The In Death Collection 06-10 (156 page)

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I know a setup when I see one. What do you want?”

Her smile wavered. It took a great deal of effort to keep it from turning into a snarl. Sticking to the steps she’d carefully outlined, she handed him his wine, gently tapped her glass to his. “What, I can’t put together a nice dinner without ulterior motives?”

He thought about it. “No.”

She set the bottle on the table with an ominous crack. “Look, it’s dinner, okay? You don’t want to eat, fine.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to eat.” She was wearing perfume, he noted. And lip dye. She’d fussed with her eyes. He reached out to toy with the tear-shaped diamond pendant he’d given her. “What are you up to, Eve?”

That tore it. “Nothing. Forget it. I don’t know what came over me. Obviously, I lost my mind for a minute. No, for two sweaty, stupid hours. That’s what it took to put this fiasco together. I’m going to work.”

He caught her arm before she could march past him and wasn’t the least surprised to see the quick flare of violence in her eyes. But he was surprised to see hurt.

“I don’t think so.”

“You want to keep that hand, pal, you’ll move it.”

“Ah, there she is. For a moment, I thought you’d been replaced by a droid. It gave me a bad start.”

“I bet you think that’s funny.”

“I think I’ve hurt your feelings, and I’m sorry.” He brushed his lips over her forehead even as he flipped desperately through his mental calendar. “Have I forgotten an occasion?”

“No. No.” She stepped back. “No,” she said again, and felt ridiculous. “I just wanted to do something for you. To give you something. And you can just stop looking at me like I’ve fried a few circuits. You think you’re the only one who can put this kind of deal together? Well, you’re right. You are. I nearly stunned myself with my own weapon a half a dozen times tonight just to put myself out of my misery. Oh fuck it.”

She picked up her glass again, stalked to the wide, curved window.

Roarke winced and began the delicate task of extracting his feet from his mouth. “It’s lovely, Eve. And so are you.”

“Oh, don’t start with me.”

“Eve—”

“Just because I don’t do this kind of thing, because I don’t take the time—hell because I don’t think of it, doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I do.” She spun around, and he wouldn’t have described the look on her face as particularly loving. She’d gone back to fury. “You’re the one who’s always doing the things, saying the words. Giving . . .” She fumbled a moment. “Just giving. I wanted to give something back.”

She was beautiful. Hurt and angry, passionate and pissed, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. “You steal my breath,” he murmured.

“I’ve got this whole love of a lifetime thing in my head. Murder, betrayal, rage.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.” She paused, took a deep breath. “The last couple of days people have said things that keep sticking in my brain. Would you jump in front of a maxibus for me?”

“Absolutely. They don’t go very fast.”

She laughed, relieving him considerably. “That’s what I said. Oh hell, I messed this up. I knew I would.”

“No, I took care of that.” He moved to her, took her hand. “Do you love me enough to give me another chance at this?”

“Maybe.”

“Darling Eve.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “What you’ve done here means a great deal to me. You, you mean everything to me.”

“See how you do that. Slick as spit.”

He trailed his fingers over the curve of her shoulder. “I like the dress.”

It was a good thing, she thought, he hadn’t seen her frozen panic when she’d opened her closet. “I thought it would work.”

“It does. Very well.” He picked up her glass, then his own. “Let’s try this again. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I’d say it was nothing, but that would be a big, fat lie. Just tell me this one thing. Why do you have a million plates?”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”

“Not by much.”

“Well, you never know who might be coming to dinner, do you?”

“Including the entire population of New Zealand.” She sipped champagne. “Now, I’m behind schedule.”

“Have we a schedule?”

“Yeah. You know, drinks, dinner, conversation. Blah blah. It all ends up with me getting you drunk and seducing you.”

“I like the end goal. Since I came close to spoiling things, the least I can do now is cooperate.” He started to pick up the bottle, but she laid a hand on his arm.

“Dance with me.” She slid her hands up his chest, linked them behind his neck. “Close. And slow.”

His arms came around her. His body swayed with hers. And his blood leapt with love, with lust, as her mouth brushed silkily over his.

“I love the taste of you.” Her voice was husky now, soft. “It always makes me want more.”

