The In Death Collection 06-10 (45 page)

Undone, she leaned against him, her face buried in his hair. “Nothing’s the same for me since you.”

He held her a moment, for the simple pleasure of it. Then, reaching down, he lifted the robe and draped the soft pelt over her shoulders. “For either of us.”

He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

And her arms reached out for him.

She knew what it would be like. Overwhelming, unsettling. Glorious. She’d come to crave each separate sensation he could bring her, to crave the feel of him against her the way she did air or water.

Without thinking of it, and unable to survive without it.

There was nothing she couldn’t give, or take, when their bodies came together. Sunk deep in the feather bed she met
his mouth eagerly, reveling in the slow burn of her blood. Sighing, she tugged at his shirt, helping him shrug it aside so flesh could meet flesh.

The long and lovely slide of it. A slow roll, a low moan. The silk of the petals, the satin of the spread, the ripple of muscle under her hands—all tangled together in an exotic mix of textures.

The quick, bounding leap of the heart. A delicious shiver, a soft sigh. The flicker of candlelight, the spill of the moon, the shifting shimmer from the fire melded into one sumptuous glow.

She tasted and was tasted. She touched and was touched. Aroused and was aroused. And trembled her way up the long curve of a peak as smooth as polished silver.

He felt her rise up, shudder, then slide lazily down again. Their limbs tangled as they rolled over the bed, to touch again, to adjust the fit of bodies. He could see the lights flicker over her face, her hair, in her eyes, the rich brandy of them. Eyes he could watch go glassy as he nudged her, inch by inch, toward that peak again.

Her hands, strong, capable, and beautifully familiar, moved over him, a grip, a caress. Quiet sounds of pleasure hummed in her throat, sighed into his mouth, whispered over his skin.

His breath began to quicken, and need became a thunder in the blood. Warmth turned to heat and heat to a dangerous flash.

Then she was rising over him, her body slim and silvered in the shift of light and shadow. Her moan was long, a throaty sound of greed as she lowered to him, enclosed him, took him in. When his fingers dug into her hips, she arched back into a gleaming curve, rocking, rocking, with her eyes golden brown slits, her breath rushing between parted lips.

She tightened around him when the orgasm slashed through her, then curled into him when he reared up, when his mouth fixed hungrily on her breast.

Lost now, captured, he pushed her back so both her mind
and body went spinning. And he drove into her, one wild animal thrust after another, with a sudden pounding greed that ripped her past control. Her fingers wrapped around the thin, curving tubes of the headboard, gripping hard as if to anchor herself, a scream of mindless pleasure strangling in her throat as he pushed her knees back to go deeper.

When her body erupted beneath him, his mouth swooped down to hers. And he let himself go.

She was covered with rose petals and nothing else. Those slim, disciplined muscles were as lax as the melted candlewax pooled fragrantly beneath the white tapers.

As her breathing slowed to normal, Roarke nibbled at her shoulder, then he rose to get the robe and draped it over her.

Her response was a grunt.

Both amused and pleased that that was the best she could do, he moved to the far corner of the room and ordered the jet tub to fill at one hundred and one degrees. He popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, set it back in its bucket of ice, then snatched his limp wife off the bed.

“I wasn’t asleep.” She said it quickly and with the slurred tone that told him that’s just what she’d been.

“You’ll blame me in the morning if I let you sleep and you don’t do your probability scan.” With this, he dumped her in the hot, frothing water.

She yelped once, then moaned in sheer, sensual delight. “Oh God. I want to live here, right here in this tub, for about a week.”

“Arrange for some time off and we’ll go to the Alps for real and you can soak in a tub until you turn into one big pink wrinkle.”

It was exactly what he wanted—to take her away, to see that she was completely healed and recovered. And he imagined he had as much chance of doing so as he had of convincing her to kiss Summerset on the mouth.

The image of that even made him grin.

“Joke?” she asked lazily.

