The Other Side

The Other Side

3.8 148
by J. D. Robb, Mary Blayney, Patricia Gaffney, R. C. Ryan
     
 

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Five New York Times bestselling authors cross over to a realm where suspense, desire, and love have no bounds.

J.D. Robb: Lieutenant Eve Dallas has always sought justice for the dead, but now, a victim will seek her own vengeance-through Eve.

Mary Blayney: An earl and his countess struggle to understand one another, until

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Overview

Five New York Times bestselling authors cross over to a realm where suspense, desire, and love have no bounds.

J.D. Robb: Lieutenant Eve Dallas has always sought justice for the dead, but now, a victim will seek her own vengeance-through Eve.

Mary Blayney: An earl and his countess struggle to understand one another, until they spend a day in each other's shoes-and bodies.

Patricia Gaffney: To prove her ancestral home is haunted, a woman hires a spirit investigator, but they end up debunking the mystery of love.

Ruth Ryan Langan: A couple who dies in a car accident struggler to stay in their daughter's life to save her from the wrong man.

Mary Kay McComas: A practical woman is faced with the most impractical ghosts, who can't rest in peace until they find what they have lost.

Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
Once again Robb (aka Nora Roberts) heads up a list of top-notch writers in another exemplary anthology of romantic novellas—all with a paranormal slant and all providing intriguing views from the "other side." No-nonsense Eve Dallas inadvertently takes in the spirit of a gypsy who wants her to find her missing granddaughter in Robb's macabre "Possession in Death"; a bickering pair of aristocrats get a reality check when they are zapped into each other's bodies as a magic coin grants their thoughtless wishes in Mary Blayney's Regency gem, "The Other Side of the Coin"; a pragmatic woman who wants to stop the sale of her family home falls for the charlatan spirit investigator she hires to prove the house is haunted in Patricia Gaffney's artful "The Dancing Ghost"; a couple killed in a car crash refuse to head for Heaven until they save their daughter from a disastrous marriage (and find her another man) in Ruth Ryan Langan's satisfying "Almost Heaven"; and a woman estranged from her mother must help the ghosts of her mom and two aunts find what each has lost so they all can move on in Mary Kay McComas's touching "Never Too Late To Love." VERDICT Spine-tingling, funny, whimsical, or poignant, this superb anthology has something for everyone; a winner for paranormal/short story collections.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780515148671
Publisher:
Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date:
11/30/2010
Pages:
416
Sales rank:
269,630
Product dimensions:
4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.40(d)
Age Range:
18 Years

Read an Excerpt

One

She spent the morning with a murderer.

He'd been under guard in a hospital bed recovering from a near-fatal wound—courtesy of a misstep by his partner in crime—but she'd had no sympathy.

She was glad he'd lived, wished him a long, long life—in an off-planet concrete cage. She believed the case she and her team had built to be solid—as did the nearly gleeful prosecuting attorney. The sprinkles on the icing of this particular cupcake was the confession she'd finessed out of him as he'd sneered at her.

Given that he'd tried to kill her less than twenty-four hours before, the sneer was small change.

Sylvester Moriarity would receive the best medical care New York could provide, then he'd join his friend Winston Dudley behind bars until what promised to be a sensational, media-soaked trial, given their family fortunes and names.

Case closed, she told herself as she pushed her way through the heat-soaked Saturday afternoon traffic toward home. The dead now had the only justice she could offer, and their families and friends the comfort—if comfort it was—that those responsible would pay.

But it haunted her: the waste, the cruelty, the utter selfishness of two men who were so puffed up by their own importance, their station, that they'd considered murder a form of entertainment, a twisted sort of indulgence.

She maneuvered through New York traffic, barely hearing the blasts of horns, the annoyingly cheerful hype of the ad blimps heralding midsummer sales at the Sky Mall. Tourists swarmed the city—and likely the Sky Mall as well—chowing down on soy dogs from the smoking glide-carts, looking for souvies and bargains among the shops and street vendors.

A boiling stew, she thought, in the heat and humidity of summer 2060.

She caught the lightning move of a nimble-fingered street thief, bumping through a couple of tourists more intent on gawking at the buildings and their ringing people glides than their own security. He had the wallet in the goody slit of his baggy cargos in half a finger snap and slithered like a snake through the forest of people lumbering across the crosswalk.

If she'd been on foot, or at least headed in the same direction, she'd have pursued—and the chase might've lifted her mood. But he and his booty smoked away, and he'd no doubt continue to score well on today's target shoot.

Life went on.

When Lieutenant Eve Dallas finally drove through the stately gates of home, she reminded herself of that again. Life went on—and in her case, today, that included a cookout, a horde of cops, and her odd assortment of friends. A couple years before, it would've been the last way she'd have spent a Saturday, but things had changed.

