by J. D. Robb
His control snapped. In one violent move she was under him, pinned. He fed on her, filling himself, swallowing each ragged breath. He put his hands on her, taking greedily, recklessly driving her to that first frantic peak.
And when she cried out, he took more.
His mouth closed over her breast, teeth nipping tiny, delicious pains into sensitive flesh. The thrill of it drummed through her so that she arched up, urging him on, digging her nails into his back. She twisted under him, her hands searching, her mouth seeking. Their needs matched, desperation for desperation. And their limbs tangled as they fought with clothes.
Sweat-sleeked flesh.
With that savage rage whipping through him, he could think of nothing but her. Of mate. The long, agile length of her. The curves and dips of her that miraculously fit against him. The pale, beautifully delicate skin that rode so smoothly over hard muscle. The taste of that skin when the heat of passion bloomed over it.
More. All, was all he could think while his blood burned.
She was hot, so hot and wet when his fingers stroked into her. Smooth and tight as her hips pumped. He wanted, needed, to see her come, needed to feel it, to know when her system exploded, everything she was, was his.
Her body arched, a tight little bridge of sensation. Her breath tore out into a sob. She poured into his hand.
Still, he couldn’t stop, gave her no chance to slide gently down again. Instead he drove her ruthlessly, rushing up her body with teeth and tongue.
When his mouth was on hers, when he could feel her about to shatter yet again, he plunged into her, knocking her over the edge with that first rough stroke.
And still he thought: More.
Even as she shuddered, he shoved her knees up and went deeper inside her. His vision blurred, but through the red haze of lust he could see her eyes. Deep, dark, glazed like glass to throw his own reflection back at him.
“I’m inside you.” He panted it out as he pushed them both to madness. “Everything I am. Body, heart, mind.”
She struggled through layers of pleasure to say the one thing he needed. Her hands wrapped around his wrists to hold the beat of his blood. “Let go. I’ll stay with you.”
He pressed his face to her hair, let both heart and mind go, and let body rule them both.
• • •
Eve wasn’t sure how much time had passed before her brain cleared enough to allow a clear thought through. But when she managed to remember her name, Roarke was still pinning her to the cushions. His heart continued to gallop against hers, but his body was very still.
She stroked her hand down his back, gave him an affectionate pat on the butt. “I think I’m probably going to need to breathe sometime within the next ten or fifteen minutes.”
He lifted his head, then considerately propped himself on his elbows. Her face was flushed, her lips slightly curved, her eyes half-closed. “You look pretty pleased with yourself.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m pretty pleased with you, too.”
He leaned down just enough to touch his lips to the dent in her chin. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for sex. We’re married.”
“Not for the sex, though that was worthy of a few cheers. For understanding me. For, let’s say, tending to me.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice on the other side of it.” She reached up, brushed the hair from his brow. “Feeling better?”
“Yes.” He shifted, and as he sat up drew her with him. “Let me just hold this for a minute,” he murmured, nuzzling her in his lap.
“Keep that up, we’ll end up horizontal and sweaty again.”
“Mmm. And it’s tempting.” The rage was still inside him, but chilled now. Calculated. “But there’s work. Do I have to argue with you, Lieutenant, about letting me work with you on this, and spoil the nice place we’re in?”
She said nothing a moment. “I don’t want you to. No, don’t start. Let me finish.” She turned her face into the curve of his throat. “The part that doesn’t want you to is personal. That part’s afraid for you, and worried about you. The professional part knows the more involved you are, the more help you can be, the quicker we close this thing. The personal side doesn’t have a chance against the cop and you pushing together.”
“Would it help if I tell you I’ll handle all this better if I’m involved in the work? It won’t eat at me in the same way.”
“Yeah.” She held on another moment, then drew back. “Yeah, I guess I know that, too. Let’s get a shower, some fuel, then I’ll lay out the ground rules.”
“I’ve never liked that phrase,” he said as she rose. “Ground rules.”
She let out a short laugh. “There’s something else I know.”
When they were dressed and sharing a meal of seafood pasta, she set out her stipulations.
“With Whitney’s approval, you’ll come onboard this investigation officially, as an expert consultant, civilian. With this appointment there are privileges and limitations, and a moderate fee.”
“How moderate?”
She speared a scallop with her fork. “Less,” she said as she popped it in her mouth, “then I imagine you paid for any one pair of your six hundred shoes. You will be issued ID—”
“A badge?”
She spared him a withering look. “Don’t be ridiculous. Standard photo and print ID. You will not be issued a weapon.”
“That’s all right. I’ve plenty of my own.”
“Shut up. You will be privy to data relating to this investigation at the discretion of the primary. That happens to be me.”
“Handy.”
“You will be expected to obey orders, or this appointment can and will be terminated. Again, at the discretion of the primary. We run this by the book.”
“I’ve always wondered. How many pages are in that book of yours?”
“And smart mouthing to the primary can result in disciplinary action.”
“Darling. You know how that excites me.”
She sneered, even though she wanted to celebrate that he was himself again. “During the course of the investigation, the primary and investigative team will require access to some of your files.”