“Oh, it would be a delightful one.” He handed her a flute and, taking his own, climbed in to join her.

“I have to get to work.”

“I know.” He let out a long breath. “Ten minutes.”

The combination of hot water and icy champagne was just too good to refuse. “You know, before you, my breaks used to consist of a cup of bad coffee and a . . . a cup of bad coffee,” she decided.

“I know, and they still do entirely too often. This,” he said and sank a little deeper, “is a much superior way to recharge.”

“Hard to argue.” She lifted her leg, examined her toes for no particular reason. “I don’t think he’s going to give me much time, Roarke. He’s working on a deadline.”

“How much do you have?”

“Not enough. Not nearly enough.”

“You’ll get more. I’ve never known a better cop. And I’ve known more than my share.”

She frowned into her wine. “It’s not out of rage, not yet. It’s not for profit. It’s not, that I can find, for revenge. He’d be easier to track if I had a motive.”

“Love. True love.”

She cursed softly. “My true love. But you can’t have twelve true loves.”

“You’re being rational. You’re thinking a man can’t love more than one women with equal degrees of fervor. But he can.”

“Sure, if his heart is in his dick.”

With a laugh, Roarke opened one eye. “Darling Eve, it’s often impossible to separate the two. For some,” he added, mistrusting the quick glint in her eye, “physical attraction most usually proceeds the finer emotions. What you may not be considering is that he might very well believe each of them the love of his life. And if they didn’t agree, the only way he can convince them is to take their lives.”

“I have considered it. But it isn’t enough to give me a full picture. He loves what he can’t have, and what he can’t have
he destroys.” She jerked her shoulder. “I hate all the goddamn symbolism. It muddles things up.”

“You have to give him points for theatrical flare.”

“Yeah, and I’m counting on that to be what trips him up. When it does, I’m tossing jolly old St. Nick in a cage. Time’s up,” she announced and rose out of the water.

She’d just flicked a towel from a heated bar when she heard the muffled beep on her communicator. “Shit.” Dripping, she dashed across the room to snatch up her trousers and pull it from the pocket.

“Block video,” she muttered. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. DAS at 432 Houston. Apartment 6E. Report to scene immediately as primary.”

“Dispatch.” She dragged a hand through her damp hair. “Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Officer Delia as adjutant.”

“Affirmative. Dispatch out.”

“DAS?” Roarke picked up the robe to drape it over her again.

“Dead at scene.” She heaved the towel aside and, bending, tugged on the trousers. “Damn it, goddamn it, that’s Donnie Ray’s apartment. I just interviewed him today.”

Donnie Ray had loved his mother. That was the first thing Eve thought of as she looked at him.

He was on the bed, draped in green garland that sparkled with gold flecks. His buttery hair had been carefully styled to flow against the pillow. His eyes were shut so that lashes, lengthened and dyed a deep, antique gold lay against his cheeks. His lips matched the tone perfectly. Around his right wrist, just over the raw and broken skin, was a thick bracelet with three pretty birds etched into hammered gold.

“Three calling birds,” Peabody said from behind her. “Shit, Dallas.”

“He changed sexes, but he’s keeping to pattern.” Eve’s voice was flat as she shifted aside so that the body would be in full view for the record. “There’s bound to be a tattoo on
him, and probable signs of sexual abuse. Ligature marks hands and feet, as with previous victims. We need any security discs from the hallway and the outer building.”

“He was a nice guy,” Peabody murmured.

“Now he’s a dead guy. Let’s do the job.”

Peabody stiffened, the slightest of movements that had her shoulders going straight as a ruler. “Yes, sir.”

They found the tattoo on his left buttock. If that and the clear signs of sodomy affected her, Eve didn’t let it show. She did the preliminary, had the scene secured, ordered the initial door-to-doors, and had the body bagged for transport.

“We’ll check his ’link,” she told Peabody. “Get his date book, any data you can find on Personally Yours. I want the sweepers in here tonight.”

