by J. D. Robb
He swam like a seal, she thought, sleek and fast, and looked like—well, if she couldn’t think it, who could? He looked like a damn Irish god, with that rangy body, the ripple of muscle, the streaming black hair. When he changed up strokes, executed a surface dive, she grinned. With an ass like that, who wouldn’t want to sink their teeth into it?
Maybe she could take more than fifteen minutes.
She stripped where she was, took position on the edge, and dove in. When she surfaced, he was treading water, and watching her with eyes that made the bold blue of the pool seem pale.
“It seems I’ve caught a mermaid.”
“You haven’t caught anything yet, pal. How many laps have you got in?”
“Twenty-two. I’m after thirty.”
“Then I’ll catch up.”
She pushed off the side. He paced her awhile, which made her kick in to up the speed. Still, they hit the wall together, rolled into the turn and push. She lost him after eight, but moments later heard the rumble that told her he’d settled into the grotto corner, and its jets.
So she lost herself in the rhythm, in the water, in the effort, and somewhere in the twelfth lap, her crowded mind cleared. When she hit thirty, her muscles were loose to the point of limp, her breathing shallow, and her mind utterly relaxed.
She skimmed under the water, surfaced in the grotto beside him.
“God! That was a good idea.”
“I have any number of them.”
She let her head fall back, her eyes close. Under the water her fingers linked with his until she had her breath back. “I’ve got one of those coming on. Oh yeah, there it is.”
She ducked under, rolled, then skimmed her way up to take him into her mouth. The water churned around her as she gripped his hips, as she felt the muscles she’d admired quiver for her. She surfaced, letting her lips run up his belly, his chest, his throat to where his mouth waited to mate with hers.
“I like your idea better than mine.”
“Thought you might.” She scraped her teeth over his throat. “Mira said I should recharge.” Tossing her head back, she shot him a look of pure challenge. “So, recharge me.”
He pulled her under with him, into that breathless, beating blue.
He’d thought himself prepared. Relaxed, comfortably aroused watching his wife burn off the day as he had. He’d imagined persuading her into wet, lazy love once she had. Instead the need for her had simply leaped into him, torn through him as a hungry animal who wanted feast and conquest.
It burned through him, a fever in the blood as he devoured her mouth, as his hands sought and took. Her gasp for air when they surfaced ended on a cry of shocked pleasure that only stoked the flames.
Her hands dug into his shoulders when he took her breast. Greedy mouth, demanding teeth. Wet and warm from the water, she trembled from the assault.
And still she said, “Yes.”
“Yes,” as the water closed over them again.
Her ears roared from the pound of the water, from the pound of her own blood. How could anyone survive wanting, being wanted, like this? How could anyone live without it? He set a storm inside her of feelings, sensations, of desires that throbbed toward pain. A storm that raged and blew and thundered until there was nothing left of her but a drowning, helpless love.
Rough hands pushed her back to the wall where hers gripped the edge, where her moans echoed in the heavy air as his mouth streaked up her thighs, as his tongue arrowed inside her. He tugged, shifting her so the gush of hot jets pulsed over her, inside her—hot, relentless—as his mouth worked her toward frenzy.
“I can’t. I can’t. God!”
The orgasm was brutal and fierce, a ripping of self from sanity.
He felt it break through her, felt the force and wonder of release. And saw when he looked into her eyes again the complete surrender to it. To him.
“Take. Take me.” He drove into her, into that surrender. And lifting her hips, plunged deeper yet. As the madness pummeled him, whipped him, he heard his own voice, thick and breathless, murmuring demands and pleas in Irish she couldn’t possibly understand.
And still once more, as his body battered hers, she said, “Yes.”
On that single, whispered word, he surrendered.
Sprawled in the pulsing water, limbs like melted wax, Eve wasn’t sure who was holding up whom. She thought, vaguely, that a double drowning was a distinct possibility. But couldn’t seem to care.
“Maybe it’s something in the water, some sort of sex drug. You could bottle it, sell it, and make another fortune.”
“Hell with that. I’m keeping it all for us. Did I hurt you at all? I’m a bit bleary.”
“I can take care of myself, pal.” She let her head fall like a rock onto his shoulder. “Besides. My idea.”
“And a bloody good one it was.”
“I was going straight up to work. Got big, fat, sticky piles of it, so I was going straight up to work. Then the gargoyle said you were down here. I thought maybe I’d take fifteen minutes for a swim, loosen up.”
“Well, we sure as Christ loosened up.”
“Then I saw you knifing through the water. All wet and ripply and…you.” She tilted her head back to look at him. “I saw you, and that’s all it took. Sometimes I can’t breathe, I love you so much.”
“Eve.” Emotion deepened his eyes as he kissed her, very sweetly, then he just rested his brow against hers.
“I keep thinking, well, this’ll settle down. It’s bound to level off and settle down. But it doesn’t. Even when things are just going smooth and we’re just…living, I can look at you, and I’ve got no breath left.”
“Every minute with you, I’m alive. I never knew before there were pieces of me unborn, just waiting for you. I’m alive with you, Eve.”
She sighed, touched his cheek. “We’d better get out of here. We’re getting mush all over the pool.”
