by Nora Roberts
find the words, he brought her hand to his cheek.
“Here we go, mates.” Johnno laid a hand on Brian’s shoulder as the nominees for Song of the Year were announced.
Emma held her breath, then let it out on a laugh when she heard Brian McAvoy and Johnno Donovan. “Congratulations.” She swung her arms around both of them. “Oh, I wish I could have handed it to you.”
“Next year,” Johnno said, giving her a quick, hard kiss.
“It’s a promise. It’s important,” she said, squeezing Brian’s hand. “It means something. Don’t let what happened spoil this for you, or for me.”
“No.” He relaxed, and when he smiled she watched it reach his eyes. He threw an arm around Johnno’s shoulder. “Not bad for a couple of aging rockers.”
“Mind your adjectives, Bri.” Johnno winked at Emma. “Jagger’s older.” He lifted a brow when he heard the knock on the door. “Ah, the call of the gray-eyed, infatuated copper.”
“Shut up, Johnno,” Emma said pleasantly as she hurried to answer with Conroy at her heels. “Michael.”
“Sorry it took so long.” He dragged on the dog’s collar to keep him from leaping. “Okay?”
“Sure.” She leaned down, the beads of her evening dress glinting, to rub between Conroy’s ears. “We were just passing out congratulations. Da and Johnno won Song of the Year.”
“No, we were just leaving.” Bev was already picking up her wrap. If ever she’d seen a man who wanted to be alone with a woman, it was Michael. “There’s a pot of tea in the kitchen,” she added, flicking a glance over her shoulder to get the others moving. Before Emma could protest, she pulled her close. “Time’s too precious to waste,” she murmured. “Michael.” She put her arms around him. “Thank you,” she said quietly. And pulling back, smiled. “Welcome to chaos.”
They made their way out, one at a time, while a disinterested Conroy sniffed around, then went to sleep in the corner.
“They’re quite a group,” Michael stated when the door finally closed. “No pun intended.”
“Yes, they are. You’re not going to mind having dinner with the lot of them tomorrow, are you?”
“No.” He didn’t give a hang about tomorrow. Only tonight. The way she looked, the way she smelled, the way she smiled at him. “Come here.” He held out his arms. When she was in them, he found he couldn’t let go. In the hours that had passed, he’d thought he’d calmed himself. But now, holding her, it all crashed down on him.
He’d almost lost her.
She could feel his rage building, degree by degree. “Don’t,” she murmured. “It’s over. It’s really over this time.”
“Just shut up a minute.” He brought his mouth to hers, hard, as if to convince himself she was whole, and safe, and his. “If he had—”
“He didn’t.” She lifted both hands to his face. “You saved my life.”
“Yeah.” He backed away, digging his hands into his pockets. “If you have to be grateful, could you get it over with fast?”
She tilted her head. “We haven’t had much of a chance to talk.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come back with you.”
“I understand. Maybe it worked out for the best, gave us both a chance to settle.”
“I haven’t been able to pull that off yet.” He could still see her, teetering on the edge of the roof. Wanting to block the image, he turned to pace the room. “So, how was your day?”
She grinned. It was going to be all right. It was going to be just fine. “Dandy. Yours?”
He shrugged, kept moving, picking up little odds and ends and setting them down again. “Emma, I know you’re probably tired.”
“No, I’m not.”
“And the timing sucks.”
“No.” She smiled again. “It doesn’t.”
He turned back. She looked so beautiful, the dress shimmering down, the light from the fire catching in her hair, glowing on her skin. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. We haven’t had a lot of time to let things just happen. I’d like to say that I’m ready to give you that time.” He picked up a crystal butterfly, then set it down. “I’m not.”
“Michael, if I wanted time, I’d take it.” She stepped toward him. “What I want is you.”
After a long breath he took a small box out of his pocket. “I bought this months ago. I’d wanted to give it to you for Christmas, but I didn’t think you’d take it then. I’d figured on being traditional, having a candlelight dinner, music, the works.” With a half-laugh, he turned the box over in his hand. “I guess it’s a little late to start being traditional now.”
“Are you going to give it to me?”
With a nod, he held it out.
“I’d like to say something before I open it.” Carefully, she studied his face, every inch, every angle. “If this had happened five or six years ago, I wouldn’t have appreciated it, or you, the way I can tonight.”
Her hands weren’t steady. She let out a frustrated breath as she fumbled with the lid. “Oh, Michael, it’s lovely.” She looked up from the ring. “Absolutely lovely.”
“Be damn sure,” he told her. “You take it, and that’s it.”
She strangled on a laugh. “That’s the most romantic proposal a woman could possibly dream of.”
