Nora Roberts - Times Change

The enormity of it made her giddy. His arms made her trust. “So that makes me . . . 287 years old.” She cocked a brow. “How do you feel about older women?”

“I’m crazy about them.”

“Remember that when I hit three hundred and things start to sag.” She kissed him lightly. “I plan to frustrate you, annoy you and generally make your life chaos for a long time.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Together they watched the blue-green sphere that was home draw closer.

Epilogue

The sound of crashing waves seemed to fill the room. The clear wall opened the suite to the passion of the lightning-split sky and the boiling sea. The scent of jasmine, rich and sultry, rose on the air. Low, pulsing music echoed over the roar of waves and the violent boom of thunder.

“I was right,” Sunny murmured.

Jacob shifted on the cloud bed to draw her closer. “About what—this time?”

“The storm.” Her body still vibrated from passion just released. “I knew it wasn’t a night for moonlight or tropical sunsets.”

She had been right. But he hated to admit it. “The atmosphere didn’t make that much difference.”

She rolled, all but floated, to lie across him. “Is that why you brought me here? To the place you once described to me?”

“I brought you here for a few days of relaxation.”

“So that’s what you brought me here for. When are we going to relax?” She grinned before she bent down to press kisses on his chest. “See, you’re already tensing up again.”

He skimmed a hand over her hair. “How long have we been married?”

Lazily she touched a button on the side of the bed. The time flashed, the numbers suspended in the air, then blinked off. “Five hours and twenty minutes.”

“I figure we’ll relax in about fifty years.” His hand wandered to her bare shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“Being married?”

“That, too. But I mean this place.”

He was so sweet, she thought, the way he didn’t want her to think he was too sentimental. “I love it, and since we’re newlyweds and allowed to be mushy I’ll tell you that bringing me here was the most romantic thing you’ve ever done.”

“I thought you might prefer Paris, or the Intimacy Resort on Mars.”

“We can always go to Mars,” she said, and giggled. “I’m almost getting used to saying things like that. I told you I was a quick study.”

“You’ve been here six months.”

“You are a tough nut.” She slid down him to rest her cheek on his chest. “Six months,” she repeated. “It took you long enough to marry me.”

“I’d have had it over with in six minutes if you and my father hadn’t gotten together.”

“Over with?” She raised her head, her eyes dangerous. “Income tax reports are things you want to get over with.”

“Income tax reports?” he repeated, blankly.

“I forgot. Unpleasant tasks,” she said. “That’s what you want to get over with. If marrying me was so unpleasant, why did you bother?”

“Because you would have nagged me.” He winced when she pinched him. “Because I thought it was the least I could do.” This time he laughed, rolling onto her as she dug her nails into his arms. “Because you’re gorgeous.”

“Not good enough.”

“And marginally intelligent.”

“Keep trying.”

“Because loving you has scrambled my circuits.”

“I guess that’ll do.” Happy, she linked her arms around his neck. “Maybe it was a lot of fuss and bother, but it was a beautiful wedding. I’m glad your father talked us into something traditional.”

“It was all right, as ceremonies go.” And when he’d seen her start down the aisle on his father’s arm, draped in shimmering white, he’d been struck dumb.

“I like your parents. They’ve made me feel very much at home.” With her tongue in her cheek, she looked at him again. “Especially when they let me in on deep, dark family secrets.”

“Such as?”

“The T in J.T.” When he grimaced, she really began to enjoy herself. “It seems you were so rotten, so undisciplined, so . . .”

“I was just a curious child.”

“. . . so hardheaded,” she continued, without missing a beat, “that your father used to say Trouble was your middle name. And the T stuck. Aptly.”

“You haven’t seen trouble yet.”

She slid up again to nip his lip. “I’m hoping I will.”

After a quick kiss, he slid out of bed.

The silky sheets pooled at her waist as she sat up. “Where do you think you’re going? I haven’t finished with you yet.”

“I forgot something.” He hadn’t forgotten at all. He’d been waiting for the right moment. He adjusted the lights so that they flickered like the flames of a dozen candles. Moments later, he returned with a box. “It’s a gift.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve never given you one.” He set it in her hands. “Are you going to open it or just stare at it?”

“I was enjoying the moment.” With her tongue caught between her teeth, she opened the box. Inside was a teapot, squat, of cheap china, with a bird on the lid and huge, ugly daisies painted on the bowl. “Oh, God.”

“I wanted you to have something from your time.” He felt a little foolish, not ready to admit that he had spent months scouring antique shops. “When I saw this, it was . . . well, like fate. Don’t cry.”

“I have to.” She sniffled, then raised her drenched eyes to his. “It survived. All this time.”

“The best things do.”

“Jacob.” She made a helpless gesture, then hugged the pot. “There’s nothing you could have given me that would have meant more.”

“There’s something else.” He sat beside her. After taking the teapot, he set it aside. “Would you like to see your family for Christmas?”

For a moment, she couldn’t speak. “Are you sure?”

“I’m nearly there, Sunbeam.” He brushed away a tear, let it shimmer on his fingertip. “Just trust me a little while longer.”

Fighting tears, she put her arms around him. “Take all the time you need. We’ve got forever.”

Keep reading for a special excerpt from the newest novel by J.D. Robb

CALCULATED IN DEATH

Available February 2013 in hardcover from G.P. Putnam’s Sons

A killer wind hurled bitter November air, toothy little knives to gnaw at the bones. She’d forgotten her gloves, but that was just as well as she’d have ruined yet another overpriced pair once she’d sealed up.

For now, Lieutenant Eve Dallas stuck her frozen hands in the warm pockets of her coat and looked down at death.

The woman lay at the bottom of the short stairway leading down to what appeared to be a lower-level apartment. From the angle of the head, Eve didn’t need the medical examiner to tell her the neck was broken.

Eve judged her as middle forties. Not wearing a coat, Eve mused, though the vicious wind wouldn’t trouble her now. Dressed for business—suit jacket, turtleneck, pants, good boots with low heels. Probably fashionable, but Eve would leave that call to her partner when Detective Peabody arrived on scene.

No jewelry, at least not visible. Not even a wrist unit.

No handbag, no briefcase or file bag.

No litter, no graffiti in the stairwell. Nothing but the body, slumped against the wall.

At length she turned to the uniformed officer who’d responded to the 911. “What’s the story?”

“The call came in at two-twelve. My partner and I were only two blocks away, hitting a twenty-four/seven. We arrived at two-fourteen. The owner of the unit, Bradley Whitestone, and an Alva Moonie were on the sidewalk. Whitestone stated they hadn’t entered the unit, which is being rehabbed—and is unoccupied. They found the body when he brought Moonie to see the apartment.”