New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts serves up a sizzling novel of explosive suspense and sensual romance as the search for a murderer ignites passion between a beautiful psychiatrist and the sexy, brooding detective determined to crack the case. In the unbearable heat of another sultry Washington, D.C., summer, a serial killer is on the loose. Dr. Tess Court, one of the capital's most successful psychiatrists, wants nothing to do with the case-until the police convince her to lend a hand to the lead investigator, legendary ladies' man Detective Ben Paris. Scarred by his family's history, Ben has even less use for shrinks than Tess has for him-but the forces of animal magnetism and a shared desire to catch the demented criminal known as "The Priest" inexorably erode the walls they've built. They're opposites in so many ways, yet that seems only to fan the flames of attraction for which danger has supplied the spark. To stop a killer who thinks he can absolve sins through murder, Ben will need every ounce of psychological insight Tess can offer him. And she'll need the help of a lawman willing to stare fear in the face if she's going to avoid becoming the madman's next victim.
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October 31, 1987
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Excerpt from Sacred Sins by Nora Roberts
August fifteenth. It was a day following other days of sweat and hazy skies. There were no puffy white clouds or balmy breezes, only a wall of humidity nearly thick enough to swim in. Reports on the six and eleven o’clock news glumly promised more to come. In the long, lazy last days of summer, the heat wave moving into its second, pitiless week was the biggest story in Washington, D.C. The Senate was adjourned until September, so Capitol Hill moved sluggishly. Relaxing before a much touted European trip, the President cooled off at Camp David. Without the day-to-day shuffle of politics, Washington was a city of tourists and street vendors. Across from the Smithsonian, a mime performed for a sticky crowd that had stopped more to catch its collective breath than in appreciation of art. Pretty summer dresses wilted, and children whined for ice cream. The young and the old flocked to Rock Creek Park, using the shade and water as a defense against the heat. Soft drinks and lemonade were consumed by the gallon, beer and wine downed in the same quantity, but less conspicuously. Bottles had a way of disappearing when park police cruised by. During picnics and cookouts people mopped sweat, charred hot dogs, and watched babies in diapers toddle on the grass. Mothers shouted at children to stay away from the water, not to run near the road, to put down a stick or a stone. The music from portable radios was, as usual, loud and defiant; hot tracks, the deejays called them, and reported temperatures in the high nineties. Small groups of students drew together, some sitting on the rocks above the creek to discuss the fate of the world, others sprawled on the grass, more interested in the fate of their tans. Those who could spare the time and the gas had fled to the beach or the mountains. A few college students found the energy to throw Frisbees, the men stripping down to shorts to show off torsos uniformly bronzed. A pretty young artist sat under a tree and sketched idly. After several attempts to draw her attention to the biceps he’d been working on for six months, one of the players took a more obvious route. The Frisbee landed on her pad with a plop. When she looked up in annoyance, he jogged over. His grin was apologetic, and calculated, he hoped, to dazzle. “Sorry. Got away from me.” After pushing a fall of dark hair over her shoulder, the artist handed the Frisbee back to him. “It’s all right.” She went back to her sketching without sparing him a glance. Youth is nothing if not tenacious. Hunkering down beside her, he studied her drawing. What he knew about art wouldn’t have filled a shot glass, but a pitch was a pitch. “Hey, that’s really good. Where’re you studying?” Recognizing the ploy, she started to brush him off, then looked up long enough to catch his smile. Maybe he was obvious, but he was cute. “Georgetown.” “No kidding? Me too. Pre-law.” Impatient, his partner called across the grass. “Rod! We going for a brew or not?” “You come here often?” Rod asked, ignoring his friend. The artist had the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen. “Now and again.” “Why don’t we—” “Rod, come on. Let’s get that beer.” Rod looked at his sweaty, slightly overweight friend, then back into the cool brown eyes of the artist. No contest. “I’ll catch you later, Pete,” he called out, then let the Frisbee go in a high, negligent arch. “Finished playing?” the artist asked, watching the flight of the Frisbee. He grinned, then touched the ends of her hair. “Depends.” <