Emma’s portrait. If his eager and naïve little wife could give him a couple of boosts, they’d all live happy.
But he would run the show.
He’d indulge her for a week or two here. And then they’d move uptown. One of those big glitzy and expensive flats off Central Park. That would do for a beginning. He didn’t mind living part of the year in New York. In fact, he thought New York would suit him just fine. Especially with the contacts Emma had there.
Crossing to the stereo, he flipped through albums until he found one that suited him. Complete Devastation. It seemed only right, Drew mused, that he give a nod to the old man. After all, if it hadn’t been for the tour, he wouldn’t have been able to lure Emma backstage, pour on the charm. Imagine her being stupid enough to believe he hadn’t known who she was, or what she could do for him.
With a shake of his head, he put the record on, and let the music rock the room.
No, he wouldn’t find it difficult to indulge her. Even though she was lousy in bed—a severe disappointment—she was overeager to please. He’d played her as cleverly as he played his six-string, from the moment he’d set eyes on her. He intended for his ingenuity to pay off. In spades.
Before long, she would have mended fences with her father. The old man had taken their marriage well enough, and had been generous in his wedding gift of fifty thousand pounds. Made out in Emma’s name, but already deposited in a joint account.
There was still restraint between father and daughter. That would ease up soon enough. Drew was sure of it. Being Brian McAvoy’s favored son-in-law was bound to have its rewards. In the meantime, he had a very, very rich wife. A rich naïve wife.
With a laugh, he strolled over to the window. What better mate for an ambitious man? He only had to control his temper and impatience, keep her happy, and then everything he wanted would fall in his lap.
Chapter Thirty
THEY MOVED INTO an elegant two-story condo on the Upper West Side. Because it seemed so important to Drew, she tried to ignore the fact that they were living on the eleventh floor. She only really got dizzy when she stood at the window and looked straight down. The phobia was an annoyance to her. She had stood at the top of the Empire State Building and felt exhilarated. Yet if she stood at a fourth-floor window, her head spun and her stomach heaved.
Drew was right, she thought, when he told her she’d have to learn to live with it.
In any case, Emma liked the high, coffered ceilings in the master bedroom, the ornate Deco balustrade that ran along the curving stairs, the niches cut into the walls, and the maroon and white checkerboard tiles in the foyer.
Emma called on Bev to decorate it, hoping her touch, and a few weeks of her company, would make the move from the loft less painful. Emma had to admit the condo was lovely, with its aerielike view of Central Park and its wide, winding staircase. She satisfied her yen for antiques and oddities by furnishing it with a mix of prissy Queen Anne and funky pop art.
She liked its lofty windows, the little glassed-in balcony where she could pot herbs, and the fact that it was only a brisk walk to Johnno’s.
She saw him almost every day. He went along with her on her hunts through antique stores, something that bored Drew. It was habitual for Johnno to drop by once or twice a week for dinner, or to join them on an evening out. If she couldn’t have her father’s ap
proval, it soothed to have Johnno’s, to hear him talking music with Drew. Emma was pleased when he and Drew began to write a song together.
She threw herself into domesticity, making a home for herself, for Drew, and for the children she couldn’t seem to conceive.
It had surprised and pleased Emma that Drew wanted to start a family right away. Whatever else they disagreed on, whatever differences she had discovered in their tastes and viewpoints, in this they shared the same dream.
She imagined what it would be like to carry a child, to feel Drew’s child growing inside of her. Often she daydreamed about how she and Drew would push a pram through the park. Would they wear those smug smiles she noticed on new parents?
As the months passed, she told herself to be patient, that the time would come. It was stress, it was trying too hard. Once she had learned to relax during lovemaking, it would happen.
As spring breezed in, she took dozens of pictures of pregnant women, of babies and toddlers in the park. She watched them