Nora Roberts

J.D.Robb

An Audience & Afternoon Tea with Nora Roberts

Little, Brown Book Group presents
An Audience and Afternoon Tea with
NORA ROBERTS
The Lodge at Ashford Castle, Cong, Co Mayo
Sun 17 August, 2pm.

We’re offering Nora Roberts readers the chance of a lifetime – to meet Nora in person over afternoon tea.

The audience and afternoon tea will take place at The Lodge at Ashford Castle, County Mayo on Sunday 17th August at 2pm. Ashford Castle served as the inspiration and the setting for Nora’s current The Cousins O’Dwyer trilogy –and there couldn’t be a more stunning setting for this event.

Readers will have the chance to ask Nora Roberts questions and indulge in a delicious afternoon tea. We ask readers not to bring books from home. Books will be available to buy and readers will be able to get those books signed by the author.

Tickets cost €15* and are available from Town Hall Theatre, Galway +353-91-569777  or www.tht.ie.

There are a limited number of tickets available so book now to avoid disappointment.

* Telephone & Personal Bookings Are Subject to Charge of 50 cent per ticket; Online Bookings are subject to €1 per ticket

 

Give the gift of Nora Roberts

On 23rd April, World Book Night will see volunteers give away hundreds of thousands of books in their communities to share their love of reading with people who, for whatever reason, don’t read a lot or own books.

Black Hills by Nora Roberts is one of the chosen World Book Night titles and thousands of readers around the country will be receiving a copy.

We’d love you – Nora’s UK readers – to get involved and give the gift of Nora Roberts too.

On 23rd April you lend, send or give one of your favourite Nora Roberts novels to a friend, colleague or loved one who hasn’t read her before. Share a photo on Twitter or Nora’s Facebook page Facebook #norarobertsgift – it can be of the book, the parcel you sent it in or in the hands of the person you give it to. The first 25 readers to upload a photo will receive a Nora Roberts title of their choice.

This competition is open to UK readers only. Full terms & conditions here.

Win an early proof copy of The Collector

The Collector, the brand new stand alone romantic suspense from Nora Roberts, hits the shops in hardback and ebook on 15th April.

Two months is a long time to wait, which is why we’re offering ten lucky readers the chance to win an exclusive early proof copy. All we ask is that you send us a short review in return.

To be in with the chance of winning an early proof copy to review, simply answer the following question:

When is Nora Roberts’ birthday?

A. 10th October
B. 10th December
C. 10th July

Fill your answer in the box below, making sure to read our terms and conditions first. Good luck!

Concealed in Death by J.D. Robb: Read an Extract

Concealed in Death, the brand new In Death thriller from J.D. Robb, is available to buy in hardback and ebook from 18th February.

In the 38th instalment of J.D. Robb’s utterly addictive series, Roarke discovers the body of a murdered teenage girl wwhile overseeing work on his new property.  More deaths are revealed – a dozen in total – and Eve and Roarke set about getting to the bottom of a shocking, twisted investigation.

If you can’t wait to find out what happens next, we’ve got good news for you. Click the link below to read the first chapter, then count down the days until Concealed in Death is available to buy.

Concealed in Death by Nora Roberts Chapter One

Black Hills chosen for World Book Night

World Book Night is a celebration of reading and books. Every year, passionate volunteers gift books in their communities from a carefully chosen list to share their love of reading.

Black Hills by Nora Roberts has been chosen as one of the 20 titles for 2014. World Book Night are now looking for volunteers to sign up as book givers.

If you love Nora Roberts’ novels and would like to get involved, click here to find out more about becoming a book giver.

To find out more about World Book Night and the other titles on the list, click here.

World Book Night will take place on April 23rd 2014. For all the latest news, follow World Book Night and Piatkus Books on Twitter.

Win the complete Inn Boonsboro trilogy in paperback

To celebrate the publication of The Perfect Hope, book 3 in the Inn Boonsboro trilogy, in paperback, we’re offering one lucky Nora Roberts reader the chance to win all three books in the series.

To be in with a chance of winning this romantic trilogy, simply answer the following question:

Which of these is not a bedroom at Nora Roberts’ real-life hotel, The Inn Boonsboro?

A. Nick & Nora
B. Eve & Roarke
C. Posh & Becks

Fill your answer in the form below, making sure to read our terms and conditions first. Good luck!