“Have more.”

But when he attempted to deepen the kiss, she turned her head, skimmed those heated lips along his jaw. “Slow,” she said again. “The way I’m going to make love with you.” She nibbled her way to his ear. “So that it’s almost torture.”

She threaded her fingers through his hair, all that gorgeous black, fisted them, drew his head back until their eyes met. His were deep and blue and already hot.

“I want you to say my name when I take you.” She teased his mouth with hers again, retreated, felt his body tighten like a bow against hers. “Say it so that I know nothing exists for you but me at that moment. Nothing
exists for me but you. You’re all there is.”

Her mouth took his now, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues. She felt his moan start low, start deep, then merge with her own. She let herself tremble, let herself ache, then pulled back, pulled away a breath before surrender.

“Eve.”

She heard the strain in his voice, enjoyed it as she picked up their glasses again. “Thirsty?”

“No.” He started to reach for her, but she shifted away, thrust out his glass. “I am. Have a drink. I want to go to your head.”

“You do. Let me have you.”

“I will. After I’ve had you.” She picked up a small remote, pressed a series of buttons. On the side wall, panels opened. The bed that had been tucked behind them was heaped with pillows. “That’s where I want you. Eventually.”

She took a long sip of champagne, watching him over the rim. “You’re not drinking.”

“You’re killing me.”

Delighted, she laughed, and the sound was like smoke. “It’s going to get worse.”

Now he did drink, then set his glass aside. “Praise God.”

She walked back to him, slipped his jacket from his shoulders. “I love your body,” she murmured, slowly working open the buttons of his shirt. “I’m going to spend a lot of time enjoying it tonight.”

It was a powerful rush, she thought, to make a strong man quiver. She felt that dance of muscles as she traced a fingertip down his chest to the hook of his trousers.

Instead of releasing them, she smiled. “You’d better sit down.”

There was a throbbing in his blood, primal, edging toward violent. It took a great deal of effort not to yield to it, to drag her to the floor and answer that urgent beat.

“No, not here,” she said, and lifting his hand, nipped
lightly at his knuckles. “I don’t think you’ll be able to manage to cross the room when I’m done.”

It wasn’t the wine making his head swim. She guided him across the room, a kind of lazy, circling dance with her in the lead. When she eased him down to sit on the side of the bed, she knelt at his feet, brushed her hands slowly, intimately down his legs. And took off his shoes.

She rose. “I’ll just go get the wine.”

“I’m not interested in wine.”

She walked away, tossed a glance over her shoulder. “You will be. When I start licking it off you.”

She topped off the glasses, brought them back to set them on the small, carved table by the bed. Then, watching him, her eyes gold and full of the light from the candles, she began to peel the dress down her body.

He wondered that his system didn’t simply implode.

“Christ. Christ Jesus.”

The Irish had leaped back into his voice, as she knew it did when he was distracted, angry, aroused. The simple sign made her glad she’d taken the time and trouble to, well, dress for the evening.

The siren-red lingerie was an erotic contrast against her skin. The silk and lace body skimmer rode low over her breasts so they all but spilled out of the top. Then it cinched in, sheer and seductive, slicked over her hips. Her hose was sheer and shimmering, and braked to a teasing halt at mid-thigh.

She stepped out of the dress, kicked it aside with the toe of one spiked heel.

“I thought we’d have dinner first.”

He managed to lift his gaze to her face even as his mouth fell open.

“But . . . I guess it’ll keep.” She stepped forward, planted herself between his legs. “I want you to touch me.”

His hands burned to take, but he skimmed them lightly over her, following angle, curve. “I’m lost in you already.”

“Stay there.” She bent down, took his mouth.

She knew he held back, let her hold the reins. And because she knew it, she gave him everything she had.

The candlelight glimmered, warming the scent of the roses as she slid onto the bed with him. As she took her hands, her mouth over him. Erotic and tender, passionate and loving. She wanted to show him all, everything.

And as she did, he gave back. Long drugging kisses that weighed the limbs, lazy, lingering caresses that thrilled the blood.

The bed, with its thick mattress of gel, undulated beneath them.

She rolled, leaned away, so he contented himself with the flavor just above the silk hose on the back of her thigh.