It was back to murder as she pulled on the comfort of her old NYPSD sweatshirt and a pair of worn-out (just the way she liked them) jeans. While they dressed, she relayed to Roarke the conversation she’d had with Mira.
“You’re worried now she’ll find a way to dispose of this subordinate—as you’re thinking of her, or him.”
“Gotta have a plan for it. I think she thinks this individual wouldn’t dare betray her, but she’ll have a plan. She’s got Brigit Plowder, who doesn’t strike me as a moron, completely wrapped. Pretty much ditto on Tribble’s wife. But Plowder…”
“Are you looking at her? At Brigit Plowder?”
“I look at everyone, but no, she doesn’t strike me as a subordinate or…what’s the word? What is it? Supplicant. Yeah, that’s what our Ava likes. She likes having her supplicants. She bought herself plenty of them with Anders’s money.”
She caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror, paused, took a closer look. He’d put on basically the same thing she had—jeans and in his case a dark blue sweater. But…
“How come you always look better than me?”
He glanced in the mirror as well, and smiling stepped behind her to wrap his arm around her from the back. “I can’t agree with that. Eye of the beholder.”
“You’re still tuning from water games.” She shook her head, studying them, he thought, as she might suspects in a lineup. “It’s just not right. Anyway, back off, ace, we’ve got a load of work ahead of us and—crap, I forgot. I need to tag Charles. I need to do a follow-up there.”
To amuse himself, and annoy her, he only tightened his hold.
“Hey.”
“Hey, back. It’ll be a working meal again, and would that make me your subordinate or your supplicant?”
“Ha-ha. You’re nobody’s subordinate, and you wouldn’t know how to supplicate. Is that a word?”
“I’ll look it up. Working meal, and you’re thinking…burgers.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What, have you gone all psychic on me?”
“Logic, and an intimate—as
I’ve recently proven—knowledge of my wife. You missed lunch, discounting a limo cruller, and you’ve expended a great deal of energy in the pool, with various activities. You’re hungry, which leads you to red meat. A steak won’t do as you won’t want the trouble of cutting anything up. So it’s a burger you want.”
“What am I having for dessert?”
He cocked a brow at her reflection. “Well, there you have me.”
“Yeah, I got you.” She turned, bit his lip. “I brought home pie.”
“Really? What sort of pie?”
She only smiled, pulled out, and picked up her ’link to tag Charles.
Nervous, distracted, Charles paused outside the brownstone in the West Village and checked the display on his signaling ’link. “It’s Dallas,” he told Louise.
Worried, uncertain, she watched him frown at the display. “Aren’t you going to answer?”
“Ah…no. No, I’ll get back to her.”
“It’ll be about the Anders case. Charles, if there’s something about it that you haven’t told her, something you’re holding back because of loyalty or discretion—”
“There isn’t.” He slid the ’link back in his pocket. “Let’s go in.”
“Actually, Charles, I’m not really in the mood to socialize, especially with new people.” She glanced toward the house. “I really think you and I need to talk.”
The nerves already buzzing in his belly kicked up to a dull roar. “We will.”
“Things haven’t been—”
“Don’t.” He took both her hands. “Just don’t. Let’s go inside first. I really need to take you inside.”
“All right.” Inside her belly, something sank. “All right.”
He led her through the iron gate, down the walk cutting through a small and lovely front garden, then up the short flight of stairs to the main level of the three-story home. But when he took out keys, she stared.
“What—”
“One minute. Just one minute.” He keyed a code on the security pad, unlocked the door.
Baffled, she stepped inside.
Floors gleamed, old, rich wood providing a lovely base for the foyer, for the sturdy stairs with their glossy rail, and on to a spacious room where a fire simmered in a hearth of lapis blue.
“It’s empty.”
“Yes, for now.”
Her footsteps echoed on the wood as she wandered into what she assumed was the living area, as she turned to look at the trio of tall windows with their carved trim.
“It’s a lovely space.”
“There’s a lot more,” he told her. “Let me show you through.”
“Why?” She turned back to him. “Why are we in a beautiful and empty house in the West Village with you offering to show me through?”
“I bought it.” He hadn’t meant to tell her exactly that way, but she was standing there, framed by those windows, looking at him with such serious, such somber gray eyes.
“You…you bought this house?”
“Yes. Two weeks ago.”
“Two…I see.” She smiled. “Well, congratulations. I didn’t realize you were even thinking of relocating, much less buying a home. No wonder you’ve been so distracted lately. So, show me the rest. These floors, Charles, they’re just gorgeous. Are they all the way through? And all this space!”
She started to hurry by, but he caught her arm. “You’re upset.”
“No, no, just surprised. It’s such a big step. Enormous.”
“I’ve taken a couple more. I didn’t tell you.”
“No, you didn’t tell me.” Though her eyes stayed on his face, she eased back from him. “You haven’t told me much of anything for weeks. So, let me be grown up and civilized about this, will you? Let me try. Is there a dining room? I bet there’s a wonderful dining room, perfect for dinner parties.”
“I’ve retired.”
Though she’d pulled away to move on, that stopped her again. “What?”