Please sign me up to the Nora Roberts newsletter

Read an extract from The Last Boyfriend

The Last Boyfriend by Nora Roberts is available in paperback from 6th June. Read an extract here and we guarantee you’ll be hooked!

A fat  winter  moon poured light over the old stone and brick of the inn on The Square. In its beams, the new porches and pickets glowed, and the bright-penny copper of the roof glinted. The old and new merged there—the past and the now—in a strong and happy marriage. Its windows stayed dark on this December night, prizing its secrets  in shadows. But in a matter of weeks they would shine like others  along Boonsboro’s Main Street.

As he sat in his truck at the light on The Square, Owen Montgomery  looked up Main at the shops and apartments draped in their holiday  cheer. Lights winked and danced. To his right, a pretty tree graced  the big front window of the second-floor apartment. Their future  innkeeper’s temporary residence reflected her style. Precise elegance. Next Christmas, he thought, they’d have Inn BoonsBoro covered  with white lights and greenery. And Hope Beaumont would centre her pretty  little tree in the window of the innkeeper’s apartment on  the third floor.

He glanced to his left where Avery MacTavish, owner of Vesta Pizzeria and Family Restaurant, had the restaurant’s front porch
decked out in lights. Her apartment above—formerly his brother Beckett’s—also  showed a tree in the window. Otherwise the windows were as dark  as the inn’s. She’d be working tonight, he thought, noting the movement  in the restaurant. He shifted, but couldn’t see her behind the  work counter. When the light changed, he turned right onto St. Paul Street,  then left into the parking lot behind the inn. Then sat in his truck a  moment, considering. He could walk over to Vesta, he thought, have  a slice and a beer, hang out until closing. Afterward he could do his  walk-through of the inn.

He didn’t actually need to walk through, he reminded himself. But  he hadn’t been on-site all day as he’d been busy with other meetings, other details on other Montgomery Family Contractors’ business. He  didn’t want to wait until morning to see what his brothers and the  crew had accomplished that day. Besides, Vesta looked busy, and had barely thirty minutes till closing. Not that Avery would kick him out at closing—probably. More  than likely, she’d sit down and have a beer with him.

Tempting,  he  thought,  but  he  really  should  do  that  quick  walkthrough and get home. He needed to be on-site, with his tools, by seven. He climbed out of the truck and into the frigid air, already pulling  out his keys. Tall like his brothers, with a build leaning toward rangy, he hunched in his jacket as he walked around the stone courtyard wall toward the doors of The Lobby. His keys were color-coded, something his brothers called anal,  and he deemed efficient. In seconds he was out of the cold and into
the building. He hit the lights, then just stood there, grinning like a moron. The decorative tile rug highlighted the span of the floor and added  another note of charm to the softly painted walls with their custom,  creamy wainscoting. Beckett had been right on target about leaving  the side wall exposed brick. And their mother had been dead-on about the chandelier. Not fancy, not traditional, but somehow organic with its bronzy  branches and narrow, l owing globes centered over that tile rug.

He  glanced right, noted The Lobby restrooms with their fancy tiles and green-veined stone sinks had been painted. He pulled out his notebook, jotted down the need for a few touchups before  he walked through the stone arch to the left. More exposed brick—yeah, Beckett had a knack. The laundry room shelves showed ruthless organization—that would be Hope’s  hand; her iron will had booted his brother Ryder out of his on-site  voice so she could start organizing.

He paused at what would be Hope’s voice, saw his brother’s mark  there: the sawhorses and a sheet of plywood forming his rough desk,  the fat white binder—the job bible—some tools, cans of paint. Wouldn’t be much longer, Owen calculated, before Hope kicked  Ryder out again.

He continued on, stopped to bask at the open kitchen. They’d installed the lights. The big iron fixture over the island,  the smaller versions at each window. Warm wood cabinets, creamy  accent pieces, smooth granite paid complement to gleaming stainless
steel appliances.

He opened the fridge, started to reach for a beer. He’d be driving  shortly, he reminded himself, and took a can of Pepsi instead before  he made a note to call about installation of the blinds and window treatments. They were nearly ready for them. He moved on to Reception, took another scan, grinned again. The mantel Ryder had created out of a thick old plank of barn wood suited the old brick and the deep open fireplace. At the moment,  tarps, more paint cans, more tools crowded the space. He made a few more notes, wandering back, moving through the first arch, then  paused on his way across The Lobby to what would be The Lounge,
when he heard footsteps on the second floor.

