Night Shield (23 page)

“Okay.” But she sat up, brushed her knuckles over his cheek. “We’ll just say I figure you’ve got enough of a traditional-guy streak to want to propose on your own. So, I’ll let you.” She linked her hands at the back of his neck. “I’m waiting.”

“I’m just thinking. It’s the middle of the night. We’re in a bar and my arm’s bleeding.”

“So’s your mouth.”

“Yeah.” He swiped at it with the back of his hand. “I guess that makes it close to perfect for you and me.”

“Works for me. Jonah. You work for me.”

He pulled the clip out of her hair, tossed it aside. “First tell me you love me. Use my name.”

“I love you, Jonah.”

“Then marry me, and let’s see where it takes us.”

“That’s a deal.”

With a howl of outrage, Ally bolted up from the sofa. “Offside! Offside! What, are those refs blind? Did you see that?” Instead of kicking in the TV, which occurred to her, she settled for leaning down and pounding on Jonah’s shoulder.

“You’re just mad because your team’s losing, and you’re going to owe me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sniffed, pushing back her hair. “My team is
not
going to lose, despite corrupt and myopic officials.” But it looked very dim for her side. She planted her hands on her hips. “Besides, must I remind you there is no bet because you don’t have a license for gambling?”

He skimmed his eyes down her long black robe. “You’re not wearing your badge.”

“Metaphorically, Blackhawk.” She leaned over to kiss him. “I’m always wearing my badge.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “You swear you didn’t hear who won this game? You have no information?”

“Absolutely not.”

But she didn’t like the way he smiled at her. They’d missed the regular Monday-night broadcast and were watching the hotly contested football game on videotape. “I don’t know about you. You’re slippery.”

“We made a deal.” He skimmed his hand up the sleeve of her robe, trailing his fingers over flesh. “I never go back on a deal.” He reached for the remote, paused the screen. “Since you’re up …” He held up his empty glass. “How about a refill?”

“I got it last time.”

“You were up last time, too. If you’d sit down and stay down, you wouldn’t get tagged.”

Conceding his point, she took the glass. “Don’t start the game until I get back.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

She headed back to the kitchen. There were times she missed the apartment on top of the club. But even a couple of die-hard urbanites needed a little elbow room, she thought. And the house suited them. So did marriage, she thought with a contented sigh as she poured Jonah’s habitual bottled water over ice.

There’d been a lot of changes in the eighteen months since they, well, closed the deal, she supposed. Good changes. The kind lives were built on. They were building strong, and they were building solid.

Sipping his water, she walked back to the great room and frowned when she found it empty. Then with a shake of her head, she set the glass down. She knew just where to find him.

She wound her way quietly through the house and stopped at the door to the bedroom.

The winter moonlight streamed through the windows, glowing over him and the infant he held in his arms. Love burst through her, a nova of feeling, then settled again to a steady warmth.

“You woke her up.”

“She was awake.”

“You woke her up,” Ally repeated, crossing to him. “Because you can’t keep your hands off her.”

“Why should I?” He pressed his lips to his daughter’s head. “She’s mine.”

“No question of that.” Ally traced a finger over the baby’s soft black hair. “She’s going to have
your eyes.”

The idea of it was a staggering thrill. He looked down at that perfect little face, with those dark and mysterious eyes of the newborn. He could see his whole life in those eyes. Sarah’s eyes.

“You can’t tell at two weeks. The books say it takes longer.”

“She’s going to have your eyes,” Ally repeated. She draped an arm around his waist and together they studied their miracle. “Is she hungry?”

“No. She’s just a night person.” And his, like the woman beside him was his. Two years before, they hadn’t existed for him. Now they were the world.

He turned his head, leaning down as Ally lifted her mouth. As the kiss sweetened, the baby stirred in his arms. He shifted, tucking Sarah’s head on his shoulder with a natural grace that never failed to make Ally smile.

He’d taken to fatherhood as if he’d only been waiting for the moment. Then again, she thought, thinking of her own father, he’d had a wonderful teacher.

She angled her head, studied the two of them. “I guess she wants to watch the game now.”

Jonah rubbed his cheek over his daughter’s hair. “She mentioned it.”

“She’ll just fall asleep.”

“So will you.”

With a laugh, Ally took the blanket from the bassinet. “Give her up,” she said, holding out her arms.

“No.”

Ally rolled her eyes. “Okay, you get her till halftime, then it’s my turn.”

“Deal.”

With the baby on his shoulder and his hand linked with the hand of the woman he loved, he went out to enjoy the night.

If you liked
Night Shield,
look for the other novels in the Night Tales series:
Night Shift, Night Shadow, Nightshade,
and
Night Smoke,
available as eBooks from InterMix.