“That’s understood.”
“Okay.” She scooped up one last forkful of pasta. “Let’s go to work.”
“That’s it, for ground rules?”
“We’ll hit them as we go. My office. I want to bring you up to date.”
The advantage of working with Roarke was that he understood cop. The fact that this had more to do, she suspected, with him spending most of his life outwitting them than it did with being married to one was irrelevant.
She didn’t have to spell things out for him, and that saved time.
“You didn’t give the FBI everything you’ve put together, but they’ll know that.”
“Right. And they’ll live with it.”
“They’ll also suspect, or at least wonder, if you’ve put more salient data together on Yost in less than a week than they have in years. That won’t sit well.”
“Yeah, and that just breaks my heart.”
“Your competitive streak’s showing, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe. When it comes down to it, the Feebs can have the glory. Yost will know who brought him down. That does the job for me. They didn’t pay enough attention to the wire, the exactness of it. Their profile gives a strong indication of pattern, his obsessiveness with detail, and still they missed subtleties.”
“Don’t they, you think, as a Bureau, tend to concentrate more on the overview, and depend too heavily on pure data, rather than instinct and possibilities?” He smiled easily when she frowned at him. “Not that I’ve had any personal dealing with them that I’d want to take up your time discussing just now.”
“Is that so? Well, we’ll have to make time later.”
“Mmm. But my point is, while you’re one to use your data, to see the overview and quite clearly, you trust your gut and yo
u never forget possibilities.”
“Maybe. Then again, most Feebs aren’t hooked to a guy who can buy a case of fancy shampoo at five thousand a pop, so they don’t look at that angle. At the rich, self-indulgent guy angle.”
“I never buy shampoo by the case for personal use, and you’d have looked there in any event. You don’t miss details. Still, I know more about high-end products than you, which is why I’m an expert consultant.”
“Civilian,” she added. “And you’re not, until tomorrow after Whitney’s approval.”
“In anticipation of that, I need to see the security disc run from Jonah’s murder.”
“No.”
“I need to see what Yost was wearing, how he wore it. I’ve reviewed the hotel disc. In that he prefers British designers.”
“How the hell do you recognize a designer from looking at somebody’s suit jacket on a disc run?”
“Darling Eve.” With a faint smile he skimmed a finger over the shoulder of her ancient and faded NYPSD T-shirt. “Fashion is more a priority for some of us than it is for others.”
“You think that’s a dig, but it doesn’t hit the mark with me, ace. Anyway, I should’ve figured one clothes snob would recognize another.” She pulled the disc out of her file bag. “You get a good look at him as he’s coming to the door. That should do it for you.”
And that, she thought as she loaded it into her desk unit, was as much as she intended to show Roarke. “Computer, run current disc file, point mark zero to point mark fifteen. On wall screen.”
WORKING . . . BEGIN SEGMENT RUN.
They both looked on-screen, both watched Yost stroll casually up the steps to Jonah Talbot’s door. And there the image froze.
“Definitely British,” Roarke confirmed. “As are the shoes. I need a closer look at the briefcase.”
“Okay. Computer, enhance segment twelve through twenty-two, ten power.”
WORKING . . .
The image shifted with the hand and the briefcase it held separating and magnifying.
“So he sticks with the Brits. That’s a Whitford bag, made exclusively in London. I own the bloody factory.”
“This is good. We concentrate on sales in London. British designers.”
“The conservative ones,” Roarke added.
Her forehead knitted. “I thought it was more the arty type of look.”
“He’s added the wig and scarf for that, but under it, it’s straight arrow. The suit looks like a Marley, but Smythe and Wexville make that same sharply angular style. The shoes are Canterbury’s, almost certainly.”
She frowned at them. They looked like shoes to her, simple black slip-onto-the-feet shoes. “Okay, we’ll follow it up. Eject disc.”
“Computer, disregard. I’ll see the rest.”
“No. There’s no point in it.”
“I’ll see the rest,” he said. “Would you prefer I access it and view at another time and place?”
“I’m telling you there’s no point in putting yourself through that.”
“I spoke to his mother. I listened to her weep. Computer, continue run.”
Eve cursed under her breath and stalked away. She did her best to get her temper under control, and poured out two glasses of wine. He hadn’t touched the brandy earlier.
She didn’t need to watch the tape to live it again. She could close her eyes and see every movement, every horror. And she feared when she closed her eyes that night to sleep, she would see it again. Or worse, see herself, as a child, bleeding and broken in a filthy room where a red light blinked over and over and over again.
She bore down, and with Mozart soaring, walked back to finish the nasty job of watching it again beside her husband.
“Freeze image,” Roarke ordered and his voice cut like sharpened ice. He stared at the screen, where Jonah Talbot lay unconscious and the man who would kill him stood in the act of unbuttoning his shirt.
“Enhance image, segment thirty to forty-two.” And when the computer complied, Roarke nodded. “The little design on the cuff. The shirt’s handmade, on Bond Street, London. Finwyck’s. Computer, resume.”