He walked through the next arch leading down the short hallway toward the stairs. He saw Luther had been hard at work on the iron  rails, and ran a hand over it as he started the climb.

“Okay, pretty damn gorgeous. Ry? You up here?” A door shut smartly, made him jump a little. His quiet blue eyes narrowed as he finished the climb. His brothers weren’t against screwing  with  him,  and  damned  if  he’d  give  either  of  them  an  excuse  to
snicker.

“Ooooh,” he said in mock fear. “It must be the ghost. I’m so scared!” He made the turn toward the front of the building, saw that the door to Elizabeth and Darcy was indeed closed, unlike that of Titania and Oberon across from it. Very funny, he thought sourly. He crept toward the door, intending to shove it open, jump in, and possibly give whichever one of his brothers was playing games a jolt.

He closed his hand on the curved handle, pulled it down smoothly, pushed. The door didn’t budge. “Cut it out, asshole.” But he laughed a little in spite of himself. At  least until the door flew open, and both porch doors did the same. He smelled honeysuckle, sweet as summer, on the rush of icy air.

“Well, Jesus.”

He’d mostly accepted they had a ghost, mostly believed it. After  all, there’d been incidents, and Beckett was adamant. Adamant enough he’d named her Elizabeth in honor of the room she preferred. But this was Owen’s first personal, up-close, and unarguable experience. He stood, slack-jawed, as the bathroom door slammed, then flew open, then slammed again.

“Okay. Wow, okay. Um, sorry to intrude. I was just—” The door slammed in his face—or would have if he hadn’t jumped back in time to avoid the bust to his nose. “Hey, come on. You’ve got to know me by now. I’m here almost every day. Owen, Beck’s brother. I, ah, come in peace and all that.” The bathroom door slammed again, and the sound made him wince. “Easy on the material, okay? What’s the problem? I was just . . .  Oh. I get it.” Clearing his throat, he pulled of  his wool cap, raked his hands through his thick, bark brown hair. “Listen, I wasn’t calling you an asshole. I thought it was Ry. You know my other brother. Ryder? He can be an asshole, you have to admit. And I’m standing in the hallway explaining myself to a ghost.”

The door opened a crack. Cautiously, Owen eased it open. “I’m just going to close the porch doors. We really have to keep them closed.” He could admit, to himself, the sound of his own voice echoing in the empty room gave him the jitters, but he shoved the cap into his coat pocket as he moved to the far door, shut it, locked it. But when he got to the second door, he saw the lights shining in Avery’s apartment over the restaurant. He saw her, or a l ash of her, move by the window. The rush of air stilled; the scent of honeysuckle sweetened.

“I’ve smelled you before,” he murmured, still looking out at Avery’s windows. “Beckett says you warned him the night that f**ker—sorry  for the language—Sam Freemont went after Clare. So thanks for that. They’re getting married—Beck and Clare. You probably know that. He’s been stuck on her most of his life.”

He shut the door now, turned around. “So thanks again.” The bathroom door stood open now, so he caught his own reflection in the mirror with its curvy iron frame over the vanity. He had to admit, he looked a little wild-eyed, and the hair sticking up in tufts from the rake of his fingers added to the spooked image.

Automatically, he shoved his fingers through again to try to calm it down. “I’m just going through the place, making notes. We’re down to punch-out work essentially. Not in here, though. This is done. I think the  crew  wanted  to  finish  this  room  up.  Some  of  them  get  a  little spooked. No offense. So . . . I’m going to finish up and go. See you— or not see you, but . . .”

Whatever, he decided, and backed out of the room. He spent more than thirty minutes, moving from room to room,
floor to floor, adding to his notes. A few times, the scent of honeysuckle returned, or a door opened. Her presence—and he couldn’t deny it—seemed benign enough now. But he couldn’t deny the faint sense of relief either as he locked up for the night.

Frost   crunched   lightly   under Owen’s boots as he juggled coffee and donuts. A half hour before sunrise, he let himself back
into the inn, headed straight to the kitchen to set down the box of donuts, the tray of take-out coffee, and his briefcase. To brighten the mood, and because it was there, he moved to Reception, switched on the gas logs. Pleased by the heat and light, he stripped of  his gloves, folded them into the pockets of his jacket.

