by J. D. Robb
“Big, good-looking college guy used to shadow her in here sometimes. All-American looking guy. Got kinda broody when she’d be up there dancing with somebody else.”
“You gotta name?”
“Sure.” He looked more baffled than nervous. “Steve. Steve Audrey.”
“You’re an observant sort, aren’t you, Steve?”
“Well, yeah. You work the bar, you see everything once. Probably twice. It’s sort of like watching a play or something every day, but you get paid for it.”
Oh yeah, he was new at this, Eve thought. “You got security cams?”
“Sure.” He glanced up. “When they’re working. Not that they show much once the place gets jumping. Light show hits at nine, when the music changes, and everything starts flashing and rolling. But we don’t have much trouble here anyway. It’s mostly college kids and data freaks. They come in to hang, to dance, keyboard, do some imaging.”
“Imaging.”
“Sure we got six imaging booths. You know, where you can cram in with your pals and take goofy shots, then mug them up on a comp. We don’t have an X license, so it’s got to be clean. No privacy rooms either. What I’m saying is, the place gets busy, but it’s still low-key. Tips suck, but it’s pretty easy work.”
“I’m going to need to see the discs for the last twenty-four hours.”
“Gee. I don’t know if I can do that. I mean, I just work here. I think you have to talk to the manager or something, and he’s not here until seven. Um . . . Officer—”
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant, I just work the bar, mostly days, maybe twenty hours a week. I talk up the customers, give them a hand if they have trouble with the stations or booths. I don’t have any authority.”
“I do.” She tapped her badge. “I can get a warrant, and we can call in your manager. Or you can give me the discs, for which I’ll give you an official NYPSD receipt. All that will take time, and I don’t like wasting time when I’m on a murder investigation.”
“Murder?” His white face lost even the hint of color. “Somebody’s dead? Who? Oh man, oh man, not Rachel.” His fingers inched away from the picture that remained on the bar, and crawled up to his throat. “She’s dead?”
“You ever have anything but sports on-screen here?”
“What? Ah, music vids after nine.”
“I guess you don’t watch much news.”
“Hardly ever. It’s depressing.”
“You got that right. Rachel’s body was found early this morning. She was killed last night.” Eve leaned companionably on the bar. “Where were you last night, Steve?”
“Me? Me?” Terror rippled across his face. “I wasn’t anywhere. I mean, sure, I was somewhere. Everybody’s somewhere. I was here until about nine, and just went on home—got a pizza on the way, then watched some screen. I’d put in eight on the stick, and just wanted to flake, you know? I’ll get you the discs, you’ll see I was here.”
He dashed off.
“Pizza and screen doesn’t alibi him for Rachel Howard,” Peabody pointed out.
“No. But it’s getting me the discs.”
It was only two hours past end of shift when Eve drove through the gates toward home. She considered it a major accomplishment. Of course, she calculated she had at least two more hours to put in before she called it a day, but she’d be putting in the time from her home office.
The house looked its best in summer, she thought, then immediately shook her head. Hell, it looked its best at every season, at any time of the day or night. But there was something to be said about the way that rambling elegance of stone showed itself off against a summer blue sky. With the rolling sea of green grass surrounding it, the splashes and pools of color from the gardens, the lush shade spilling along the ground from the trees, it was a miracle of privacy and comfort in the middle of the urban landscape.
A far cry from a downtown recycle bin.
She parked, as was her habit, in front of the house, then simply sat, drumming her fingers on the wheel. Summerset wouldn’t be lurking in the foyer, ready with some sarcastic observation about her being late. She wouldn’t be able to jab back at him, which was just a little annoying now that she thought about it.
And he wasn’t there to be irritated by her leaving her car in front instead of stowing it in the garage. It almost compelled her to put it away herself.
But there was no need to get crazy.
She left it where it was, trudged through the smothering heat, and into the glorious cool of home.