She moved down the short hall to the bathroom, pushed the door open. Walls, floor, and fixtures sparkled like the sun. “We can assume our man cleaned this. Donnie Ray wasn’t too concerned about cleanliness being next to godliness.”

“He didn’t deserve to die this way.”

“Nobody deserves to die this way.” Eve stepped back, turned. “You liked him. So did I. Now put it away, because it doesn’t do a damn thing for him now. He’s gone, and we have to use what we find here to help us get to number four before we lose another.”

“I know that. But I can’t help feeling. Jesus, Dallas, we were in here joking with him a few hours ago. I can’t help feeling,” she repeated in a furious whisper. “I’m not like you.”

“You think he gives a damn what you feel now? He wants justice not grief, not even pity.” She marched into the living area, kicking away scattered cups and shoes to vent a little of her frustration.

“Do you think he cares that I’m pissed off?” She whirled back, eyes blazing. “Being pissed off doesn’t do anything for him, and it clouds my judgment. What am I missing? What
the hell am I missing? He leaves it all here, in front of my face. The son of a bitch.”

Peabody said nothing for a moment. It wasn’t, she thought, the first time she’d mistaken Eve’s cool professionalism for a lack of heart. After all the months they’d worked together, she realized she should know better. She drew a deep breath.

“Maybe he’s giving us too much, and it’s scattering our focus.”

Eve’s eyes narrowed, and the fists she’d jammed in her pockets relaxed. “That’s good. That’s very good. Too many angles, too much data. We need to pick a channel and zoom in. Start the search here, Peabody,” she ordered as she pulled out her communicator. “It’s going to be a long night.”

She stumbled home at four
A
.
M
. riding on the high-octane, low-quality faux caffeine of Cop Central coffee. Her eyes felt sticky, her stomach raw, but she thought her mind was still sharp enough to do the job.

Still, she jerked and had a hand on her weapon when Roarke came into her home office a few paces behind her.

“What the hell are you doing up?” she demanded.

“I might ask the same, Lieutenant.”

“I’m working.”

He lifted a brow and took her chin in his hand to study her face. “Overworking,” he corrected.

“I ran out of real coffee in my AutoChef, had to drink that sewage they brew at Central. A couple of hits of the good stuff and I’ll be fine.”

“A couple of hours unconscious, you’ll be better.”

Though it was tempting, she didn’t shove his hand away. “I’ve got a meeting at oh eight hundred. I have to prep.”

“Eve.” He shot her a warning glance when she hissed at him, then calmly laid his hands on her shoulders. “I’m not going to interfere with your work. But I will remind you that you won’t do your job well if you’re asleep on your feet.”

“I can take a booster.”

“You?” And he smiled when he said it, making her lips twitch.

“I may have to hit the departmental-approved drugs before it’s over. He’s not giving me any time, Roarke.”

“Let me help.”

“I can’t use you every time it gets tough.”

“Why?” His hands began to knead the tension out of her shoulders. “Because I’m not on the departmental-approved list?”

“That would be one.” The shoulder massage was relaxing her a bit too much. She felt her mind drift, and wasn’t able to snap it back to clarity again. “I’ll take two hours downtime. Two hours to prep should be enough. But I’ll crash in here.”

“Good idea.” It was simple enough to guide her to the sleep chair. Her bones were like rubber. He slipped down with her, ordered the chair to full recline.

“You should go to bed,” she murmured, but turned her body into his.

“I prefer sleeping with my wife when the opportunity arises.”

“Two hours . . . I think I have an angle.”

“Two hours,” he agreed, and shut his eyes when he felt her go limp.

“There’s something I should tell you.” Roarke waited until Eve scooped up the last of an egg-white omelette, and smiled at her as he topped off her coffee. “About the Natural Perfection beauty products.”

She only stared at him as she swallowed. “You own the company.”