Back in the kitchen, he opened his briefcase, took out his clipboard, and began to review—again—the agenda for the day. The phone on his belt beeped, signalling the time for the morning meeting. He’d finished half a glazed donut by the time he heard Ryder’s truck pull in.

His brother wore a Montgomery Family Contractors cap, a thick, scarred work jacket, and his need-more-coffee scowl. Dumbass,
Ryder’s dog, padded in, sniffed the air, then looked longingly at the second half of Owen’s donut.
Ryder grunted, reached for a cup. “That’s Beck’s,” Owen told him with barely a glance. “As is clear by the B I wrote on the side.”
Ryder grunted again, took the cup marked R. After one long gulp he eyed the donuts, opted for a jelly-filled. At the thump of D.A.’s tail, Ryder tossed him a chunk.

“Beck’s late,” Owen commented.

“You’re the one who decided we needed to meet up before dawn.”

Ryder  took  a  huge  bite  of  donut,  washed  it  down  with  coffee.  He hadn’t shaved, so a dark stubble covered the hard planes of his face. But his gold-flecked green eyes lost some of their sleepy scowl thanks to the caffeine and sugar.

“Too many interruptions once the crew’s here. I looked around some on my way home last night. You had a good day.” “Damn straight. We’ll finish punch-out on the third floor this morning. Some trim and crown molding, some lights and those damn
heated towel racks still to go in a couple rooms on two. Luther’s moving on the rails and banisters.”

“So I saw. I’ve got some notes.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’ll have more, I expect, when I finish going over two, and head up to three.” “Why wait?” Ryder grabbed a second donut, started out. He tossed another chunk without bothering to glance at the dog, who trotted
with him. Dumbass fielded it with Golden Gloves precision. “Beckett’s not here.” “Dude’s got a woman,” Ryder pointed out, “and three kids. School morning. He’ll be here when he is, and can catch up.”
“There’s some paint needs touching up down here,” Owen began. “I got eyes, too.” “I’m going to have them come in, install the blinds throughout. If  three gets punched out today, I can have them start on the window treatments by early next week.”
“The men cleaned up, but it’s construction clean. It needs a real cleaning, a polish. You need to get the innkeeper on that.”
“I’ll be talking to Hope this morning. I’m going to talk County into letting us start load-in.” Ryder slanted a look at his brother. “We’ve got another two weeks, easy, and that’s not counting the holidays.”

But Owen, as usual, had a plan. “We can get three done, Ry, start working our way down. You think Mom and Carolee—not to mention Hope—aren’t going to be running around buying more stuff  once we get things in place?”

“I do figure it. We don’t need them underfoot any more than they already are.” They heard a door open from below as they rounded up to the third floor. “On three,” Owen called down. “Coffee’s in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Jesus.”

“Jesus didn’t buy the coffee.” Owen brushed his fingers over the oil-rubbed bronzed oval plaque engraved Innkeeper. “Classy touch.” “The  place  is  full  of  them.”  Ryder  gulped  more  coffee  as  they stepped inside.

“It looks good.” Owen nodded as he toured through, into and out of the little kitchen, the bath, circling the two bedrooms. “It’s a nice, comfortable space. Pretty and efficient, like our innkeeper.”

“She’s damn near as pain-in-the-ass fussy as you are.” “Remember who keeps you in donuts, bro.” At the word donuts, D.A. wagged his entire body. “You’re done, pal,” Ryder told him, and with a doggie sigh, D.A. sprawled on the floor.

Owen glanced over as Beckett came up the steps. He’d shaved, Owen noted, and looked bright-eyed. Maybe a little wild-eyed, as he imagined most men did with three kids under the age of ten and the school-morning chaos that created. He remembered his own school mornings well enough, and wondered how his parents had resisted doing major drugs.

“One of the dogs puked in Murphy’s bed,” Beckett announced.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Works for me. Owen’s talking about window treatments and loading in.”

Beckett paused as he gave Dumbass a quick head rub. “We’ve still got trim to run, painting, punch-out.” “Not up here.” Owen crossed to the first of their two suites, The  Penthouse. “We could outfit this suite. Hope could move her stuff  in
across the hall. How about Westley and Buttercup?” “It’s done. We hung the bathroom mirror and lights yesterday.”
“Then I’ll tell Hope to break out the mop, get this level shined up.”  Though  he  trusted  Ryder,  he’d  check  the  room  himself.  “She’s  got  the list of what goes where, so she can run down to Bast, tell them what to deliver up here.”