“I turned in my license, the end of last week.”
“Last week? I don’t understand this, don’t understand you. You’ve turned in your license, bought a house. What is this, Charles?”
“I wanted—needed to have it, to have everything in place before I told you. I applied for, and have been granted a license in psychology, specializing in sex therapy. Dr. Mira helped me there, and agreed that it was a good lateral move.”
Louise stared at him with something like grief in her eyes. “You spoke with Mira, but not with me. Asked for her help, but not for mine.”
“I wanted to be sure I could pull it off, Louise. She agreed to help me with the applications, the testing, the screening process. And well, talking to her throughout all this helped me be sure it was something I really wanted to do, really could do.”
“As talking to me wouldn’t have helped?”
“No. Yes. She’s neutral, objective. And while she was helping me through it, I was dealing with buying this place. The lower level here is a good space for the office and therapy rooms. And there’s…I’m not doing this right.”
He stopped, pushed at his hair again. For a man who’d made his living, and a damn good one, he thought, on being smooth, he was bumbling this like a first-nighter. “I haven’t been able to figure out how to do this. Every time I tried to work it out, I hit a wall. Louise—”
“Then let me make it easy for you. You want to change your life. A new home, a new profession. A new start then.” Tears burned, but she’d be damned if she’d end this weeping and sniveling. “New relationships I’m not part of. Fine, show your gorgeous new house to her, you bastard.”
“Who? No!” He had to move fast to grab her before she reached the door. “Not part of it. For Christ’s sake, Louise, you’re the center of it. You’re the reason for it.”
“How? How am I any part of any of this when you do it all without even telling me?”
“What would you have said to me if I told you I was going to retire because of you?”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never had a problem with your work. It’s your work. And it was your work when I met you, when I fell in love with you, damn it, Charles.”
“Exactly. It never bothered you. Never made a difference in how you felt about me. But it began to bother me. It began to bother me when I just couldn’t give my clients my…best. Because, Louise, I don’t want to be with anyone but you. I don’t want to touch anyone but you. I needed—for myself—I needed to lay the foundation for the new, to believe I could do this. And offer this, to you.”
“Offer…” Her eyes widened. “This? This house?”
“It’s closer to your clinic than either of our apartments. It’s a nice neighborhood, and it’s…it’s a home, Louise. Not a place to sleep or hang clothes. It’s a place to live, together, to build something together.”
“I need a second.” She put a hand on his chest, eased him back. “You did all this, changed your life, for me?”
“For us. I hope. If you don’t like the house, we’ll find another. Mira said it would probably be better to wait on the house, to consult you there. But…I didn’t.” At a loss, he lifted his hands, let them fall. “It was probably a mistake to buy it without you. But I wanted to give you something. Something solid, I guess, symbolic, and a little spectacular.”
“I thought you were tired of me, that you didn’t love me anymore and didn’t know how to tell me.” She managed a watery laugh. “You’ve been breaking my heart, Charles, for weeks.”
“Louise.” He drew her to him, kissed her damp cheeks, her lips. “It must be loving you so much, and being terrified you wouldn’t want all this, that’s had me screw up so badly.”
“I was going to be so sophisticated and cool when you broke things off. Then I was going to gather up any of your things at my apartment and set them on fire. I’d worked it out.”
“I was prepared to beg.”
She tipped her head back, laid her hands on his cheeks, and smiled beautifully. “I love yo
u, Charles. You didn’t have to do this for me, or for us, but I love that you did. I love that you screwed it up. Oh! Show me the rest!” She spun away and into a circle. “Show me every inch so I can start planning how to drive you crazy with decorating ideas. I’ll nag you so relentlessly over window treatments and wall colors you’ll wonder why you ever wanted to cohab.”
“Cohab?” He shook his head. “For two smart people who’re desperately in love, we’re certainly having a hard time understanding each other.” He slipped a small velvet box out of his pocket, flipped the top. The diamond exploded with light and brilliance. “Marry me.”
“Oh.” She stared at the ring, stared into his eyes. “Oh my God.”
14
WITH THE BURGER DEVOURED, EVE PACED IN front of her wall screens. “What we have to do is divide these into categories, cross-reference. First, the people we know she had multiple contacts with. The more contact, the easier it is to establish a relationship. We put those into categories. Staff, volunteers, beneficiaries.”
“She may have met any number of these people off book,” Roarke pointed out. “Private meetings. The nature of that would make the relationship more personal, more intimate.”
“Yeah, can’t argue. So we divide those up, too. Peabody’s got a good start with the multiples, and with those we have individuals with criminals, and we have the LC angle. We need to press that.”
She turned back to him. “If you were going to have someone killed—”
“Some chores a man just wants to see to himself.”
She blew out a breath, scratched the back of her neck while he smiled serenely. “If,” she repeated. “And if you didn’t want to get your manicured hands dirty, would you exploit someone with some experience in criminal behavior, someone whose past deed or deeds could also give you a lever, if necessary, or would you go with the blank slate?”
“Interesting, as both have their advantages, and their pitfalls. And it would depend, too, on what the criminal behavior consisted of.”
“Yeah, we’re going to do a subset there on violent knocks.”
