Promises in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Require medical assistance for civilian,” she added, then turned to look at her crunched, mangled vehicle.

  “Goddamn it,” she muttered. “Requisitions is going to take out a contract on me.”

  The information he’d gotten claimed she wasn’t hurt. But Roarke took no one’s word when it came to his wife—not even hers. Of course, he thought, with a simmering anger he used to cover fear, she hadn’t been the one to contact him. Nor did she answer on her pocket ’link, as he’d been trying it since he’d started across town.

  When he reached the barricade, he simply left his car where it was. They could bloody well tow it, he thought. And bill him.

  He covered the rest of the ground on foot, moving fast.

  He saw the wreck first—the accordion pleats of metal, the shattered glass, bitten chunks of fiberglass.

  Fear rolled over the anger like lava.

  Then he saw her, on her feet. Standing. Whole. And arguing, by the look of it, with one of the medical technicians in front of an ambulance.

  “I’m not hurt. I don’t need to be examined, and I’m sure as hell not getting in that bus. The safety gel discharged. Can you see how much I’m wearing? How’s the civilian? How’s the woman?”

  “Shaken up is all,” the MT told her. “But we’re taking her in, getting her looked over. You ought to come in. Your eyes look shocky to me.”

  “My eyes are not shocky. My eyes are pissed. Now go away and . . .” She trailed off when she spotted Roarke, and he noted her eyes went from pissed to baffled.

  He walked straight to her, controlled the terrible urge to simply sweep her up and away. He skimmed his finger beside the shallow cut, and the blueing around it that marred her forehead.

  “Is this the worst of it then?” he asked her.

  “Yeah. How did you—”

  “I’ll see to her,” he told the MT. “If she needs to go in for treatment or exam, I’ll see to that.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “Yeah?” the MT repeated. “Good luck, buddy.”

  “Did you have to—”

  “Yes. My car’s behind the barricade. Let’s go.”

  “I can’t leave the scene yet. I haven’t cleared everything, and I need to make sure the responding officers have—”

  He rounded on her, slowly, very slowly. “Could you leave the scene if you were unconscious and being transported to the nearest hospital or health center?”

  The narrowed glare she aimed at him didn’t penetrate. “Let’s go,” he repeated.

  “A minute. Officer Laney, I appreciate your prompt response.”

  “Wish it could’ve been sooner, Lieutenant, and we’d busted the assholes.” Laney, a hawk-eyed black female, glowered at the van currently being loaded on a flatbed. “The sweepers’ll go over every inch of it, and the sedan, too. You ought to go with the MTs, sir. You took a hell of a ride.”

  “I’m just going to go home. Thanks.” She turned back to Roarke, walked with him. “I’m not hurt.”

  “Most people who aren’t hurt aren’t bleeding.”

  “I banged my head, that’s all. Jeez, if I’d known you were driving home this way and would see that, I’d have tagged you first.” She glanced back, winced at the unholy mess in the intersection. “It looks worse than it is. Personal injurywise. Let me get them to clear us through here.”

  She walked to one of the uniforms at the barricade, had a short conversation. When she turned back, saw Roarke opening the door of his rich-guy’s car for her, she winced again.

  “Don’t, ah, pet or pat me or anything until we’re out of here. It makes me look weenie.”

  “Far be it from me.” He got behind the wheel, threaded through the opening the uniform made for him. He headed up Madison to circle the great park, and head home.

  “What happened?”

  “I was an idiot. Fell for it. Stupid. Goddamn it.”

  “Other than that, what happened?”

  “Did a search and seize on Ricker’s place, which he was expecting. Still, it had to be done. I split off after, to head home, work from there. Spotted a tail. I should’ve known. It was sloppy, obvious, and I got smug. Had my attention on the tail, and verifying the registration, start to cross at the light, and wham.”

  She slapped her hands together for emphasis, and the movement had the wound on her head throbbing in double time. She hunched, and resisted poking at it since Roarke would notice.

  “Then this van comes out of nowhere, laying for me. I punched it, over and up, but a vehicle like that, it doesn’t respond like the freaking wind. So he caught my rear wheels, sent me into a dive. I crash, wreck my ride. The woman behind me at the light catches my fender, sends me into another spin. I’m padded in there, but Jesus, round and round. Meanwhile, the guys—or guy and a woman—who may be white, or Hispanic, may be goddamn aliens from the planet Vulcan according to witnesses—are out and gone before I can get out of the car. The sedan’s shooting up Madison and was dumped on Eighty-sixth and Third. No wits forthcoming there, so far.”

  Since he seemed to be watching traffic, she did a cautious little poke at her throbbing forehead. And, of course, pushed the throb to triple time.

  “Leave it be,” Roarke said mildly.

  Annoyed, embarrassed, she dropped her hand. “The van was reported stolen by some delivery company in the Bronx this morning,” she continued. “The sedan is registered to a guy in Queens, and according to his wife and his boss, he’s in Cleveland on business, and has been for two days. The vehicle was boosted from long-term parking at the transpo center in Queens.”