He made notes on his clipboard—shipment of towels and linens, purchase of light bulbs and so on. Behind his back Beckett and Ryder exchanged looks. “I guess we’re loading in.” “I don’t know who ‘we’ is,” Ryder corrected. “It’s not me or the
crew. We’ve got to finish the damn place.” “Don’t bitch at me.” Beckett held up his hands. “I’ve got to make the changes to the bakery project next door if we’re going to shift the  crew from here to there without much of a lag.”

“I could use a lag,” Ryder muttered but headed down behind Owen. Owen paused at Elizabeth and Darcy, gave the propped-open door a  study.  “Beckett,  you might  want  to  talk  to  your  pal,  Lizzy. Make sure she keeps this door open, and the terrace doors shut.”

“It is open. They are shut.”

“Now they are. She got a little peeved last night.” Intrigued, Beckett lifted his brows. “Is that so?” “I guess I had my personal close encounter. I did a walk-through last night, heard somebody up here. I figured it for one of you, messing with me. She thought I called her an asshole, and let me know she didn’t care for it.”

Beckett’s grin spread wide and quick. “She’s got a temper.” “Tell me. We made up, I think. But in case she holds a grudge.” “We’re done in here, too,” Ryder told him. “And in T&O. We’ve got to run the crown molding and baseboard in N&N, and there’s
some touch-up in E&R, and the bathroom ceiling light in there. It came in, finally, yesterday. J&R in the back’s full of boxes. Lamps, lamps, more lamps, shelves, and God knows. But it’s punched out.

“I’ve got a list, too.” Ryder tapped his head while the dog walked over to sit at his side. “I just don’t have to write every freaking thing down in ten places.”

“Robe hooks, towel racks, TP dispensers,” Owen began. “On the slate for today.” “Mirrors, l at screens, switch plates and outlet covers, door bumpers.”

“On the slate, Owen.”

“You’ve got the list of what goes where?”

“Nobody likes a nag, Sally.”

“Exit signs need to go up.” Owen continued working down his list as he walked to The Dining Room. “Wall sconces in here. The boxes we built for the i re extinguishers need to be painted and installed.”

“Once you shut up, I can get started.” “Brochures, website, advertising, finalizing room rates, packages, room folders.”

“Not my job.” “Exactly. Count your frigging blessings. How much longer for the revised plans on the bakery project?” Owen asked Beckett. “I’ll have them to the permit office tomorrow morning.” “Good deal.” He took out his phone, switched it to calendar. “Let’s
nail it down. I’m going to tell Hope to open reservations for January fifteenth. We can have the grand-opening deal on the thirteenth, give us a day for putting it all back together. Then we’re up.”

“That’s less than a month,” Ryder complained.

“You know and Beck knows and I know there’s less than two weeks’ work left here. You’ll be done before Christmas. If we start the load-in this week, we’ll be done by the first, and there’s no reason we won’t get the Use and Occupancy right after the holidays. That gives two weeks to fiddle and fuss, work out any kinks, with Hope living here.”

“I’m with Owen on this. We’re sliding downhill now, Ry.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Ryder shrugged. “It’s weird, maybe, just weird thinking about actually being done.”

“Cheer up,” Owen told him. “A place like this? We’re never going to be done.” On his nod, Ryder heard the back door open, shut, the sound of heavy boots on tile. “We’ve got crew. Get your tools.” Owen  kept  busy,  and happy, running crown molding. He didn’t mind the regular interruptions to answer a call, return a text, read an email. His phone served as a tool to him as much as his nail gun. The  building  buzzed  with  activity,  echoed  with  voices  and  Ryder’s job radio. It smelled of paint and fresh-cut wood, strong coffee. The combination said Montgomery Family Contractors to him, and never failed to remind him of his father. Everything he’d learned about carpentry and the building trade he’d learned from his dad. Now, stepping of  the ladder to study the work, he knew his father would be proud.