“I’ve already asked you too many times.” He cupped the back of her head in his hand. “How’s this?” The kiss was soft, gentle, and promising. “No one’s ever going to love you more than I do. I only want a lifetime to prove it.”
“That’s good.” She blinked back a film of tears. “That’s very good.” Taking the ring from the box, she studied it. “Why three circles?” she asked, running a fingertip around the trio of linked diamond spheres.
“One’s your life, one’s mine.” He took it from her and slipped it onto her finger. “And one’s the life we’ll make together. We’ve been connected for a long time.”
She nodded, then looking up, reached out to him. “I want to start on that third circle, Michael. Right away.”
About the Author
NORA ROBERTS is the author of more than 130 novels, including several #1 New York Times bestsellers, with more than 125 million copies of her books in print. She lives in Maryland.
Look for another Nora Roberts favorite,
available now from Bantam Books
BRAZEN VIRTUE
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Brazen Virtue
GRACE HEARD THE low, droning buzz and blamed it on the wine. She didn’t groan or grumble about the hangover. She’d been taught that every sin, venial or mortal, required penance. It was one of the few aspects of her early Catholic training she carried with her into adulthood.
The sun was up and strong enough to filter through the gauzy curtains at the windows. In defense, she buried her face in the pillow. She managed to block out the light, but not the buzzing. She was awake, and hating it.
Thinking of aspirin and coffee, she pushed herself up in bed. It was then she realized the buzzing wasn’t inside her head, but outside the house. She rummaged through one of her bags and came up with a ratty terry-cloth robe. In her closet at home was a silk one, a gift from a former lover. Grace had fond memories of the lover, but preferred the terry-cloth robe. Still groggy, she stumbled to the window and pushed the curtain aside.
It was a beautiful day, cool and smelling just faintly of spring and turned earth. There was a sagging chain-link fence separating her sister’s yard from the yard next door. Tangled and pitiful against it was a forsythia bush. It was struggling to bloom, and Grace thought its tiny yellow flowers looked brave and daring. It hadn’t occurred to her until then how tired she was of hothouse flowers and perfect petals. On a huge yawn, she looked beyond it.
She saw him then, in the backyard of the house next door. Long narrow boards were braced on sawhorses. With the kind of easy competence she admired, he measured and marked and cut through. Intrigued, Grace shoved the window up to get a better l
ook. The morning air was chill, but she leaned into it, pleased that it cleared her head. Like the forsythia, he was something to see.
Paul Bunyan, she thought, and grinned. The man had to be six-four if he was an inch and built along the lines of a fullback. Even with the distance she could see the power of his muscles moving under his jacket. He had a mane of red hair and a full beard—not a trimmed little affectation, but the real thing. She could just see his mouth move in its cushion in time to the country music that jingled out of a portable radio.
When the buzzing stopped, she was smiling down at him, her elbows resting on the sill. “Hi,” she called. Her smile widened as he turned and looked up. She’d noticed that his body had braced as he’d turned, not so much in surprise, she thought, but in readiness. “I like your house.”
Ed relaxed as he saw the woman in the window. He’d put in over sixty hours that week, and had killed a man. The sight of a pretty woman smiling at him from a second-story window did a lot to soothe his worn nerves. “Thanks.”
“You fixing it up?”
“Bit by bit.” He shaded his eyes against the sun and studied her. She wasn’t his neighbor. Though he and Kathleen Breezewood hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words, he knew her by sight. But there was something familiar in the grinning face and tousled hair. “You visiting?”
“Yes, Cathy’s my sister. I guess she’s gone already. She teaches.”
“Oh.” He’d learned more about his neighbor in two seconds than he had in two months. Her nickname was Kathy, she had a sister, and she was a teacher. Ed hefted another board onto the horses. “Staying long?”
“I’m not sure.” She leaned out a bit farther so the breeze ruffled her hair. It was a small indulgence the pace and convenience of New York had denied her. “Did you plant the azaleas out front?”
“Yeah. Last week.”
They’re terrific. I think I’ll put some in for Kath.” She smiled again. “See you.” She pulled her head inside and was gone.
For a minute longer Ed stared at the empty window. She’d left it open, he noted, and the temperature had yet to climb to sixty. He took out his carpenter’s pencil to mark the wood. He knew that face. It was both a matter of business and personality that he never forgot one. It would come to him.
Inside, Grace pulled on a pair of sweats. Her hair was still damp from the shower, but she wasn’t in the mood to fuss with blow dryers and styling brushes. There was coffee to be drunk, a paper to be read, and a murder to be solved. By her calculations, she could put Maxwell to work and have enough carved out to be satisfied before Kathleen returned from Our Lady of Hope.