Then she straddled him, drank from the glass of champagne. Upending it, she began to drink him.

His vision blurred, the breath clogging in his lungs to burning. She tormented him. Pleasured him. Her agile body slid and slithered over his while her mouth drove him to the verge of madness.

His control snapped, steel rending steel. The sound of silk tearing inflamed him as he ripped at it. And with a sound of greed, he filled his hands, his mouth with her.

She came, a wild, shock slap to her system. Her head fell back as she gulped for air. Her body shuddered as he feasted on it.

He said something she couldn’t understand, in the language of his homeland that so rarely passed his lips. Then his face was pressed against her, his breath hot on her skin.

“I need you. Eve. I need you.”

“I know.” Tenderness washed into her, balm over a burn. She cupped his face, lifted it. Her lips met his, soft as a whisper. “Don’t ever stop.”

There were tears in her eyes. The shifting light caught the glint of them. He drew her closer, kissed them away. “Eve—”

“No, let me say it first. This time let me remember to say it first. I love you. I always will. Be with me,” she murmured as she took him inside her. “Oh. Stay with me.”

She wrapped herself around him, rose to him, matching stroke to stroke, beat to beat. Then his hands clasped hers, locked tight. Their eyes held in a bond just as fierce.

When she saw his, that wild blue, go blind, when she heard him say her name, her lips curved into a smile. And she surrendered.

She was sprawled across the bed, facedown, in a position Roarke knew she assumed when her system had, finally, shut down. He stretched out beside her, sipping what champagne was left and trailing a fingertip absently up and down her spine.

“I’ll give you an hour and a half to stop that.”

“Ah, she lives.”

She stirred herself enough to turn her head and look at him. “You look pretty smug.”

“As it happens, darling Eve, I’m feeling pretty smug.”

“It was all my idea.”

“And a fine one it was, too. Would I be risking my skin if I asked just what inspired you?”

“Well . . .” She curved her back into the brush of his finger. “You bought me a candy bar.”

“Remind me to arrange for a truckload tomorrow.”

“A truckload would kill us.” She pushed to her knees, shoved back her hair. She looked soft and used and content.

“I’ll risk it.”

With a laugh, she leaned over to rest her forehead to his. “One last mushy thing before it becomes a habit.
You make me happy. I’m starting to get used to it.”

“That’s a very nice way to end the mush.”

“I guess we should eat.”

“I’d hate to think of you slaving over a hot stove and not have the results appreciated.”

Her eyes slitted. “Is that a dig?”

“No, indeed. What’s for dinner?”

“Lots of stuff with weird, fancy names.”

“Yum.”

“I figured if you didn’t like it, it wouldn’t be programmed.” She scooted off the bed, stood naked, glancing around. “I don’t guess there’s a robe in here.”

“Afraid not.” He dug through the tangle of sheets and pillows and came up with the now tattered body skimmer. “You could wear what’s left of this.”

“Never mind.” She picked up her discarded dress, shimmied into it.

“Well now, that stirs the appetite considerably.”

“Even you couldn’t go another round after that last one.” When he grinned, she thought it wise to move out of reach.

She couldn’t pronounce half the food she put in her mouth, but it was damn tasty. “What is this called again?”

“Fruit de le mer a la parisienne.”

“I guess if they called it a bunch of fish in a fancy sauce, it wouldn’t have the same ring.”

“A rose by any other name.” He refilled her water glass. “Lieutenant?”

“Huh?”

“You’re trying not to think about your day. Why don’t you just tell me about it instead?”

She stabbed another scallop. “I’ve got a lead on—” She cut herself off, sucked it in. “No, you tell me about your day.”

“My day?” he asked in surprise.

“Yeah, what did you do today, how’d it go, that sort of thing.”

“You’re in a mood,” he murmured, then shrugged. “I dealt with some financial reorganization.”

“What does that mean?”

“I bought some stock on its way down, sold some that I believe had topped off, studied the daily analysis of several companies and adjusted accordingly.”

“I guess that kept you busy.”