They’d taken the old building with its sagging porches and broken windows, its scarred walls and broken floors and had transformed it into a jewel on the town square. Beckett’s vision, he thought, their mother’s imagination and canny eye, Ryder’s sweat and skill, and his own focus on detail, combined with a solid crew, had transformed what had been an idea batted
around the kitchen table into reality. He set down his nail gun, rolled his shoulder as he turned around
the room.

Yeah, his mother’s canny eye, he thought again. He could admit he’d balked at her scheme of pale aqua walls and chocolate brown
ceiling—until he’d seen it finished. Glamour was the word of the day for Nick and Nora, and it reached its pinnacle in the bath. That same color scheme, including a wall of blue glass tiles, contrasting with brown on brown, all sparkling under crystal lights. Chandelier in the john, he thought, with a shake of his head. It sure as hell worked. Nothing ordinary or hotel-like about it, he mused—not when Justine Montgomery took charge. He thought this room with its Decol air might be his favorite.

His phone alarm told him it was time to start making some calls of his own. He went out, then headed toward the back door for the porch as Luther worked on the rails leading down. Gritting his teeth, he jogged through the cold and bitter wind across the covered porch, down to ground level, then ducked in through Reception.

“F**king A it’s cold.” The radio blasted; nail guns thumped. And no way, he decided, would he try to do business with all this noise. He grabbed his jacket, his briefcase. He ducked into The Lounge, where Beckett sat on the floor running trim. “I’m heading over to Vesta.” “It’s shy of ten. They’re not open.” “Exactly.”

Outside, Owen hunched against the cold at the light, cursed the fact that traffic, such as it was, paced and spaced itself so he couldn’t make the dash across Main. He waited it out, his breath blowing icy clouds until the walk light flashed. He jogged diagonally, ignored the Closed sign on the glass front door of the restaurant, and pounded. He saw lights on, but no movement. Once again he took out his phone, punched Avery’s number from memory.

“Damn it, Owen, now I’ve got dough on my phone.”

“So you are in there. Open up before I get frostbite.”

“Damn it,” she repeated, then cut him of . But seconds later he saw her, white bib apron over jeans and a black sweater with sleeves shoved to her elbows. Her hair—what the hell color was it now? It struck him as very close to the bright new-penny copper of the inn’s roof.

She’d started changing it a few months back, going with most everything but her natural Scot warrior-queen red. She’d hacked it
short, too, he recalled, though it had grown long enough again for her to yank it back in a tiny stub when she worked. Her eyes, as bright a blue as her hair was copper, glared at him as she turned the locks. “What do you want?” she demanded. “I’m in the middle of prep.”

“I just want the room and the quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.” He sidled in, just in case she tried to shut the door on him. “I
can’t talk on the phone with all the noise across the street and I have to make some calls.” She narrowed those blue eyes at his briefcase. So he tried a winning smile. “Okay, maybe I have a little paperwork. I’ll sit at the counter. I’ll be very, very quiet.”

“Oh, all right. But don’t bother me.” “Um, just before you go back? You wouldn’t happen to have any
coffee?” “No, I wouldn’t happen to have. I’m prepping dough, which is now on my new phone. I worked closing last night, and Franny called in sick at eight this morning. She sounded like somebody ran her larynx through a meat grinder. I had two waitstaff out with the same thing last night, which means I’ll probably be on from now to closing. Dave can’t work tonight because he’s getting a root canal at four, and I’ve got a bus tour coming in at twelve thirty.”

Because she’d snapped the words out in little whiplashes, Owen just nodded. “Okay.”

“Just . . .” She gestured toward the long counter. “Do whatever.” She rushed back to the kitchen on bright green Nikes. He’d have offered to help, but he could tell she wasn’t in the mood. He knew her moods—he’d known her forever—and recognized harried, impatient, and stressed. She’d roll with it, he thought. She always did. The sassy little redhead from his childhood, the former Boonsboro High cheerleader—co-captain with Beckett’s Clare—had become a hardworking restaurateur. Who made exceptional pizza.

She’d left a light, lemony scent behind her, along with a frisson of energy. He heard the faint thump and rattle of her work as he took a stool at the counter. He found it soothing and somewhat rhythmic. He opened his briefcase, took out his iPad, his clipboard, unclipped his phone from his belt.

He made his calls, sent emails, texts, reworked his calendar, calculated. He steeped himself in the details, surfacing when a coffee mug slid under his nose. He looked up into Avery’s pretty face.