“It’s a line of a company that’s part of an organization that’s a branch of Roarke Industries.” He smiled again as he sipped his coffee. “So, in a word, yes.”

“I already knew it.” She jerked a shoulder, gaining some satisfaction at seeing his eyebrows lift at her careless reaction. “I actually thought I might get through a case without you being connected.”

“You really have to get over that, darling. And since I do own it,” he continued as she bared her teeth at him, “I should be able to help you track the products used on the victims.”

“We’re stumbling along there on our own.” She pushed away from the little table and paced to her desk. “Logically, the products were purchased at the location where the victims were chosen. Going on that assumption, I can whittle down the choices to a short list. Those enhancements are obscenely expensive.”

“You get what you pay for,” Roarke said easily.

“Lip dye at two hundred credits a tube for Christ’s sake.” She shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“I don’t set the price.” Now he grinned at her. “I just manage the profit.”

A couple of hours of sleep and a hot meal had recharged her, he noted. She wasn’t pale now, or quite so heavy-eyed. He rose, walking to her to skim his thumbs over the faint shadows under her eyes. “Would you like to sit in on a board meeting and lobby for a price adjustment?”

“Ha ha.” When he brushed his lips over hers, she struggled to keep her own from curving. “Go away, I need to focus.”

“In a minute.” He kissed her again, nudging a sigh out of her. “Why don’t you tell me about it? It’ll help you to think out loud.”

She sighed again, leaned for a moment, then drew back. “There’s an ugliness to this because he’s using something that symbolizes hope and innocence. This kid last night . . . damn it, he was harmless.”

“The others were women. What does it tell you?”

“That he’s bisexual. That his idea of true love crosses genders. The male victim was raped, just as the women were, bound like them, marked like them, and painted up like them after he’d finished.”

She moved away, idly picking up her coffee to drink. “He’s getting them from Personally Yours, obviously scanning their videos and personal data. He might have dated the women, but not Donnie Ray. Donnie was straight hetero. The shift makes me think he hasn’t met any of the victims face-to-face, at least not in a romantic sense. It’s all fantasy.”

“He chooses people who live alone.”

“He’s a coward. Doesn’t want any real confrontation. He tranqs them right off, gets them restrained. It’s the only way he can be sure he’ll have the power, the control.”

Her thoughts veered back and settled once again on Rudy.
Setting the coffee down again, she dragged a hand through her hair. “He’s smart, and obsessive. He’s even predictable on several levels. That’s how I’ll nail him.”

“You said you had an angle.”

“Yeah, a couple of them. I have to run them by the brass. I’ve got to dodge Nadine for a while. I can’t give her the Santa suit. We’ll have people whipping up on every store and street corner Santa in the city.”

“There’s an image,” Roarke murmured. “Serial Santa Strangles Singles . . . Details at noon. Nadine would love that lead.”

“She’s not getting it. Not until I don’t have a choice. I’m toying with leading the Personally Yours connection. It’ll keep her off my back and get the word out to anyone who’s used the service. And Rudy and Piper will scream harassment.” Her smile spread slow and wicked. “It would be worth it. Couple of protocol droids—I need to shake them up.”

“You don’t like them.”

“They give me the creeps. I know they’re fucking each other. Sick.”

“You don’t approve?”

“They’re brother and sister. Twins.”

“Oh, I see.” However worldly he was, Roarke found himself mirroring his wife’s reaction. “That’s very . . . unattractive.”

“Yeah.” The thought of it ruined her appetite and had her pushing the plate of flaky croissants aside. “He’s running the show, and her. Right now, he’s top of my list. He has access to every client file, and if I can confirm the incest, we add a bent toward deviant sexual behavior. I need someone inside.” She drew a deep breath as she heard bootsteps marching down the hallway. “And there she is now.”

Both Eve and Roarke turned as Peabody stepped into the doorway. She looked from one to the other, rolled her shoulders as if shrugging off something vaguely uncomfortable. “Something wrong?”