“Enough, until about noon when I went into the office.” He wondered how long it would take until her eyes glazed over. “I had a holo-conference regarding the Olympus Resort. Cost overruns remain under the acceptable five percent. However, on a point-by-point project analysis, I find indications of a downturn in resource productivity that warrants closer study and a correction.”

Ninety seconds, he calculated, watching her eyes. He’d figured she’d drop off at sixty. “Then, I bought you a candy bar.”

“I liked that part.”

He broke off a chunk of his roll, buttered it. “Eve, did you marry me for my money?”

“You bet your ass. And you’d better hold on to it, or I’m history.”

“It’s very sweet of you to say so.”

That made her grin. “I guess we’re finished talking about your day.”

“I thought we were. What’s your lead?”

“Love. At least that’s where all the arrows are pointing right now.” She filled him in while she polished off her meal.

“Kenneth Stiles attacked Draco and beat him badly enough for medical intervention.” Roarke cocked his head. “Interesting, isn’t it, when you compare the two men. Draco was taller, considerably heftier, and certainly, on the surface, a great deal tougher. No indication that Stiles was injured?”

“None. I thought about that, too. It comes down to
the pussy and the pissed. Draco being the pussy, Stiles the pissed.”

“And being the pissed cost Stiles several million dollars.”

“And he didn’t even end up with the girl.”

“Anja.”

“Peabody found a handful of Carvells in the city. Wrong age span, so we’re widening the scan. My gut tells me she has some of the answers.”

“Cherchez la femme.”

“What?”

“Find the woman,” he translated.

She lifted her glass in a quick toast. “You can count on it.”

“Anja.” He said the name softly, a bare whisper of sound. And heard the gasp of surprise and recognition that followed it. “Don’t say anything. Please. Just listen. I have to speak with you. It’s important. Not over the ’link. Will you meet me?”

“This is about Richard.”

“It’s about everything.”

It took time. He was certain he was being watched and feared his own shadow. Stiles sat at the mirror in his dressing area and skillfully, painstakingly altered his appearance. He changed the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, his jaw, the color of his skin. He covered his hair with a wig, a thick mane of deep brown. He supposed it was vanity that prevented him from using the more ordinary gray one.

He couldn’t bear to look old in her eyes.

He added a slim mustache, a slender brush of beard in the center of his chin.

All of this came naturally, despite the anxiety. He had donned a hundred characters in his life, sliding into them as smoothly as a man slips into favorite slippers after a long day.

He added girth to his small frame—shoulders, chest, then covered the padding with a simple dark suit. The lifts in his shoes would give him another inch of height.

He took his time, studying the results in the long triple mirror, searching for any sign of Kenneth Stiles. For the first time in over an hour he allowed himself a small smile.

He could walk right up to Lieutenant Eve Dallas and kiss her on the mouth. He’d be damned if she’d recognize him.

Empowered, as he always was by a new role, Stiles swirled on a cape and went out to meet the woman he’d loved all his life.

She kept him waiting. She always had. He’d chosen a small nostalgia club that had fallen out of fashion. But the music was low and bluesy, the patrons minded their own, and the drinks came quickly.

He sipped at gin and paged through the battered volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It was their signal.

She had given him the book all those years ago. He had taken it for a token of love instead of the friendship she’d intended. Even when he’d realized his mistake, he’d treasured it. As much as he’d treasured her.

He’d lied to the police, of course. He’d never broken contact with her, had known where she was, what she was doing. He had simply assumed another role with her, that of confidant and friend.

And after a time, living the part for so many years, he grew comfortable with it.

Yet, when she slid into the booth across from him, held out a hand for his, his heart leapt.

She’d changed her hair. It was a glorious tangle of smoky red. Her skin was a pale, pale gold. He knew it was soft to the touch. Her eyes were deep, tawny, and concerned. But she smiled at him, a hesitant curve of a lush mouth.

“So, you still read it?” Her voice was soft and lightly French.

“Yes, often. Anja.” His fingers flexed on hers, then deliberately relaxed. “Let me order you a drink.”

She sat back, watching him, waiting, as he signaled a waiter and ordered her a glass of sauvignon blanc.

“You never forget.”

“Why would I?”

“Oh, Kenneth.” She closed her eyes a moment. “I wish things had been different. Could have been.”

