The In Death Collection 06-10 (3 page)

She was, he thought, courage in human form.

But when they closed the door on the last guest, she
shook her head. “Summerset’s right. I’m just not equipped for this Roarke’s wife stuff.”

“You are my wife.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m any good at it. I let you down. I should’ve—” She stopped talking because his mouth was on hers, and it was warm, possessive, and untied the knots in the back of her neck. Without realizing she’d moved, Eve wrapped her arms around his waist and just held on.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s better. This is my business.” He lifted her chin, skimming a finger in the slight dent centered in it. “My job. You have yours.”

“It was a big deal though. Some whatzit merger.”

“Scottoline merger—more of a buyout, really, and it should be finalized by the middle of next week. Even without your delightful presence at the dinner table. Still, you might have called. I worried.”

“I forgot. I can’t always remember. I’m not used to this.” She jammed her hands in her pockets and paced down the wide hall and back. “I’m not used to this. Every time I think I am, I’m not. Then I come walking in here with all the megarich, looking like a street junkie.”

“On the contrary, you look like a cop. I believe several of our guests were quite impressed with the glimpse of your weapon under your jacket, and the trace of blood on your jeans. It’s not yours, I take it.”

“No.” Suddenly she just couldn’t stand up any longer. She turned to the steps, climbed two and sat. Because it was Roarke, she allowed herself to cover her face with her hands.

He sat beside her, draped an arm over her shoulders. “It was bad.”

“Almost always you can say you’ve seen as bad, even worse. It’s most always true. I can’t say that this time.” Her stomach still clenched and rolled. “I’ve never seen worse.”

He knew what she lived with, had seen a great deal of it himself. “Do you want to tell me?”

“No, Christ no, I don’t want to think about it for a few hours. I don’t want to think about anything.”

“I can help you there.”

For the first time in hours she smiled. “I bet you can.”

“Let’s start this way.” He rose and plucked her off the step up into his arms.

“You don’t have to carry me. I’m okay.”

He flashed a grin at her as he started up. “Maybe it makes me feel manly.”

“In that case . . .” She wound her arms around his neck, rested her head on his shoulder. It felt good. Very good. “The least I can do after standing you up tonight is make you feel manly.”

“The very least,” he agreed.

The sky window above the bed was still dark when she woke. And she woke in a sweat. The images in the dream were muddled and blurred. All too glad to have escaped them, Eve didn’t try to clarify the dream.

Because she was alone in the big bed, she allowed herself one quick, hard shudder. “Lights,” she ordered. “On low.” Then sighed when the dark edged away. She gave herself a moment to settle before checking the time.

Five-fifteen
A
.
M
. Terrific, she thought, knowing there would be no return to sleep now. Not without Roarke there to help beat the nightmares back. She wondered if she’d ever stop being embarrassed that she had come to depend on him for such things. A year before she hadn’t even known he existed. Now he was as much a part of her life as her own hands. Her own heart.

She climbed out of bed, grabbing one of the silk robes Roarke was constantly buying her. Wrapping herself in it, she turned to the wall panel, engaged the search.

“Where is Roarke?”

Roarke is in the lower level pool area.

A swim, Eve thought, wasn’t a bad idea. A workout first, she decided, to smooth away the kinks and the dregs of a bad dream.

With the objective of avoiding Summerset, she took the elevator rather than the stairs. The man was everywhere, sliding out of shadows, always ready with a scowl or a sniff. A continuation of their confrontation the night before wasn’t the way she wanted to start her day.

Roarke’s gym was fully equipped, giving her all the options. She could spar with a droid, pump up with free weights, or just lay back and let machines do the work. She stripped out of the robe and tugged herself into a snug black unitard. She wanted a run, a long one, and after tying on thin air soles she programmed the video track.

The beach, she decided. It was the one place other than the city she was completely at home. All the rural landscapes and desert vistas, the off-planet sites the unit offered made her vaguely uncomfortable.

She started out at a light trot, the blue waves crashing beside her, the glint of the sun just peeking over the horizon. Gulls wheeled and screamed. She drew in the moist salt air of the tropics, and as her muscles began to warm and limber increased her pace.

She hit her stride at the first mile, and her mind emptied.

She’d been to this beach several times since she’d met Roarke—in reality and holographically. Before that the biggest body of water she’d seen had been the Hudson River.

Lives changed, she mused. And so did reality.

At mile four when her muscles were just beginning to sing, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Roarke, his hair still damp from his swim, moved into place beside her, matching his pace to hers.

“Running to or away?” he asked.

“Just running.”