“No, come in.” Eve jerked a thumb toward a chair. “Let’s get started.”

“Coffee?” Roarke offered. He’d already figured out what Eve had in mind for her aide.

“Yeah, thanks. McNab isn’t here yet?”

“No. I’ll brief you first.” Eve shot Roarke a look, waited.

“I’ll just get out of your way.” He passed Peabody a cup, turned and kiss his wife despite—or perhaps because of—the fact that she scowled at him, then walked into his adjoining office and shut the door.

“Does he always look like that in the morning?” Peabody wanted to know.

“He always looks like that period.”

Peabody sighed deeply. “Are you sure he’s human?”

“Not always.” Eve angled a hip on the corner of her desk and studied Peabody carefully. “So. . . want to meet some guys?”

“Huh?”

“Want to broaden your social circle, meet some men who share similar interests?”

Certain Eve was joking, Peabody grinned. “Isn’t that why I became a cop?”

“Cops make lousy life partners. What you need, Peabody, is a service like Personally Yours.”

Sipping coffee, Peabody shook her head. “Nope. I did a dating service a few years back, right after I moved into the city. Too regimented. I like picking up strange men in bars.” When Eve only continued to stare at her, Peabody slowly lowered her cup. “Oh,” she said as realization struck. “Oh.”

“I’d have to clear it with Whitney. I can’t put a uniform undercover without the commander’s okay. And before you agree, I want you to know just what you’d be getting into.”

“Undercover.” Despite the fact that she had been a cop long enough to know better, the phrase conjured up images of excitement and glamour.

“Get the stars out of your eyes, Peabody. Christ.” Eve
straightened, scooped both hands through her hair. “I’m talking about putting your ass on the line here, using you as bait, and you’re grinning like I’ve just given you a present.”

“You think I’m good enough for it. You trust me to handle it. That’s a pretty good present.”

“I think you’re good enough,” Eve said, dropping her arms. “I think you can handle it because you know how to follow orders, exactly. And that’s what I’d expect. Following orders to the letter. No grandstanding. If I get it cleared, and if I can get the fucking budget to stretch enough for the consultant fee for that place, you’ll go in.”

“What about Rudy and Piper? They’re not off the suspect list, and they’ve seen me.”

“They saw a uniform. People like that don’t pay attention to who’s wearing it. We’ll get Mavis and Trina to deck you out.”

“Cool.”

“Get a grip, Peabody. We’ll work out a cover, an identity. I’ve gone over the victims’ videos and personal data. We’ll cull out the similarities and work them into your profile. The idea is to tailor make you.”

“That’s bullshit.”

McNab stood in the doorway. His face was flushed with a fury that had his eyes glittering, his mouth tight, and his hands fisted at his side. “That’s fucking bullshit.”

“Detective,” Eve said mildly. “Your opinion is noted.”

“You’re going to stick her like a worm on a line and drop her into the pool? Goddamn it, Dallas. She’s not trained for undercover.”

“Mind your own business,” Peabody snapped as she lunged to her feet. “I know how to handle myself.”

“You don’t know squat about undercover.” McNab strode forward, turning on his heel so that they were nose to nose. “You’re a goddamn aide, a button pusher, next up from a droid.”

Eve saw the intent flash in Peabody’s eyes and managed to
shove between them before her aide’s fist plowed into McNab’s nose. “That’s enough. Your opinion is noted, McNab, now shut up.”

“The son of a bitch isn’t going to stand there and call me a droid and get away with it.”

“Suck it in, Peabody,” Eve warned, “and sit down. Both of you sit the hell down and try to remember who’s in charge before I put the pair of you on report. The last thing I need on this case is a couple of hotheads. If you can’t maintain, you’re off.”

“We don’t need Detective Data Bank,” Peabody muttered.

