Read The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 Online

Authors: Nora Roberts

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Romance

The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (99 page)

BOOK: The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5

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“We made good time,” she said when Simon came back. “It’s not quite midnight. We can take a break here, start again at first light.”

“Is that what you’d do if I wasn’t here?”

“I’d probably give it a little longer.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Short break first.” She sat on the ground, dug a bag of trail mix and a pouch of kibble out of her bag. “It’s important to keep the energy up, and stay hydrated. Otherwise, they’ll be sending someone out for us.”

She handed Simon the trail mix, then fed the dog.

“Have you ever not found who you were looking for?”

“Yeah. It’s horrible to go back empty. The worst. Worse than finding them too late is not finding them at all.”

She dipped her hand into the bag. “These two, they’re young and strong. I’m guessing they—or he—misjudged their endurance, got disoriented. Probably a combination. The phones are a concern.”

“Dead battery. Or they can’t get a signal. Dropped them. Lost them.”

“Any or all,” she agreed. “There’s wildlife, but it’s unlikely they ran into something that wouldn’t walk away. The thing is, a twisted ankle out here knocks you back, especially if you’re inexperienced.”

In the dark, he thought, probably disoriented, certainly tired, possibly injured. “It took them, what, four hours to get here?”

“Yeah, but they were meandering, stopping, taking photos. Kevin wants to pick up the pace, win the bet when they head south. He probably only planned to go another hour, maybe two—which is too damn much in one day when your hiking’s mostly done on Fifth Avenue. But then they could shortcut it back—at least in his head—and get back to the lodge by cocktail time.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“From what I got from his friends. He’s a good guy, a bit of a know-it-all, but funny. He likes a challenge, and he can’t resist a dare. She likes trying new things, seeing new places. It’s chilly.” Fiona drank from her water bottle while she searched the shadows and moonlight. “But they have jackets. They’re probably exhausted, scared, pissed off.”

She smiled at him. “Do you think you can handle another hour?”

“Kevin’s not the only one who’s competitive.” He rose, held out a hand for hers.

“I’m glad you came.” She rose up, moved into him. “But I still want that dinner out when we get back.”

They stretched the hour to ninety minutes, zigzagging on the trails as the dog followed the scent. Fiona’s calls went unanswered, and clouds drifted over the moon.

“The wind’s changing. Damn it.” She tipped her face up, and he’d have sworn she scented the air like her dog. “We’re going to get that storm. We’d better pitch the tent.”

“Just like that?”

“We can’t do any more tonight. Bogart’s tired. We’re losing the light, and the scent.” She pulled out her radio. “So we’ll take a couple hours, get some rest, stay dry.” She looked at him then, holding the radio. “It’s not worth going back to base, getting drenched, exhausted, then heading out again at dawn. A bed and a hot shower’s a cheap trade for warm, dry and rested out here.”

“You’re the alpha.”

She cocked her head. “And you’re saying that because you agree with me?”

“It helps that I agree with you.”

She called their status and location in to base, coordinated or took updates on the other searchers. No chatter, Simon noted. Straight business.

After she shed her pack and began setting up the tent, he found himself again in the position of taking direction. He didn’t have a clue, he was forced to admit. The last time he camped out in a tent he was probably twelve—and the deal she called a hyper-light didn’t work anything like the ancient pup tent he’d used.

“It’ll be cramped, but we’ll be dry. You first,” she told him. “You’re going to have to sort of angle yourself, given your height. Bogart and I will maneuver ourselves in after you.”

Light it might’ve been, but cramped was a kind word for it. By the time he had the dog curled at the small of his back and Fiona shoehorned beside him, there wasn’t an inch to spare.

“I think your dog has his nose in my ass.”

“Good thing you’re wearing pants.” Fiona shifted a little. “You can scooch over toward me a little more.”

Scooch, he thought, but realized he was too tired to think of a sarcastic comment. So he scooched, muttered and found if he got his arm under her—which he’d probably have to amputate in the morning—he gained a fraction of space.

Thunder belched violently seconds before the skies opened. The rain sounded like a monsoon.