“You’re up early, Lieutenant.”

“I’ve got a full day.”

He lifted a brow when she increased her pace. His wife had a healthy competitive streak, he mused, and easily
matched her stride. “I thought you were off.”

“I was.” She slowed, stopped, then bent at the waist to stretch out. “Now I’m not.” She lifted her head until her eyes met his. It wasn’t only her life now, she remembered, or her reality. It was theirs. “I guess you had plans.”

“Nothing that can’t be adjusted.” The weekend in Martinique he’d hoped to surprise her with could wait. “My calendar’s clear for the next forty-eight hours, if you want to bounce anything off me.”

She heaved out a breath. This was another change in her life, this sharing of her work. “Maybe. I want to take a swim.”

“I’ll join you.”

“I thought you just had one.”

“I can have two.” He skimmed a thumb over the dent in her chin. The exercise had brought color to her cheeks and a light sheen to her skin. “It’s not illegal.” He took her hand to lead her out of the gym and into the flower-scented air of the pool room.

Palms and flowing vines grew lushly, surrounding a lagoon-styled pool sided with smooth stones and tumbling waterfalls.

“I’ve got to get a suit.”

He only smiled and tugged the straps from her arms. “Why?” His graceful hands skimmed her breasts as he freed them and made her brows raise.

“What kind of water sport did you have in mind?”

“Whatever works.” He cupped her face in his hands, bent to kiss her. “I love you, Eve.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes and rested her brow against his. “It’s so weird.”

Naked, she turned and dove into the dark water. She stayed under, skimming along the bottom. Her lips curved when the water turned a pale blue. The man knew her moods before she did, she thought. She did twenty laps
before rolling lazily to her back. When she reached out, his fingers linked with hers.

“I’m pretty relaxed.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah, so relaxed I probably couldn’t fight off some pervert who wanted to take advantage of me.”

“Well then.” He snagged her waist, turning her until they were face to face.

“Well then.” She wrapped her legs around him and let him keep her afloat.

When their mouths met, even the whisper of tension fled. She felt loose and fluid and quietly needy. Sliding her fingers up, she combed them through his hair—thick, wet silk. His body was firm and cool against hers and fit in a way she’d nearly stopped questioning. She all but purred as his hands skimmed over her, just hinting of possession.

Then she was underwater, tangled with him in that pale blue world. When his mouth closed over her breast, she shivered with the thrill of sensation, from the shock of being unable to gasp in air. And his fingers were on her, in her, shooting her to a staggering climax that had her clawing toward the surface.

She gulped in air, disoriented, delirious, then felt it whoosh out of her lungs again when his clever mouth replaced his fingers.

The assault on her system was precisely what she’d wanted. Her helplessness. His greed. That he would know it, understand it, and give was a mystery she would never solve.

Her head dipped back to lay limply on the smooth side of the pool as she simply wallowed in the pleasure he offered her.

Slowly, slyly, his mouth roamed up, over her belly, her torso, her breasts, to linger at her throat where her pulse beat thick and fast.

“You’ve got amazing breath control,” she managed, then trembled as gradually, inch by inch, he slipped inside her. “Oh God.”

He watched her face, saw the heat flush her cheeks, the flickers of pleasure move over it. Her hair was slicked back, leaving it unframed. And that stubborn, often too serious mouth, trembled for him. Cupping her hips, he lifted her, moved in deep, deeper to make her moan.

He rubbed his lips over hers, nibbled at them while he began to move with an exquisite control that tortured them both. “Go over, Eve.”

He watched those shrewd cop’s eyes go blind and blurry, heard her breath catch then release on something like a sob. Even as his blood burned, he kept his movements achingly slow. Drawing it out, every instant, every inch until that sob became his name.

His own release was long and deep and perfect.

She managed to drag her hands out of the water and grip his shoulders. “Don’t let go of me yet. I’ll sink like a stone.”

He chuckled weakly, pressed his lips to the side of her throat where her pulse still danced. “Same goes. You should get up early more often.”

“We’d kill each other. Miracle we didn’t drown.”

He drew in the scent of her skin and water. “We may yet.”

“Do you think we can make it over to the steps?”

“If you’re not in a hurry.”

They inched their way along, staggered up the stone steps to the apron. “Coffee,” Eve said weakly, then stumbled off to fetch two thick terry robes.

When she came back, carrying one and bundled into the other, Roarke had already programmed the AutoChef for two cups, black. The sun was staining the curved glass at the end of the enclosure a pale gold.

“Hungry?”

She sipped the coffee, hummed as the rich caffeine kicked. “Starving. But I want a shower.”