“We need what I say we need. And we need inside information and bait. Bait,” she added, shifting her eyes from face to face, “of both sexes. You up for it, McNab?”

“Wait a minute. Wait.” Peabody was out of her chair again, as rattled as Eve had ever seen her. “You want him to go under, too? With me?”

“Yeah, I’m up for it.” McNab smiled thinly at Peabody as he agreed. It would be the perfect way to keep an eye on her—and keep her out of trouble.

“This is going to be mag!” Mavis Freestone danced around Eve’s home office in thigh-high boots. The material was clear and snug, molding her legs and showing them off while she balanced on their three-inch glittery red heels. The heels matched the slither dress that barely met the top of the boots.

Her hair was the exact same glittery Christmas red and fell in Medusa-like coils to her shoulders. She had a tiny heart tattoo under the peak of her left eyebrow.

“You’re on the departmental payroll.” Eve knew the reminder that this was official business was wasted. But she felt obliged to get it in as Mavis beamed at Peabody out of newly toned grass-green eyes.

“Pays shit.” This was from Trina. The beauty consultant circled Peabody as a sculpture might with a flawed piece of marble—with interest, caution, and faint derision.

Trina was wearing eyebrow rings today, a fact that made Eve wince when she looked at the tiny gold hoops pinned to the outer line. Her hair, a deep plum purple, was slicked up in a foot-high cone. Her choice of outfit was a somewhat conservative black jumpsuit with the holiday touch of naked Santas dancing over each breast.

And this, Eve thought as she pressed her fingers to her eyes, this was the pair she’d convinced Whitney to budget into the case account.

“I want to keep it simple,” she told them. “I just don’t want her to look like a cop.”

“What do you think, Trina?” Mavis leaned over Peabody’s shoulder, pulling at her own curls so they lay over Peabody’s cheeks. “This color’d rock on her. Festive, right? Holiday time. And wait till you see the wardrobe I got Leonardo to lend us.” She bounced back, grinning. “There’s this peekaboo skinsuit that’s really you, Peabody.”

“Skinsuit.” Peabody paled, thinking of bulges. “Lieutenant.”

“Simple,” Eve said again, ready to desert her aide.

“What do you use on your skin?” Trina demanded, taking a firm hold of Peabody’s chin. “Sandpaper?”

“Um—”

“You got pores like moon craters here, girlfriend. You need a full facial treatment. I’m starting with a peeler.”

“Oh God.” Panicked, Peabody tried to jerk her chin free. “Listen—”

“Are those tits yours or enhanced?”

“Mine.” Instantly, Peabody crossed her arms over her chest and grabbed her own breasts before Trina could. “They’re mine. I’m really happy with them.”

“They’re good tits. Okay, strip. Let’s have a look at them, and the rest of you.”

“Strip?” Peabody swiveled her head until her terrified eyes latched onto Eve’s. “Dallas, Lieutenant. Sir?”

“You said you could handle undercover, Peabody.” After
one sympathetic shudder, Eve turned and started out. “You’ve got two hours with her.”

“I need three,” Trina called out. “I don’t rush my art.”

“You got two.” Firmly Eve shut the door on Peabody’s shocked squeak.

It seemed best all around, Eve thought, if she stayed as far away from what was happening to her aide as possible. She decided to pay a visit to an old friend.

Charles Monroe was a licensed companion, as slick and attractive a prostitute as Eve had encountered, on or off the force. He’d once helped her with a case—and then offered her his services for free.

She’d taken the help, and politely refused the offer.

Now she pressed the buzzer outside his elegant apartment in a high-priced midtown building. A building Roarke owned, she thought with a roll of her eyes.

When the security beam blinked green, she lifted a brow, aiming a look at the peephole and holding up her badge in case Charles had forgotten her.

When he opened the door, he proved she needn’t have worried about his memory. “Lieutenant Sugar.” He caught her off guard with a strong hug and a quick, slightly too intimate kiss.