Her living arrangements certainly had, from a sparsely furnished apartment to the palace-fortress Roarke had built. Her husband—and that was a change, even if they'd just celebrated their second year of marriage—had the vision, the need, and, God knew, the means to create the gorgeous home with its myriad rooms filled with style and function. Here the grass was rich summer green, the trees and flowers plentiful.

Here was peace and warmth and welcome. And she needed them, maybe just a little desperately at the moment.

She left her vehicle at the front entrance, knowing Summerset, Roarke's majordomo, would send it to its place in the garage. And hoped, just this once, he wasn't looming like a scarecrow in the foyer.

She wanted the cool and quiet of the bedroom she shared with Roarke, a few minutes of solitude. Time, she thought as she strode toward the doors, to shake off this mood before the invasion.

Halfway to the doors, she stopped. The front wasn't the only way in, for Christ's sake—and why hadn't she ever thought of that before? On impulse, she jogged around—long legs eating up ground—crossed one of the patios, turned through a small, walled garden, and went in through a side door. Into a parlor or sitting room or morning room—who knew? she thought with a roll of tired brown eyes—and made her way as sneakily as the street thief across the hallway, down and into the more familiar territory of the game room, where she knew the lay of the land.

She called the elevator and considered it a small, personal victory when the doors shut her in. "Master bedroom," she ordered, then just leaned back against the wall, shut her eyes, while the unit navigated its way.

When she stepped into the bedroom, she raked a hand through her messy cap of brown hair, stripped the jacket off her lanky frame, and tossed it at the handiest chair. She stepped onto the platform and sat on the side of the lake-sized bed. If she'd believed she could escape into sleep, she'd have stretched out, but there was too much in her head, in her belly, for rest.

So she simply sat, veteran cop, Homicide lieutenant who'd walked through blood and death more times than she could count, and mourned a little.

Roarke found her there.

He could gauge her state of mind by the slump of her shoulders, by the way she sat, staring out the window. He walked to her, sat beside her, took her hand.

"I should've gone with you."

She shook her head but leaned against him. "No place for civilians in Interview, and nothing you could've done anyway if I'd stretched it and brought you in as expert consultant. I had him cold and cut through his battalion of expensive lawyers like a fucking machete. I thought the PA was going to kiss me on the mouth."

He brought the hand he held to his lips. "And still you're sad."

She closed her eyes, comforted a little by the solidity of him beside her, by that whisper of Ireland in his voice, even by the scent so uniquely him. "Not sad, or… I don't know what the hell I am. I should be buzzed. I did the job; I slammed it shut—and I got to look them both in the face and let them know it."

She shoved up, paced to the window, away again, and realized it wasn't peace and comfort she wanted after all. Not quite yet. It was a place to let it go, let it out, spew the rage.

"He was pissed. Moriarity. Lying there with that hole in his chest his pal put into him with his freaking antique Italian foil."

"The one meant for you," Roarke reminded her.

"Yeah. And he's pissed, seriously pissed, Dudley missed and it wasn't me on a slab at the morgue."

"I expect he was," Roarke said coolly. "But that's not what's got you going."

She paused a minute, just looked at him. Stunning blue eyes in a stunning face, the mane of thick black hair, that poet's mouth set firm now because she'd made him think of her on that slab at the morgue.

"You know they never had a chance to take me. You were there."

"And still he drew blood, didn't he?" Roarke nodded at the healing wound on her arm.

She tapped it. "And this helped sew them up. Attempted murder of a police officer just trowels on the icing. They didn't make their next score. Now they have to end their competition with a tie, which oddly enough is what I think they always wanted. They just planned for the contest to go on a lot longer. And you know what the prize was at the end? Do you know what the purse for this goddamn tournament was?"

"I don't, no, but I see you got it out of Moriarity today."

"Yeah, I wound him up so tight he had to let it spring out. A dollar. A fucking dollar, Roarke—just one big joke between them. And it makes me sick."

It shocked, even appalled her a little, that her eyes stung, that she felt tears pressing hard. "It makes me sick," she repeated. "All those people dead, all those lives broken and shattered, and this makes me sick? I don't know why, I just don't know why it churns my stomach. I've seen worse. God, we've both seen worse."

"But rarely more futile." He stood, took her arms, gently rubbing. "No reason, no mad vendetta or fevered dream, no vengeance or greed or fury. Just a cruel game. Why shouldn't it make you sick? It does me as well."

"I contacted the next of kin," she began. "Even the ones we found from before they started this matchup in New York. That's why I'm late getting back. I thought I needed to, and thought if I closed it all the way, I'd feel better. I got gratitude. I got anger and tears, everything you expect. And every one of them asked me why. Why had these men killed their daughter, their husband, their mother?"

"And what did you tell them?"

"Sometimes there's no why, or not one we can understand." She squeezed her eyes tight. "I want to be pissed."