  She slumped down in her seat. “Damn it.”

  “It’s a stupid way to try to kill you,” Roarke said after a few moments.

  “They weren’t trying to kill me. Just mess me up, shake me up, screw me up. Good job. But what’s the point?” She pushed up in her seat again. “Even if you mess me up, the investigation’s ongoing. We’ve got the electronics from Ricker’s. I’ve got the security discs. It’s not like we’re going to say, oooh, somebody wrecked Dallas’s ride, so we’ve got to shut down our investigation and hide.”

  “Why didn’t you answer your ’link?”

  “My ’link? It didn’t signal.” She dug it out of her pocket, scowled at it. “It’s dead. Must’ve gotten gunked up. Nature of the crash. The gel just exploded. Not just cushy bags, but the gunk. Everywhere.” She scratched her head and rained little specks of blue gel out of her hair. “See?”

  “I’m grateful for it.”

  She gave herself the indulgence of a sulk. “They’ll never put that vehicle back together. It’s the best one I’ve ever had. Now it’s trashed.”

  “A worry for another day.”

  He drove through the gates, stopped. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a weenie now, as I intend to pat and pet.”

  “I’m really okay.”

  He drew her in, held her, breathed her. “I’m not, so you’ll have to give me the next bloody minute or two.”

  He turned his lips to her cheek, then touched them lightly to her injured forehead. Then found her mouth, and gave way to some of the fear.

  “I’m sorry.” She cupped his face, moved him back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about you coming that way, coming in on that. Getting scared that way. I’d’ve been scared if it’d been vice versa.”

  “Peabody contacted me.” He pressed his finger to her lips now before she could curse. “To assure me you were all right, not seriously hurt. She was afraid they’d flash it on the media reports, on traffic, on something, and I’d hear about it that way. She didn’t want me to worry.”

  “And I didn’t think of it. Sorry again.”

  “You were a little preoccupied. You’ll tell me the truth now. Is the bump on the head all of it?”

  “Pretty sure. I’m a little sore from being jostled around. Got a little queasy and dizzy from the dive and spin. That’s passed.”

  “Well, then,
we’ll go in and fix you up.”

  “We being you, right? Not His Scariness.”

  “As long as there’s nothing serious, we shouldn’t need Summerset.”

  “That’s what I say all the time, we shouldn’t need Summerset. But do you listen?”

  He smiled, kissed her hand, and drove to the house.

  She was prepared for the once-over from the black crow of the foyer. Summerset didn’t disappoint. “I see you’ve destroyed another police vehicle. Perhaps you now hold the record.”

  Because she was afraid she just might, Eve only curled her lip and started up the stairs. Beside her, Roarke caught the inquiry in Summerset’s eyes, shook his head.

  Summerset crouched to stroke the cat. “She’s all right. Just a bump or two. He’ll see to her. You stay with me until she’s more herself. Not one nasty comment from her.” Summerset tsked as he and Galahad walked back toward the kitchen. “I’m sure she’ll be more herself tomorrow.”

  Upstairs, Eve took the blocker Roarke gave her without protest, and sat through his ministrations of her head wound. There had been a time, they both knew, she’d have fought him on both. So when he offered her a soother, and she refused, he simply nodded.

  “You’ll feel better for a soak in the tub.”

  “You want to see me naked.”

  “At every moment of every day.” He went into the bathroom, ordered the tub to fill at the boiling temperature she preferred. He added salts of some sort to the water, then turned where she waited and began to undress her himself.

  “Getting in with me?”

  “I’m not, no. Though, tempting. You’ll soak, use the VR for a relaxation program. Then you’ll eat something soothing.” Every inch he undressed he studied for bruises, swelling, and was relieved to find none. “As it’s the alternative to a trip to the hospital, you’ll obey orders like a good girl.”

  “I’d rather you soak with me, and maybe try out a dual VR. Something sexy. And I could be a bad girl.”

  He arched a brow. “You’re trying to take my mind off the fact you’ve been hurt. It’s a damn good attempt.” He gave her a light, almost paternal kiss. “In you go, Lieutenant. Alone.”

  “You’re turning down sex. Maybe you’re the one who got knocked on the head.” But she stepped into the frothy, swirling water of the wide tub, and couldn’t stop the moan of pleasure. “Okay, yeah, this is good.”

  He took VR goggles out of a drawer, set a program. “Relax.”

  “Am.”

  He slid the goggles on her, heard her sigh. He got himself a glass of wine, as good as a soother, he thought. And leaning against the door, he sipped it slowly, and watched her while she soaked away the aches.

  Home, he told himself. She was home and whole and safe.

  10

  RELAXED, RESTED, EVE BUNDLED INTO A ROBE. She stepped to the mirror, scooping her hair back to examine the cut on her forehead. Not bad, she decided, and pulled her bangs over it. You could hardly see it.