“Thanks. You didn’t have to bother. I won’t be long.”

“Owen, you’ve already been here forty minutes.”

“Really? Lost track. You want me to go?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Though she pressed a fist into the small of her back, she spoke easily now. “I’ve got it under control.”
He caught another scent, and glancing to the big stove saw she’d put her sauces on.

The red hair, milk-white skin, and dash of freckles might declare her Scot heritage, but her marinara was as gloriously Italian as an
Armani suit. He’d often wondered where she’d gotten the knack, and the drive, but both seemed as innate a part of her as her big, bold blue eyes. Crouching, she opened the cooler under the counter for tubs, and began filling the topping containers.

“Sorry about Franny.”

“Me, too. She’s really sick. And Dave’s miserable. He’s only coming in for a couple hours this afternoon because I’m so shorthanded. I hate asking him.” He studied her face as she worked. Now that he really looked, he noted the pale purple shadows under her eyes.

“You look tired.”

She shot him a disgusted look over the tub of black olives. “Thanks. That’s what every girl loves to hear.” Then she shrugged. “I am tired. I thought I’d sleep in this morning. Franny would open, I’d come in about eleven thirty. Not much of a commute since I moved right upstairs. So I watched some Jimmy Fallon, finished a book I’ve been trying to squeeze out time to read all week. I didn’t go down until nearly two. Then Franny calls at eight. Six hours isn’t bad, unless you worked a double and you’re going to work another.”

“Bright side? Business is good.” “I’ll think about bright side after the bus tour. Anyway, enough. How’s it going at the inn?”
“So good we’re going to start loading in the third floor tomorrow.” “Loading in what?”

“Furniture, Avery.”

She set down the tub, goggled at him. “Seriously? Seriously?”

“The inspector’s going to take a look this afternoon, give us the go or no. I’m saying go because there’s no reason for no. I just talked to Hope. She’s going to start cleaning up there. My mother and my aunt are coming in—maybe are in already since it’s going on eleven now—to pitch in.”

“I wanted to do that. I can’t.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ve got plenty of hands.”

“I wanted mine to be two of them. Maybe tomorrow, depending on sickness and root canals. Jeez, Owen, this is major.” She did
a little heel-toe dance on her green high-tops. “And you wait almost an hour to spill it?”

“You were too busy bitching at me.”

“If you’d spilled, I’d’ve been too excited to bitch. Your own fault.”

She smiled at him, pretty Avery MacTavish with the tired eyes.

“Why don’t you sit down for a few minutes?”

“I’ve got to keep moving today, like a shark.” She snapped the lid on the tub, replaced it, then went over to check her sauces. He watched her work. She always seemed to be doing half a dozen things at once, like a constant juggling act with balls hanging in the air, others bouncing madly until she managed to grab and toss them again. It amazed his organized mind.

“I’d better get back. Thanks for the coffee.”

“No problem. If any of the crew’s thinking about lunch here today, tell them to wait until one thirty. The rush’ll be over.”

“Okay.” He gathered his things, then paused at the door. “Avery?

What color is that? The hair.”

“This? Copper Penny.”

He grinned, shook his head. “I knew it. See you later.”

Win a Spa Experience with The Witness

The Witness by Nora Roberts is out now in paperback and ebook. To celebrate, we’re offering one lucky reader the chance to win £150 spa vouchers!

To be in with a chance of winning, read the synopsis below then answer the following question. This competition is open to residents of the UK and Ireland only, full terms and conditions here.

What is the name of Abigail’s guard dog?

Bert
Ben
Rover

Abigail Lowery has a dark and terrifying secret. Aged just sixteen, she witnessed a shocking mafia murder. Narrowly escaping with her life, she was forced to leave her old identity – even her real name – behind for good.

Fifteen years later Abigail is still hiding from the world – a semi-recluse in the quiet, rural town of Bickford, Arkansas. She has convinced herself that this is all she needs: peace, safety… and her faithful guard dog Bert. Perhaps now, at last, she can stop running.

But Brooks Gleason, the local chief of police, has other ideas. Abigail intrigues him – and he’d like nothing better than to break through the walls she has built around herself. His persistence and determination to uncover the truth is unsettling, exciting – and dangerous. One way or another, it will change both their lives for ever.

Answers in the box below. Good luck!

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