He saw it through, saying nothing, showing nothing. If Eve had been a fanciful woman she’d have said she could feel the heat pumping off him, the rage of it. And how that rage cooled, chilled, iced until the air in the room crackled with it.
When it was done, he walked to the computer, ejected the disc, laid it on her desk. He took a moment, a moment only, to gather himself in again.
“I’m sorry I insisted on viewing that now, so that you felt obliged to watch it again. I’ll never fully understand how you stand it, how you cope with it, day after day. Death after death.”
“By telling myself I’ll stop him, that I’ll see to it he’s put somewhere so that he can never do it again.”
“It can’t be enough. It never could be.” He sipped the wine now, burying his grief and pity deep so that the cold fury held control. “His wrist unit was Swiss, which is to be expected. A multitask Rolex. I have one myself, as do thousands of others who insist on dependable accuracy in such matters. I can help you with that, as—”
“You own the factory.”
“And several of the major outlets that sell that model,” he finished. “And with the briefcase, and the shoes. The rest of the wardrobe will take more time, I assume, as they’ll insist on proper paperwork and warrants and what have you to release any customer data. London’s closed at this hour.”
“I’ll get on that in the morning. Get me what you can on the rest. I’m going to see what I can dig out on the Supreme Court judge.”
He nodded but stayed where he was, drinking his wine. “You have McNab checking on season tickets for the symphony and so on. If he runs into any snags, I can have that for you, and through proper channels, with a simple ’link call.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“As far as the black market on the porn and snuff discs, I still have contacts in that murky arena. Meaning I know people who know people and so on.”
“No. It gets out you’re looking in that muck, it could alert whoever’s supplying him that I’m looking.”
“I can cover that easily enough, but we’ll see how Ian does if you’d rather. My other equipment could cut through a great many layers without anyone being aware,” he reminded her.
“Not this round, Roarke. I use unregistered here, even to tickle out some data, and I’ve got no way to justify it to myself, no way to explain to the rest of the team how I came by it. By the book.”
“You’re the boss.” So saying, he carried his wine through the doorway into his own office.
Several blocks south, in his crowded, disordered downtown apartment, McNab huddled over his computer. Beside him, Peabody, down to her shirt and uniform pants, worked on one of his mini-units.
The man, she often thought, collects computers the way some men collect sport holos.
Working her way through the porn sites for names had begun to give her a headache, but she continued doggedly, concentrating on the titles and come-on, and the screen names of potential customers who took advantage of the thirty-second preview.
McNab’s theory was that Yost might cruise the labyrinth of sex sites available online, make his selections through previews. It was possible he ordered them on-screen and that would be the luckiest of breaks as he’d have to use an ID and credit number to do so. But even if he simply scanned the previews, he’d have logged on under a screen name.
Most were laughable and obvious. Bigkok, Cumlvr, Hornydog. She didn’t think Sylvester Yost would go for the crude or the foolish.
She sat back, rubbed her gritty eyes then began to root through her bag for a pain blocker.
Absently McNab reached over and rubbed her neck. “Want to take a break?”
“I just need to ditch the headache. Maybe stretch my legs.”
She rose, rolling her shoulders as she went to the kitchen for water.
He knew she’d broken a date
with Charles Monroe to work with him that night. McNab was darkly pleased that the suave LC had gotten the boot, even if it was for work. What he really wanted was to plant his own boot right in Monroe’s pretty face, and one of these days . . .
The action on the screen scrambled his thoughts. He goggled as two men and two women began to roll and writhe on the floor in a mass of naked bodies and impossibly flexible limbs.
“Holy Jesus.”
“What? What? Did you hit on something?” Peabody rushed back, leaned down to the screen, then with an oath rapped McNab over the head with the flat of her hand. “Damn it, stop jerking off. I thought you’d found . . .” She trailed off, stupefied. “Wow” was the best she could do.
Following the action both of them tilted their heads to the side.
“She must be double-jointed.”
“Triple,” McNab decided. “And it’s obvious nobody in this group has a spine, otherwise they couldn’t get in that position.”
They turned their heads again, this time toward each other, and their eyes met with identical gleams of lust and challenge.
“We can’t let a bunch of porn actors outdo us.” McNab was already pulling at the hook of her trousers.
“Damn right we can’t. But it’s probably going to hurt.”
“Cops feel no pain.”
“Oh yeah? Try this.” She was laughing as she pulled him to the floor.
In another part of town, Sylvester Yost finished his after-dinner brandy and cigar. He’d activated his single server droid for precisely twelve minutes, to deal with the disarray of his kitchen and dining room.
Of course, he would check on the job himself. Even well-programmed droids usually failed to see that all was in the perfect order Yost demanded.
He’d prepared himself a delightful veal picatta for dinner. Often after a job he liked to putter around his kitchen, enjoying the scents and textures of cooking, sipping an appropriate wine as his sauces thickened.
But an indulgence like that dirtied pots and pans and so on. The droid came in handy there, as Yost preferred to relax with his brandy and cigar rather than loading the dishwasher.