“This would be romantic,” Fiona decided, “if we had a bigger tent, were doing this for fun, and there was a nice bottle of wine involved.”

“The dog’s snoring.”

“Yes, he is, and he will. He worked hard tonight.” She only had to turn her head a fraction to kiss him. “So did you.”

“You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking,” he repeated.

“I just need to settle down. I have a problem with closed-in or tight spaces.”

“You . . .” It struck him immediately, and he cursed himself for an idiot. She’d been bound, gagged and locked in the trunk of a car, heading for death. “Jesus, Fiona.”

“No, don’t.” She grabbed on to him when he started to move. “Just stay right here. I’m closing my eyes, and it’ll pass.”

He felt it now, the way her heart beat against him, as violently as the rain. “We should’ve gone back for the night.”

“No, it wastes time and energy. Plus I’m too tired for a full-blown panic attack.”

What the hell did she call the shivering and heart-banging? He drew her closer, wrapping his other arm around her to stroke a hand up and down her back. “Is that better or worse?”

“It’s better. It’s nice. I just need a minute to adjust.”

Lightning slashed wildly, illuminating the tent. He saw her cheeks were pale, her eyes closed. “So, is Tyson banging the vet?”

“I don’t think it’s progressed to banging, Mr. Romance. I think they’re just starting to get to know each other on a personal level.”

“Banging’s personal, if you do it right.”

“I’m sure she’ll let me know if banging becomes part of the arrangement.”

“Because you’ve told her we’re banging.”

“I suspect she could’ve come to that conclusion all on her own, but yes, of course I told her. And in specific and minute detail. She wishes you’d banged her first.”

“Huh. An opportunity lost.” Her heartbeat was slowing, just a bit. “I could backtrack and make it up to her.”

“Too late. She’d never have sex with you now. We have codes and standards. You’re no longer on the menu when it comes to any of my friends or relations.”

“That doesn’t seem fair when you consider you’re friends with everybody on the island.”

“That may be, but rules are rules.” She tipped her face again, touched her lips to his. “Thanks for taking my mind off my neurosis.”

“You don’t have any neuroses, which is annoying. You have quirks, which make up for it a little. But you’re mostly irritatingly stable and normal. You’re still not my type.”

“But you’re still going to bang me.”

“At every opportunity.”

She laughed, and he felt her fully relax against him. “You’re rude, socially stunted and cynical. But I intend to be available for said banging whenever possible. I’m not sure what that makes us, but it seems to be working.”

“You’re who I want to be with.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d said it—maybe the forced intimacy of the tent, the rain beating its fists down on it, his concern for her even as her trembling ceased. Whatever the reason, he thought, it was truth.

“That’s the best thing you’ve ever said to me,” she murmured. “Even more, given the current circumstances.”

“We’re warm and we’re dry,” he pointed out. “And they’re not,” he added, echoing her thoughts.

“No, they’re not. It’s going to be a terrible night for them.”

This time he turned his head and brushed his lips over her hair. “Then we’d better find them in the morning.”

PART THREE

Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?

THE BIBLE

TWENTY-ONE

S
he woke in solid dark, unable to move or see or speak. Her head throbbed like an open wound, while nausea churned choppy waves in her belly. Disoriented, terrified, she struggled, but her arms remained pinned behind her back; her legs felt paralyzed.

She could do no more than worm, buck and struggle to breathe.

Her eyes, wide and wild, wheeled in her head. She heard the hum, steady, forceful, and thought—fresh panic—she was in the cave of some wild animal.

No, no. An engine. A car. She was in a car. In the trunk of a car. The man. The man on the jogging path.

She could see it all so clearly, the bold morning sun, the dreamy blue sky like a canvas against the rich hues of fall. That hint of autumn spice on the air like a flavor on her tongue.

Her muscles had warmed. She’d felt so loose, so limber. So powerful. She’d loved that feeling, the heady rush of being alone in a world of color and spice. Just her and the morning and the freedom to run.

Then the man, jogging toward her. No big deal. They’d pass, he’d be gone, and the world would be hers again.