She’d nearly turned to the monitor to ask Roarke’s location when she caught the faint drift of music. Following it, she found him in the parlor.
He sat in one of the plush antique chairs he favored, a glass of wine in his hand, his eyes closed. It was so rare to see him completely shut down, she felt a little twist under her heart. Then his eyes opened, that shock of blue, and when he smiled the pressure released again.
“Hello, Lieutenant.”
“How’s it going?”
“Better than it was. Wine?”
“Sure. I’ll get it.” She crossed over to the bottle he’d left on the table, poured a glass for herself. “Been home long?”
“I haven’t, no. A few minutes.”
“Did you eat?”
His eyebrows arched, the eyes beneath warming with humor. “I did, if one considers what’s available at the hospital edible. And you?”
“I caught something, and yours couldn’t have been worse than what I can get at Central. So you went by to see Mr. Grace and Agility?”
“He sends you equally fond thoughts.” Roarke sipped his wine, watched her over the rim. Waited.
“Okay, okay.” She dropped into a chair. “How’s he doing?”
“Well enough for someone who fell down a flight of steps this morning. Which he wouldn’t have done if he’d use the flaming elevator. Snapped his fucking leg like a twig, ripped bloody hell out of his shoulder. Well.”
He closed his eyes again, tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. Opened his eyes again. And made her wonder if he went through that same routine when he was settling down after dealing with what he liked to call one of her “snits.”
“Well. They’ve got the leg in a skin cast and brace, and tell me it’ll fuse like new. A clean break. The shoulder’s likely to trouble him longer. He’s sixty-eight. I couldn’t remember that this morning. You’d think he’d use the elevator when he’s got an armload of something or other. And why he’d bother with linens when he should’ve been getting himself out the door for holiday is another that’s beyond me.”
“Because he’s a stubborn, tight-assed son of a bitch who has to do everything himself, and his way?”
Roarke let out a half-laugh and drank more wine. “Well, so he is.”
And you love him, Eve thought. He’s your father in every way that counts.
“So, you’re bringing him home tomorrow.”
“I am. My ears are still ringing from his annoyance that he isn’t home tonight. You’d think I’d locked him in a snake pit rather than seeing he’s in a private suite at the best medical facility in the goddamn city. Fuck me, I should be used to that sort of thing.”
She pursed her lips when he shoved out of the chair and headed back to the wine bottle. “I guess you bitch to him about how I complain when you dump me in a health center. Maybe the two of us can arrange for you to have some hospital time. Then Summerset and I will finally bond.”
“What a happy day that’ll be.”
“Had a crappy day, haven’t you, ace?” She set her glass aside and rose.
“Tomorrow promises to be just as delightful. He’s not happy with the idea of having a medical aide in-house here for the next week or so.”
“Can’t blame him. He’s feeling stupid, uncomfortable, and pissed off. So he kicks at you, because he loves you best.” She took the glass from Roarke’s hand, set it down. “That’s what I do.”
“From the bruises on my ass, both o
f you must love me desperately.”
“I guess I do.” She linked her arms around his neck, fit her body to his. “Why don’t I show you?”
“Are you taking my mind off my poor mood?”
“I don’t know.” She rubbed her lips over his. “Am I?”
“Well.” He gripped her hips, pressed her closer. “Things are looking up.”
She snickered, and bit him. “We’re all alone. What should we do first?”
“Let’s try something we haven’t before.”
She eased back to study him. “If we haven’t done it yet, it must not be anatomically possible.”
“You’ve such a gutter mind.” He kissed the top of her nose. “I love that about you.” He drew her back to him. “I was thinking of dancing in the parlor.”
“Hmm,” she decided as she swayed with him. “It’s not bad. For starters. Of course, in my earlier fantasy, we were naked while we were dancing.”
“We’ll get there.” Relaxing, making the effort to relax, he brushed his cheek over her hair. This was what he needed, he thought. She was what he needed. To hold onto. To sink into. “I haven’t asked about your day.”