Downstairs, she put on the coffee, then checked out the contents of the refrigerator. The best bet was the spaghetti left over from the night before. Grace bypassed eggs and pulled out the neat plastic container. It took her a minute to realize that her sister’s kitchen wasn’t civilized enough to have a microwave. Taking this in stride, she tossed the top into the sink and dug in. She’d eat it cold. Chewing, she spotted the note on the kitchen table. Kathleen always left notes.
Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen. Grace smiled and forked more cold spaghetti into her mouth. Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll pick up a couple of steaks. And that, she thought, was Kathleen’s polite way of telling her not to mess up the kitchen. Parent conference this afternoon. I’ll be home by five-thirty. Don’t use the phone in my office.
Grace wrinkled her nose as she stuffed the note into her pocket. It would take time, and some pressure, but she was determined to learn more of her sister’s moonlighting adventures. And there was the matter of finding out the name of her sister’s lawyer. Kathleen’s objections and pride aside, Grace wanted to speak to him personally. If she did so carefully enough, her sister’s ego wouldn’t be bruised. In any case, sometimes you had to overlook a couple of bruises and shoot for the goal. Until she had Kevin back, Kathleen would never be able to put her life in order. That scum Breezewood had no right using Kevin as a weapon against Kathleen.
He’d always been an operator, she thought. Jonathan Breezewood the third was a cold and calculating manipulator who used family position and monied politics to get his way. But not this time. It might take some maneuvering, but Grace would find a way to set things right.
She turned the heat off under the coffeepot just as someone knocked on the front door.
Her trunk, she decided, and snatched up the carton of spaghetti as she started down the hall. An extra ten bucks should convince the delivery man to haul it upstairs. She had a persuasive smile ready as she opened the door.
“G. B. McCabe, right?” Ed stood on the stoop with a hardback copy of Murder in Style. He’d nearly sawed a finger off when he’d put the name together with the face.
“That’s right.” She glanced at the picture on the back cover. Her hair had been styled and crimped, and the photographer had used stark black and white to make her look mysterious. “You’ve got a good eye. I barely recognize myself from that picture.”
Now that he was here, he hadn’t the least idea what to do with himself. This kind of thing always happened, he knew, whenever he acted on impulse. Especially with a woman. “I like your stuff. I guess I’ve read most of it.”
“Only most of it?” Grace stuck the fork back in the spaghetti as she smiled at him. “Don’t you know that writers have huge and fragile egos? You’re supposed to say you’ve read every word I’ve ever written and adored them all.”
He relaxed a little because her smile demanded he do so. “How about you tell a hell of a story?”
“That’ll do.”
“When I realized who you were, I guess I wanted to come over and make sure I was right.”
“Well, you win the prize. Come on in.”
“Thanks.” He shifted the book to his other hand and felt like an idiot. “But I don’t want to bother you.”
Grace gave him a long, solemn look. He was even more impressive up close than he’d been from the window. And his eyes were blue, a dark, interesting blue. “You mean you don’t want me to sign that?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Come in then.” She took his arm and pulled him inside. “The coffee’s hot.”
“I don’t drink it.”
“Don’t drink coffee? How do you stay alive?” Then she smiled and gestured with her fork. “Come on back anyway, there’s probably something you can drink. So you like mysteries?”
He liked the way she walked, slowly, carelessly, as though she could change her mind about direction at any moment. “I guess you could say mysteries are my life.”
“Mine too.” In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator again. “No beer,” she murmured and decided to remedy that at the first opportunity. “No sodas, either. Christ, Kathy. There’s juice. It looks like orange.”
“Fine.”
“I’ve got some spaghetti here. Want to share?”
“No, thanks. Is that your breakfast?”
“Mmmm.” She poured his juice, gesturing casually to a chair as she went to the stove to pour her coffee. “Have you lived next door long?”
He was tempted to mention nutrition but managed to control himself. “Just a couple of months.”
“It must be great, fixing it up the way you want.” She took another bite of the pasta. “Is that what you are, a carpenter? You have the hands for it.”
He found himself pleasantly relieved that she hadn’t asked him if he played ball. “No. I’m a cop.”
“You’re kidding. Really?” She shoved her carton aside and leaned forward. It was her eyes that made her beautiful, he decided on the spot. They were so alive, so full of fascination. “I’m crazy about cops. Some of my best characters are cops, even the bad ones.”
“I know.” He had to smile. “You’ve got a feel for police work. It shows in the way you plot a book. Everything works on logic and deduction.”