But . . . did he stumble, did he fall, did she stop for a second to help? She couldn’t remember, not exactly. All blurred now.

But she could see his face. The smile, the eyes—something in those eyes—an instant before the pain.

Pain. Like being struck by lightning.

It spun in her head as the rhythm beneath her changed and the floor vibrated under her. Rough road, she thought in some dizzy corner of her brain.

She thought of her uncle’s warnings, and Greg’s. Don’t run alone. Keep the panic button handy. Stay alert.

So easily dismissed. What could happen to her? Why would anything happen?

But it had. It had. She’d been taken.

All those girls—the girls she’d seen in the paper. The dead girls she’d felt sorry for—until she’d forgotten them and gone on with her life.

Was she going to be one of them, one of the dead girls in the paper, on the news reports?

But why? Why?

She wept and struggled and screamed. But the sounds drowned against the tape over her mouth, and the movements only cut the bands into her skin until she smelled her own blood and sweat.

Until she smelled her own death.

SHE WOKE IN THE DARK. Trapped. The scream burned up her throat only to be bitten back when she felt the weight of Simon’s arm tossed over her, when she heard the steady breathing—his, the dog’s.

But the panic was spiders skittering inside her chest, under her skin.

So the scream stayed in her head, piercing.

Get out! Get out! Get out!

She shoved herself toward the flap, fought it open and crawled out where the cool, damp air slapped at her face.

“Hold on. Hey. Hold on.”

When Simon gripped her shoulders she pushed at him. “Don’t. Don’t. Just need to breathe.” Hyperventilating—she knew it but couldn’t stop it. A boulder pressed on her chest, and her head began to swim in long, sick waves. “Can’t breathe.”

“Yes you can.” He tightened his grip, yanked her up to her knees and gave her a quick, shocking shake. “Breathe. Look at me, Fiona. Right here. Breathe! Now!”

She sucked in air on a short, shaky gasp.

“Let it out. Do what I tell you. Let it out, take it in. Slow it down. Slow it the hell down.”

She stared at him, wondered at him. Who the hell did he think he was? She shoved at his chest, met an unmoving wall even as he shook her again.

And she breathed.

“Keep going. Bogart, sit. Just sit. In and out. Look at me. In and out. Better, that’s better. Keep it up.”

He let her go. Focused on inhaling, exhaling, she sank back to sit on her heels as Bogart nudged his nose against her arm. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Drink. Slow.” Simon cupped her hands around a water bottle. “Slow.”

“I know. I’ve got it. I’m okay.” She blew out a long breath first, then sipped carefully. “Thanks, sorry, whatever altogether. Wow.” She sipped again. “I guess I wasn’t too tired for that panic attack after all. I had a flashback. It’s been . . . God, a really long time since I had one, but I guess the circumstances were pretty fertile ground.”

Breathing steadier, she draped her arm around Bogart’s neck. “You were mean,” she said to Simon. “And exactly what I needed to snap me out before I passed out. You could give lessons.”

“You scared the
fuck
out of me. Goddamn it.”

Before she could speak he held up a hand to stop her, then spun away to pace over the soggy ground. “Goddamn it. I’m not any good at this kind of thing.”

“Beg to differ.”

He whirled back. “I like you better tough.”

“Me too. Panic attacks and hyperventilating to the edge of unconsciousness are embarrassing moments.”

“It’s not a damn joke.”

“No, it’s reality. My reality.” She swiped her arm over her clammy face. “Fortunately, it’s not something I have to deal with regularly anymore.”

“Don’t,” he said when she started to rise. “You’re white as a sheet. If you try standing by yourself, you’ll fall on your face.”

He moved to her, took her hands to help her up. “You’re not supposed to be pale and fragile,” he said quietly. “You’re bright and bold and strong.” He pulled her close. “And this makes me want to kill him.”

“It’s probably wrong, but God, I appreciate that. Still, Perry’s worse off than dead.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. But maybe beating him half to death would be more satisfying.”

His heart, she realized, beat harder and faster than her own. And that, she realized, was another kind of comfort.

BOOK: The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5

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