She was drifting now, on the music, on the moves. “About as crappy as yours.”
She’d wanted to ask him about Browning and Brightstar. He probably knew them, or of them. They were the sort he’d know, and in a way that might give her an edge on them. But it could wait. She’d just let it wait until she didn’t feel all this tension balled inside him.
“I’ll tell you later.”
She rubbed her cheek to his, then skimmed her lips there, teasing her way to his mouth. With a long, low sound of pleasure, she trailed her fingers into his hair and used her lips, her teeth, her tongue, to seduce.
The worries of the day slid away as she filled him. The warmth with its promise of heat, the lazy desire that was sure to turn to urgency. While he guided her in small circles, she led him in this more intimate dance with kisses that drugged the mind, with hands that aroused the body.
As her mouth became more demanding, she tugged the jacket off his shoulders, then raked her short nails up the back of his shirt.
He could feel the music, a kind of rising pulse inside him as he tasted the flesh of her throat. What beat inside him beat for her, and always would. Her fingers were busy now with the buttons of his shirt even as he shoved her own jacket down her arms.
She shook herself free of it before clamping her teeth, small, nibbling bites, on his bare shoulder.
“You’re getting ahead of me,” he managed.
“Keep up.” Nimble and quick, she unhooked his trousers and closed her hand over him.
His blood surged, stealing his breath so that he fumbled with her weapon harness. Though he hit the release, the strap tangled with her half-open shirt. “Bloody hell.”
Her laugh was muffled against his mouth, and her hands were ruthless.
She could feel his heart raging against hers now, just as she could feel his struggle for control. But she’d make him lose control this time, until he thought of nothing but her, felt nothing but that burn in the blood.
She knew how the need would build in him—in her—gathering fast and hot, as painful as a fresh bruise, spreading until the system screamed for release.
That was what he brought her, what they brought each other.
They dragged each other to the floor, rolling over the rug as they pulled and tugged at clothes, as hands rushed over damp flesh and mouth sought mouth.
She wanted him wild, mindless, raging, and knew his body—its weaknesses, its strength—well enough to exploit both. She waged power against power and felt a fresh spurt of excitement when his breath caught on her name.
His hands were rough, she wanted them rough, as they raced over her. His mouth was hot, voracious when it closed over her breast.
Feeding, he fed her so that even as she flew over that first whippy edge, she could crave more.
When he clamped his hands over her wrists to still her hands, she didn’t struggle. She would let him believe he had the control, let him take and take until he thought them both sated. She arched, offering herself to that greedy mouth, and absorbed every shattering thrill.
And when she felt him brace to plunge inside her, she rolled—quick as a snake—and reversed their positions. Now her hands cuffed his wrists, and her body pinned his.
“What’s your hurry?”
His eyes were madly blue, his breath in tatters. “Christ, Eve.”
“You’ll just have to wait till I’m done with you.”
Her mouth crushed down on his.
His system was one raw nerve, and she scraped pleasure over it without mercy. His skin was slick with sweat, his heart a painful hammer blow against his ribs, his blood already screaming in his ears. And still she used him.
He heard himself say her name again, again, then lost his own words in a frantic spate of Gaelic that might have been prayers, might have been curses.
When she rose over him, her skin gleaming in the last red lights of the dying sun, he was beyond any speech.
Now her fingers linked with his, and she took him in.
She bowed back, her body a slim and lovely arch of energy, and it shuddered, shuddered, as his did. Then she shifted her gaze, fixed her eyes on his. And rode.
He lost his senses, lost his mind as she drove him. Sensations pounded him, too hard, too fast for any defense. As his vision dimmed, he could see her face, and those dark eyes focused so intently on him.
Then he went blind as the pleasure shot through him, a hot bullet, and he emptied himself into her.
They were both still quivering when she slid down to collapse in a sweaty heap beside him on the floor. He could hear, as the roaring in his ears began to subside, her wheezing gasps for air.