“Don’t.” He spoke more sharply than he’d intended. It could still sting. “We’re beyond regrets.”

“I don’t think we ever get beyond them.” She let out a small sigh. “I’ve spent more than half my life regretting Richard.”

He said nothing until her drink was served and she’d taken the first sip. “The police think I killed him.”

Her eyes went wide, and wine sloshed toward the rim of her glass as her hand jerked. “But no! No, that’s impossible. Ridiculous.”

“They know what happened twenty-four years ago.”

“What do you mean?” Her hand darted out for his, squeezed like a vise. “What do they know?”

“Steady now. They know about the assault, my arrest, the suit.”

“But how is that possible? It was so long ago, and all the details were put away.”

“Eve Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas,” he said with some bitterness as he lifted his own drink. “She’s relentless. She managed to break the seal. They took me in, put me in a room, hammered at me.”

“Oh, Kenneth. Kenneth,
mon cher,
I’m so sorry. It must have been hideous.”

“They think I’ve harbored a grudge against Richard all this time.” He laughed a little, drank. “I suppose they’re right.”

“But you didn’t kill him.”

“No, but they’ll continue to dig into the past. You
need to be prepared. I had to tell them why I attacked Richard. I had to give them your name.” When the blood drained from her face, he leaned over, clasped both of her hands. “Anja,” he said deliberately, “I told them I’d lost track of you, that we’ve had no contact in all these years. That I didn’t know how to find you. I told them Richard had seduced you, then when he was certain you were in love with him, he cast you off. I told them about the attempt to take your own life. That’s all I told them.”

She made a small sound of despair and lowered her head. “It still shames me.”

“You were young, brokenhearted. You survived. Anja, I’m sorry. I panicked. But the fact is, I had to give them something. I thought it would be enough, but I realize now, she won’t stop. Dallas will keep searching, keep digging until she finds you. Finds the rest.”

She steadied, nodded. “Anja Carvell has disappeared before. I could make it impossible for her to find me. But that won’t do. I’ll go to see her.”

“You can’t. For God’s sake.”

“I can. I must. Would you still protect me?” she said quietly. “Kenneth, I don’t deserve you. I never did. I’ll speak with her, explain how it was, how you are,” she added.

“I don’t want you involved.”

“My dearest, you can’t stop what Richard started a lifetime ago. You’re my friend, and I intend to protect what’s mine. Whatever the risk,” she added, and her eyes hardened. “Whatever the consequences.”

“There has to be more.”

Roarke ran his hand over Eve’s naked ass. “Well. If you insist.”

She lifted her head. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”

“Oh. Pity.”

He’d managed to peel the red dress off her again, and then it had been a simple matter of one thing leading to another. Now she was sprawled over him, all warm and loose.

But apparently, she didn’t intend to stay that way.

“They all hated him.” She scooted up to straddle him and gave Roarke a very pleasant view of slender torso and firm breasts. “Or at least actively disliked him. Maybe feared him,” she considered. “Nobody in that cast is particularly sorry to see him dead. Several of the actors had worked with each other before. Had histories, links, connections. To Draco, to each other. Maybe it was more than one of them.”

“Murder on the Orient Express.”

“What’s that? An Asian transpo system?”

“No, darling, it’s yet another play by Dame Christie. She seems to be popping up. A man is murdered in his bed, in the sleeping car of a train. Stabbed. Repeatedly. Among the passengers is a very clever detective, not nearly as attractive as my cop,” he added.

“What does a make-believe dead guy on a train have to do with my case?”

“Just enhancing your theory. In this fictional murder, there were a number of varied and seemingly unconnected passengers. However, our dogged detective refused to take such matters at face value, poked around, and discovered links, connections, histories. Disguises and deceptions,” he added. “When he did, he discovered they all had motives for murder.”

“Interesting. Who did it?”

“All of them.” When her eyes narrowed, he sat up, wrapped his arms around her. “Each of them took a turn with the knife, plunging it into his unconscious body in return for the wrong he’d done to them.”

“Pretty gruesome. And pretty cagey. No one could betray anyone else without betraying themselves. They back up each other’s alibis. Play the role,” she murmured.