Nora Roberts Novel Extracts

Cooper Sullivan’s life, as he’d known it, was over. Judge and jury – in the form of his parents – had not been swayed by pleas, reason, temper, threats, but instead had sentenced him and shipped him off, away from everything he knew and cared about to a world without video parlors or Big Macs.

The only thing that kept him from completely dying of boredom, or just going wacko, was his prized Game Boy.

As far as he could see, it would be him and Tetris for the duration of his prison term – two horrible, stupid months – in the Wild freaking West. He knew damn well the game, which his father had gotten pretty much right off the assembly line in Tokyo, was a kind of bribe.

Since details crowded her mind, many of them blurry, Emma checked her appointment book over her first cup of coffee. The back-to-back consults gave her nearly as much of a boost as the strong, sweet coffee. Basking in it, she leaned back in the chair in her cozy office to read over the side notes she’d added to each client.

In her experience, the personality of the couple-or often, more accurately, the bride-helped her determine the tone of the consult, the direction they’d pursue. To Emma’s way of thinking, flowers were the heart of a wedding. Whether they were elegant or fun, elaborate or simple, the flowers were the romance.

It was her job to give the client all the heart and romance they desired.

On January first, Mac rolled over to smack her alarm clock, and ended up facedown on the floor of her studio.

“Shit. Happy New Year.”

She lay, groggy and baffled, until she remembered she’d never made it upstairs into bed – and the alarm was from her computer, set to wake her at noon.

She pushed herself up to stagger to the kitchen and the coffeemaker.

According to legend, Steve McQueen once swam buck-naked among the cattails and lily pads in the pond at the little farm. If true, and Cilla liked to think it was, the King Of Cool had stripped off and dove in post The Magnificent Seven and prior to The Great Escape.

In some versions of the legend, Steve had done more than cool off on that muggy summer night in Virginia – and he’d done the more with Cilla’s grandmother. Though they’d both been married to other people at the time, the legend carried more cheer than disdain. And since both parties were long dead, neither could confirm or deny.

ON HIS THIRD DAY ON DESIRE, Nathan woke in a panic. His heart was booming, his breath short and strangled, his skin iced with sweat. He shot up in bed with fists clenched, his eyes searching the murky shadows of the room. Weak sunlight filtered through the slats of the blinds and built a cage on the thin gray carpet.

THE FERRY STEAMED ACROSS PELICAN SOUND, heading east to Lost Desire. Nathan Delaney stood at the starboard rail as he had once before as a ten-year-old boy. It wasn’t the same ferry, and he was no longer a boy, but he wanted to re-create the moment as closely as possible.

BRIAN stood in the doorway of the west terrace and studied
his sister. She looked frail, he noted, skittish. Lost somehow,
he thought, amid the sunlight and flowers.

JO STOOD AT THE WINDOW IN THE BEDROOM OF HER CHILDHOOD. The view was the same. Pretty gardens patiently waiting to be weeded and fed. Mounds of alyssum were already golden and bluebells were waving. Violas were sunning their sassy little faces, guarded by the tall spears of purple iris and cheerful yellow tulips. Impatiens and dianthus bloomed reliably.

AT FIRST LIGHT THE AIR WAS MISTY, LIKE A DREAM JUST ABOUT TO VANISH. Beams of light stabbed through the canopy of live oaks and glittered on the dew. The warblers and buntings that nested in the sprays of moss were waking, chirping out a morning song. A cock cardinal, a red bullet of color, shot through the trees without a sound.

SHE DREAMED OF SANCTUARY. The great house gleamed bridewhite in the moonlight, as majestic a force breasting the slope that reigned over eastern dunes and western marsh as a queen upon her throne.