It was good to know he wasn’t the only one who’d been knocked breathless.
“It’s gone dark,” he managed.
“Your eyes are closed.”
He blinked, just to make sure. “No. It’s dark.”
She grunted, and still wheezing, flipped to her back. “Oh yeah, it is.”
“Funny, with all the beds in this house how often we end up on the floor.”
“It’s more spontaneous, and primitive.” She shifted to rub her butt. “And harder.”
“It’s all of that. Should I thank you for doing your wifely duty?”
“I object to any term that contains the word ‘wifely,’ but you can thank me for fucking your brains out.”
“Yes, indeed.” His heart was still knocking, but he nearly had his wind back. “Thanks for that.”
“No problem.” She stretched, luxuriously. “I’ve got to go grab a shower, and put in some time on the case I caught today.” She waited two full beats. “Maybe you’d like to give me a hand.”
He said nothing for a moment, just continued to contemplate the ceiling. “I must have looked fairly pitiful when you came home. I get sweaty, burn up the carpet sex, and now you voluntarily decide to ask me for help on a case. What would be another word for ‘wifely’?”
“Just watch it, pal.”
When she sat up, he ran a hand affectionately up her back. “Darling Eve. I’d be happy to give you a hand in the shower, but then I’ve got some work of my own to see to. This business today’s put me behind. But maybe you could tell me about it before we go our separate ways for the next couple hours.”
“College girl, part-time clerk at a 24/7,” she began as she rose to gather up scattered clothes. “Somebody killed her with a single stab to the heart late last night, and crammed her body into a recycle bin on Delancey, across from where she worked.”
“Cold.”
“It gets colder.”
She told him of the images, the tip to Nadine, as they went upstairs to shower. It helped, she’d discovered, to run through the steps and stages of a case out loud, particularly with an audience who picked up on the nuances.
Roarke never mi
ssed a nuance.
“Someone she knew, and trusted,” he said.
“Almost has to be. She didn’t put up a fight.”
“Someone who blends at the college,” he added, grabbing a towel. “So if he or she was seen loitering, nothing would be thought of it.”
“He—or she—is careful.” Out of habit, she stepped into the drying tube and let the warm air swirl. “Methodical,” she added, raising her voice. “Tidy. A planner. Mira’s going to tell me, when she profiles, that the killer probably holds a job, pays bills in a timely fashion, doesn’t make trouble. Has a knack with imaging, so I’m betting it’s either a serious hobby or a profession.”
“There’s something you haven’t said,” he added as Eve stepped out of the tube. “You haven’t said he’s already looking for his second.”
“Because he’s not.” She scooped a hand through her hair as she walked into the bedroom. “He’s already picked number two. He’s already got the first images locked.”
She chose ancient gray pants and a sleeveless tank. “The data club might be a trolling spot. I’ll see what I find on the security discs and the employee files.” She glanced over her shoulders. “You don’t happen to own Make The Scene.”
“Doesn’t ring,” he said easily as he put on a fresh shirt. “I’ve a few data clubs around the city, but most of mine are close to schools or on campus. More traffic, i.e., more profit.”
“Hmm. Did you ever go to college?”
“No. School and I had a poor relationship.”
“Neither did I. I can’t relate. It’s like another planet. I’m worried I’ll miss something there, if there’s anything there, because I can’t relate. I mean, take this professor. Why is she teaching Imaging classes? She doesn’t need the money, and if she wants to work in Imaging, why not just do that?”
“Those who can’t, teach. Isn’t there some saying along those lines?”
She gave him a blank look. “If you can’t do something, how the hell can you teach somebody else to do it?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea. It may be she enjoys teaching. People do.”
“God knows why. People asking questions all the time, looking at you for the answers, for approval, whatever. Dealing with fuck-ups and smartasses and pompous jerks. And all so they can go off and get jobs that pay more than you make to teach them how to get the jobs in the first place.”