Keep reading for a special excerpt from the newest novel by Nora Roberts

THE WITNESS

Available April 2012 in hardcover from G.P. Putnam’s Sons

June 2000

Elizabeth Fitch’s short-lived teenage rebellion began with L’Oreal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued
directives
, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.

Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as Chief of Surgery at Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.

Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she’d return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother; a surgeon, like her mother.

Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She’d traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human body and play Chopin’s Piano Concerto—both One and Two—by rote.

She’d never been on a date or kissed a boy. She’d never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.

She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mother’s meticulous and detailed agenda.

That was about to change.

She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week’s medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal scheduled with the selected outfit, shoes, bag and accessories.

Designer suits and Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cut, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.

After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she’d begun—maybe—to develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans
and
a hoodie
and
some chunky heeled boots in Cambridge.

She’d paid in cash, so the purchase wouldn’t show up on her credit card bill in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.

She’d felt like a different person wearing them, so different that she’d walked straight into a McDonald’s and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.

The pleasure had been so huge she’d had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.

The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe they’d always
been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.

But she could feel them, actually feel them sprouting in her belly now.

“Your plans changed, Mother. It doesn’t follow that mine have to change with them.”

Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeon’s hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as always—no color there either.

“Elizabeth.” Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. “It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You’ll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule.”

Even the thought made Elizabeth’s stomach hurt. “I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York.”

“And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn’t had this coming week off, I couldn’t fill in for Dr. Dusecki at the conference.”

“You could have said no.”

“That would have been selfish and shortsighted.” Susan brushed at the jacket she’d hung, stepped back to check her list. “You’re certainly mature enough to understand the demands of work overtake pleasure and leisure.”

“If I’m mature enough to understand that, why aren’t I mature enough to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need it.”

Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. “A girl of your age, physical condition and mental acumen hardly
needs
a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week cruise, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. There’s no one to fix your meals or tend to the house.”

“I can fix my own meals and tend to the house.”

“Elizabeth.” The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. “It’s settled.”

“And I have no say in it? What about developing my independence, being responsible?”

“Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibility and freedom of choice. You still require guidance and direction. Now, I’ve e-mailed you an updated schedule for the coming week, and your packet with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summer term.”

As she spoke, Susan closed the garment bag, then her small pullman. She stepped to her bureau to check her hair, her lipstick.

“You don’t listen to anything I say.”

In the mirror, Susan’s gaze shifted to her daughter. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to actually look at her since she’d come into the bedroom. “Of course I do. I heard everything you said, very clearly.”

“Listening’s different than hearing.”

“That may be true, Elizabeth, but we’ve already had this discussion.”

“It’s not a discussion, it’s a decree.”

Susan’s mouth tightened briefly, the only sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were a cool, calm blue. “I’m sorry you feel that way. As your mother, I must do what I believe is best for you.”

“What’s best for me, in your opinion, is for me to do, be, say, think, act, want, become exactly what you decided for me before you inseminated yourself with precisely selected sperm.”

She heard the rise of her own voice but couldn’t control it, felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes but couldn’t stop them. “I’m tired of being your experiment. I’m tired of having every
minute of every day organized, orchestrated and choreographed to meet your expectations. I want to make my own choices, buy my own clothes, read books
I
want to read. I want to live my own life instead of yours.”

Susan’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of mild interest. “Well. Your attitude isn’t surprising given your age, but you’ve picked a very inconvenient time to be defiant and argumentative.”

“Sorry. It wasn’t on the schedule.”

“Sarcasm’s also typical, but it’s unbecoming.” Susan opened her briefcase, checked the contents. “We’ll talk about all this when I get back. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Bristoe.”

“I don’t need therapy! I need a mother who
listens
, who gives a shit about how I feel.”

“That kind of language only shows a lack of maturity and intellect.”

Enraged, Elizabeth threw up her hands, spun in circles. If she couldn’t be calm and rational like her mother, she’d be
wild
. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“And repetition hardly enhances. You have the rest of the weekend to consider your behavior. Your meals are in the refrigerator or freezer, labeled. Your pack list is on your desk. Report to Ms. Vee at the university at eight on Monday morning. Your participation in this program will ensure your place in HMS next fall. Now, take my garment bag downstairs, please. My car will be here any minute.”

Oh, those seeds were sprouting, cracking that fallow ground and pushing painfully through. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth looked straight into her mother’s eyes and said, “No.”

She spun around, stomped away, and slammed the door of her bedroom. She threw herself down on the bed, stared at the ceiling with tear-blurred eyes. And waited.

Any second, any second, she told herself. Her mother would come in, demand an apology, demand obedience. And she wouldn’t give either.

They’d have a fight, an actual fight, with threats of punishment and consequences. Maybe they’d yell at each other. Maybe if they yelled, her mother would finally hear her.

And maybe, if they yelled, she could say all the things that had crept up inside her this past year. Things she thought now had been inside her forever.