  Which was bullshit, she admitted, blowing those bangs with an irritable exhale, because he’d see it. He knew it was there. She’d scared him, pulled him away from his own work—with a side dish of worry—and for no good reason. If she’d taken two seconds to think, to contact him, to tell him she’d banged up her vehicle, but she was okay, he wouldn’t have worried.

  Big black mark in the Good Wife column. She tended to rack those up.

  Worse, he hears she’s been in a crash while she’s investigating the murder of another cop. Just not good.

  Guilt smeared over relaxation as she walked back into the bedroom. “Listen, I want to say . . .” She trailed off. She scented the red sauce first, then spotted the plates of spaghetti and meatballs on the table of the sitting area. “Damn it.”

  “Not in the mood for pasta?” He narrowed those bold blue eyes to give her a critical study. “You must’ve hit your head harder than we thought.”

  “I was going to do it—get dinner, I mean. One of the fancy things you like, because—Hell.” She gave up, hurried to him to wrap her arms around him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was so pissed off at what happened, at myself, I didn’t think.”

  He stroked a hand down her hair first, then gave the choppy ends a quick tug. “I’m not angry with you.”

  “I know. You could be, but you’re not. So I have to be even sorrier.”

  “Your logic is fascinating, and elusive.”

  “I can’t pay you back with sex or salt-crusted sea bass or whatever because you’re too busy taking care of me. So now I’ve got this black mark in my column against the bright shiny star in yours, and—”

  He tipped her head up. “Are we keeping score?”

  “No. Maybe. Shit.”

  “How am I doing?”

  “Undisputed champ.”

  “Good. I like to win.” He brushed her bangs back to study the injury himself. “You’ll do. Let’s eat.”

  Just like that, she thought. Then, no. No, not just like that. She shifted her grip on him so her arms linked around his neck. “I love you.” And kissed him, soft, slow, deep. “I love you. I love you. I’m just going to keep saying it,” she told him as she pressed her body to his. “Racking them up, so I have a supply built up for when I forget to say it. I love who you are, what you are, how you talk, how you look at me.”

  Her lips roamed over his face, down his throat, along his jaw, coming back to his with soft, sumptuous seduction. “I love your body, how you make me feel. I love your face, your mouth, your hands. Put your hands on me, Roarke. Put your hands on me.”

  He’d planned to see she ate, rested a bit. To keep his eye on her in case . . . in case. Now she was taking him under. Drawing him down to drown in her.

  He nudged the robe off her shoulders, so it slithered to the floor. And put his hands on her.

  “More. More. I love you.” Her lips skimmed over his ear; her teeth scraped along his neck to add a shock of lust. “I want more. I want you.” She tugged at his jacket, and her laugh was a low, arousing purr. “Too many clothes. Like the first time, you’re wearing too many clothes. I have to fix that.”

  To solve the problem, she ripped his shirt open, and laughed again. “Yeah, that’s better. Oh God, I love you.” Her breath hitched from the skill of his hands, his mouth, even as her fingers got busy on the hook of his trousers. Even when she found him, hot, hard.

  “In me, I want you in me. I want you crazy and inside me. I want to see what it does to you, while I feel what it does to me.”

  He would have lifted her, swept her up and to the bed. Driven himself, driven her beyond reason. But her mouth came back to his, so tenderly. Sweet, so sweet. He fell helplessly into the warm liquid mists of love.

  “Come to bed,” he murmured. “Come to bed with me.”

  “Too far.” In a lightning change of mood she hooked her foot behind his, shifted her weight. He landed under his hot-eyed naked wife on the couch.

  Before he could catch his breath, her mouth was on his, tongue teasing, teeth nipping. His body quivered as he tried to find his balance.

  “I’m going to take you.” Her breathless threat pounded through his blood. “I won’t stop till I’m finished, and you won’t finish until you’re in me. Until I let you in me.”

  She demanded, she took, she dragged him to the heady brink of control, only to leave him quaking while she soothed and smoothed tenderness over greed.

  He thought he might have begged her, or cursed her. And still she had her relentless way with his body, his heart.

  His eyes were wild, and those strong, toned muscles trembled under her hands, her lips. He said her name, again and again, mixed and jumbled with words in English and Gaelic. Prayers, pleas, curses, she couldn’t know. Didn’t care. His fingers dug into her, a bruising testament to his loss of control. When she offered, he feasted on her breasts like a man starving. Even when those fingers, that mouth shot her to orgasm, she held on. Held on.

  She would take him.

>   Her breath screamed in her lungs; her heart beat to bursting. But she watched what she did to him, watched his eyes go molten with what she could do to him.

  She gripped his hands, a vise of fingers. “Now,” she said. “Now, now, now.” And taking him in, rode him like a demon.

  His vision blurred, and through the haze she was white and gold, slim and strong. His body bucked beneath hers, lashed to fury by pleasure. And striking, the dark blade of that pleasure carved him hollow.