“Upstairs then.”

Back in the master suite, Eve carried her coffee into the shower. When Roarke stepped into the criss-crossing sprays with her, she narrowed her eyes. “Lower the water temp and die,” she warned.

“Cold water opens the pores, gets the juices flowing.”

“You’ve already taken care of that.” She set the coffee on a ledge and soaped up in the steam.

She got out first, and as she stepped into the drying tube, shook her head as Roarke ordered the water to drop by ten degrees. Even the thought of it made her shiver.

She knew he was waiting for her to tell him about the case that had kept her out the night before and was taking her back on her day off. She appreciated that he waited for her to settle in the sitting area of the suite, a second cup of coffee in her hand and a plate loaded with a ham and cheese omelette waiting to be devoured.

“I really am sorry about not showing up for the deal last night.”

Roarke sampled his own buttermilk pancakes. “Am I going to have to apologize every time I’m called away on business that affects our personal plans?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and shook her head. “No. The thing is I was headed out the door—I hadn’t forgotten—and this call came in. Jammed transmission. We couldn’t track.”

“The NYPSD has pitiful equipment.”

“Not that pitiful,” she muttered. “This guy’s a real pro. You might have had a tough time with it.”

“Now, that’s insulting.”

She had to smirk. “Well, you might get a chance at him.
Since he tagged me personally, I wouldn’t put it past him to contact me here.”

Roarke set his fork aside, picked up his coffee, both gestures casual though his entire body had gone to alert. “Personally?”

“Yeah, he wanted me. Hit me with some religious mission crap first. Basically, he’s doing the Lord’s work and the Big Guy wants to play with riddles.” She ran the transmission through for him, watching his eyes narrow, sharpen. Roarke was quick, she reflected as she saw his mouth go grim.

“You checked the Luxury Towers.”

“That’s right, penthouse floor. He’d left part of the victim in the living area. The rest of him was in the bedroom.”

She pushed her plate aside and rose, raking a hand through her hair as she paced. “It was as bad as I’ve ever seen, Roarke, vicious. Because it was calculated to be ugly, not because it was uncontrolled. Most of the work was precise, like surgery. Prelim from the ME indicates the victim was kept alive and aware during most of the mutilation. He’d been pumped up with illegals—enough to keep him conscious without taking the edge off the pain. And believe me, the pain must have been unspeakable. He’d been disemboweled.”

“Christ Jesus.” Roarke blew out a breath. “An ancient punishment for political or religious crimes. A slow and hideous death.”

“And a goddamn messy one,” she put in. “His feet had been severed—one hand gone at the wrist. He was still alive when his right eye was cut out. That was the only piece of him we didn’t recover at the scene.”

“Lovely.” Though he considered his stomach a strong one, Roarke lost his taste for breakfast. Rising, he went to the closet. “An eye for an eye.”

“That’s a revenge thing, right? From some play.”

“The Bible, darling. The lord of all plays.” He chose casual pleated trousers from the revolving rack.

“Back to God again. Okay, the game’s revenge. Maybe it’s religious, maybe it’s just personal. We may zero in on motive when we finish running the victim. I’ve got a media blackout at least until I contact his family.”

Roarke hitched up the trousers, reached for a simple white linen shirt. “Children?”

“Yeah, three.”

“You have a miserable job, Lieutenant.”

“That’s why I love it.” But she rubbed her hands over her face. “His wife and kids are in Ireland, we think. I need to track them down today.”

“In Ireland?”

“Hmm. Yeah, seems the victim was one of your former countrymen. I don’t suppose you knew a Thomas X. Brennen, did you?” Her half smile faded when she saw Roarke’s eyes go dark and flat. “You did know him. I never figured it.”

“Early forties?” Roarke asked without inflection. “About five-ten, sandy hair?”

“Sounds like. He was into communications and entertainment.”

“Tommy Brennen.” With the shirt still in his hand, Roarke sat on the arm of a chair. “Son of a bitch.”

“I’m sorry. It didn’t occur to me that he was a friend.”

“He wasn’t.” Roarke shook his head to clear away the memories. “At least not in more than a decade. I knew him in Dublin. He was running computer scams while I was grifting. We crossed paths a few times, did a little business, drank a few pints. About twelve years ago, Tommy hooked up with a young woman of good family. Lace curtain Irish. He fell hard and decided to go straight. All the way straight,” Roarke added with a crooked grin. “And he severed ties with the less . . . desirable elements of his youth.
I knew he had a base here in New York, but we stayed out of each other’s way. I believe his wife knows nothing of his past endeavors.”