Nora Roberts - A Will And A Way

Pandora swore under her breath. “Put that down,” she ordered, then yanked the apron off.

“Some of this stuff looks real,” he commented. Though he put the sapphire back, he picked up a round, winking diamond.

“Some of this stuff is real.” Pandora crouched to turn the first heater down.

The diamond was in his hand as he scowled down at her head. “Why in hell do you have it sitting out like candy? It should be locked up.”

Pandora adjusted the second heater. “Why?”

“Don’t be any more foolish than necessary. Someone could steal it.”

“Someone?” Straightening, Pandora smiled at him. “There aren’t many someones around. I don’t think Charles and Sweeney are a problem, but maybe I should worry about you.”

He cursed her and dropped the diamond back. “They’re your little bag of tricks, cousin, but if I had several thousand dollars sitting around that could slip into a pocket, I’d be more careful.”

Though under most circumstances she fully agreed, Pandora merely picked up her jacket. After all, they weren’t in Manhattan but miles away from anyone or anything. If she locked everything up, she’d just have to unlock it again every time she wanted to work. “Just one of the differences between you and me, Michael. I suppose it’s because you write about so many dirty deeds.”

“I also write about human nature.” He picked up the sketch of the emerald necklace she had drawn. It had the sense of scale that would have pleased an architect and the flare and flow that would appeal to an artist. “If you’re so into making bangles and baubles, why aren’t you wearing any?”

“They get in the way when I’m working. If you write about human nature, how come the bad guy gets caught every week?”

“Because I’m writing for people, and people need heroes.”

Pandora opened her mouth to argue, then found she agreed with the essence of the statement. “Hmm,” was all she said as she turned out the lights and went out ahead of him.

“At least lock the door,” Michael told her.

“I haven’t a key.”

“Then we’ll get one.”

“We don’t need one.”

He shut the door with a snap. “You do.”

Pandora only shrugged ass he started across the lawn. “Michael, have I mentioned that you’ve been more crabby than usual?”

He pulled a piece of hard candy out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “Quit smoking.”

The candy was lemon. She caught just a whiff. “So I noticed. How long?”

He scowled at some leaves that skimmed across the lawn. They were brown and dry and seemed to have a life of their own. “Couple weeks. I’m going crazy.”

She laughed sympathetically before she tucked her arm into his. “You’ll live, darling. The first month’s the toughest.”

Now he scowled at her. “How would you know? You never smoked.”

“The first month of anything’s the toughest. You just have to keep your mind occupied. Exercise. We’ll jog after lunch.”

“We?”

“And we can play canasta after dinner.”

He gave a quick snort but brushed the hair back from her cheek. “You’ll cheat.”

“See, your mind’s already occupied.” With a laugh, she turned her face up to his. He looked a bit surly, but on him, oddly, it was attractive. Placid, good-natured good looks had always bored her. “It won’t hurt you to give up one of your vices, Michael. You have so many.”

“I like my vices,” he grumbled, then turned his head to look down at her. She was giving him her easy, friendly smile, one she sent his way rarely. It always made him forget just how much trouble she caused him. It made him forget he wasn’t attracted to dramatically bohemian women with wild red hair and sharp bones. “A woman who looks like you should have several of her own.”

Her mouth was solemn, her eyes wicked. “I’m much too busy. Vices take up a great deal of time.”

“When Pandora opened the box, vices popped out.”

She stopped at the back stoop. “Among other miseries. I suppose that’s why I’m careful about opening boxes.”

Michael ran a finger down her cheek. It was the sort of gesture he realized could easily become a habit. She was right, his mind was occupied. “You have to lift off the lid sooner or later.”

She didn’t move back, though she’d felt the little tingle of tension, of attraction, of need. Pandora didn’t believe in moving back, but in plowing through. “Some things are better off locked up.”

He nodded. He didn’t want to release what was in their private box any more than she did. “Some locks aren’t as strong as they need to be.”

They were standing close, the wind whistling lightly between them. Pandora felt the sun on her back and the chill on her face. If she took a step nearer, there’d be heat. That she’d never doubted and had always avoided. He’d use whatever was available to him, she reminded herself. At the moment, it just happened to be her. She let her breath come calmly and easily before she reached for the doorknob.

“We’d better not keep Sweeney waiting.”

The streets are almost deserted. A car turns a corner and disappears. It’s drizzling. Neon flashes off puddles. It’s garish rather than festive. There’s a gray, miserable feel to this part of the city. Alleyways, cheap clubs, dented cars. The small, neatly dressed blonde walks quickly. She’s nervous, out of her element, but not lost. Close-up on the envelope in her hands. It’s damp from the rain. Her fingers open and close on it. Tires squeal off screen and she jolts. The blue lights of the club blink off and on in her face as she stands outside. Hesitates. Shifts the envelope from hand to hand. She goes in. Slow pan of the street. Three shots and freeze.

Three knocks sounded at the door of Michael’s office. Before he could answer, Pandora swirled in. “Happy anniversary, darling.”

Michael looked up from his typewriter. He’d been up most of the night working the story line out in his mind. It was nine in the morning, and he’d only had one cup of coffee to prime him for the day. Coffee and cigarettes together were too precious a memory. The scene that had just jelled in his mind dissolved.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He reached his hand into a bowl of peanuts and discovered he’d already eaten all but two.

“Two full weeks without any broken bones.” Pandora swooped over to him, clucked her tongue at the disorder, then chose the arm of a chair. It was virtually the only free space. She brushed at the dust on the edge of the table beside her and left a smear. “And they said it wouldn’t last.”

She looked fresh with her wild mane of red pulled back from her face, comfortable in sweater and slacks that were too big for her. Michael felt like he’d just crawled out of a cave. His sweatshirt had ripped at the shoulder seam two years before, but he still favored it. A few weeks before, he’d helped paint a friend’s apartment. The paint smears on his jeans showed her preference for baby pink. His eyes felt as though he’d slept facedown in the sand.

Pandora smiled at him like some bright, enthusiastic kindergarten teacher. She had a fresh, clean, almost woodsy scent. “We have a rule about respecting the other’s work space,” he reminded her.

“Oh, don’t be cranky.” It was said with the same positive smile. “Besides, you never gave me any schedule. From what I’ve noticed in the past couple of weeks, this is early for you.”

“I’m just starting the treatment for a new episode.”

“Really?” Pandora walked over and leaned over his shoulder. “Hmm,” she said, though she wondered who had shot whom. “Well, I don’t suppose that’ll take long.”