"You are, under it. And under that, you know you did good work. And you're alive, darling Eve." He drew her in to kiss her brow. "Which, to take this to their level, makes them losers."

"I guess it does. I guess that's going to have to be enough."

She took his face in her hands, smiled a little. "And there's the added bonus that they hate us both. Really hate us. That adds a boost."

"I can't think of anyone I'd rather be hated by, or anyone I'd rather be hated with."

Now the smile moved into her eyes. "Me either. If I keep that front and center, I could be in the mood to party. I guess we should go down and do whatever we're supposed to do before everybody gets here."

"Change first. You'll feel more in the party mode without your boots and weapon."

By the time she'd changed trousers for cotton pants, boots for skids, and made it downstairs, she heard voices in the foyer. She spotted her partner, Peabody, her short, dark ponytail bouncing, summery dress swirling. Peabody's cohab, e-detective and premier geek McNab, stood beside her in a skin tank crisscrossed with more colors than an atomic rainbow paired with baggy, hot pink knee shorts and gel flips.

He turned, the forest of silver rings on his left earlobe shimmering, and shot Eve a wide grin. "Hey, Dallas. We brought you something."

"My granny's homemade wine." Peabody held up the bottle. "I know you've got a wine cellar the size of California, but we thought you'd get a charge. It's good stuff."

"Let's go out and open it up. I'm ready for some good stuff."

Peabody kept eye contact, quirked her brows. "All okay?"

"The PA's probably still doing his happy dance. Case closed," she said, and left out the rest. No point in adding the details now that would leave her partner as troubled as she'd been.

"We'll have the first drink with a toast to the NYPSD's Homicide—and Electronic Detectives divisions," Roarke said with a wink for McNab.

The wide stone terrace held tables already loaded with food and shaded by umbrellas, and the gardens exploded with color and scent. The monster grill Roarke had conquered—mostly—looked formidable, and the wine was indeed good stuff.

Within thirty minutes, the scent of grilling meat mixed with the perfume of summer flowers. The terrace, the chairs around the tables, the gardens filled with people. It still amazed her she'd somehow collected so many.

Her cops—everyone who'd worked the Dudley-Moriarity case—along with Cher Reo, the ADA, newlyweds Dr. Louise DiMatto and retired licensed companion Charles Monroe stood, sat, lounged, or stuffed their faces.

Morris, the ME who'd inspired the impulse for her to arrange this shindig to help with his lingering grief over his murdered love, shared a brew with Father Lopez, who'd become his friend and counselor.

Sort of weird having a priest at a party—even one she liked and respected—but at least he wasn't wearing the getup.

Nadine Furst, bestselling author and ace reporter, chatted happily with Dr. Mira, department shrink, and Mira's adorable husband, Dennis.

It was good, she decided, to blow off steam this way, to gather together to do it, even if gathering together wasn't as natural for her as for some. It was good to watch Feeney kibitz Roarke's grill technique, and watch Trueheart show off his pretty, shy-eyed girlfriend.

Hell, she might just have another glass of Granny Peabody's wine and—

The thought winged away when she heard the bright laugh.

Mavis Freestone rushed out on silver sandals that laced past the hem of her flippy, thigh-baring lavender skirt. Her hair, perched in a crowning tail, matched the skirt. In her arms she carried baby Bella. Leonardo, beaming at his girls, followed.

"Dallas!"

"I thought you were in London," Eve said when she was enveloped in color and scent and joy.

"We couldn't miss a party! We'll go back tomorrow. Trina stopped off to talk to Summerset."

Eve felt her skin chill. "Trina…"

"Don't worry, she's here to party, not to give you a treatment. She did Bella's hair—isn't it mag?"

A half a zillion sunny curls surrounded the baby's happy face. Every single one bounced with tiny pink bows.

"Yeah, it's—"

"Oh, everybody who counts is here! I've got to give out squeezes. Here, hold Bellamisa a minute."

"I'll get us a drink." Leonardo patted Eve's head with his huge hand, then glided away in his calf-baring red crops.

"I—" As Eve's arms were immediately loaded with bouncing, gooing baby, the protest ended on a strangled gulp.

"Got some weight to you these days," Eve managed, then scanned the crowd for a sucker to pass the load to. Bella squealed, sending Eve's heart rate soaring, then grabbed a fistful of Eve's hair, tugged with surprising force.

And planted a wet, openmouthed kiss on Eve's cheek. "Slooch!" said Bella.

"What does that mean? Oh God."

"Smooch," Mavis called out, gesturing with a frothy pink drink. "She wants you to kiss her back."

"Man. Okay, fine." Gingerly, Eve pecked her lips at Bella's cheek.

Obviously pleased, Bella let out a laugh so like Mavis's, Eve grinned. "Okay, kid, let's go find someone else for you to slooch."

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