by J. D. Robb
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.
He didn’t move, wasn’t sure he was capable. Reason, reality crept in slowly so he realized they lay tangled together on the sofa, a sweaty, sticky mess of still-quivering limbs and gasping breaths.
Christ Jesus, was there a luckier man in the universe?
Her skin was still hot, almost feverish. Her head lay like a stone on his chest. He considered, seriously, simply closing his eyes and sleeping just as they were for the next day or two.
Then she moaned, and she sighed. He searched for, and found, the connection between his brain and his arm so he could lift it and stroke her back.
And she purred.
“Bet you didn’t see that coming,” she murmured.
“I didn’t, no. If I’d realized rapping your head would turn you into an insatiable sexual maniac who’d use me so brutally, I’d have cold-cocked you long before this.”
She snickered against the side of his neck, then sighed again. “It wasn’t the head rap, it was the spaghetti. Or the spaghetti was the last in the line.”
“We’ll be eating it for the rest of our lives. Every bloody meal.” She shifted a little, snuggled a little. “It just, it all just made me go all gooey—and I was going to be all gooey and romantic and seduce you.” She lifted her head, smiled down at him. “Then I got really hungry.”
“I’m happy to be on the menu, anytime.”
“I screwed your brains out.”
“And then some.”
“And now we’re really disgusting.”
“No question about it.”
“I guess we should grab a shower before we eat cold spaghetti.”
“We can heat it up.”
“I like it cold.”
“Only you,” he muttered. “All right then, a shower. But you’ll keep your hands to yourself, you pervert. You’ve used me up.”
She gave a snorting laugh. “Boy, when the tables turn, they really turn. Come on, pal, I’ll give you a hand.”
They ate cold spaghetti, and since she’d proven herself quite healthy enough, Roarke poured her a glass of wine to go with it.
“Tell me about Alex Ricker, the search and so on. I’m interested.”
“I think he’s got as many clothes and shoes as you.”
“Well now, that’s not right. I’ll have to make a note to add to my wardrobe straightaway.”
“The thing is . . .” She wagged her fork at him, “I know you’re not joking.”
“Why would I?”
“Anyway.” She twirled past
a. “He was expecting us, and prepared. Trio of lawyers on-site to make sure we were good little cops. Full cooperation and all that. Place is perfect and pretty much what you’d expect. But there were off notes. Especially the guest room that had so obviously never been used, with a couple of pieces of furniture in it that looked like they’d just been plucked from the showroom floor. Not a crime to buy new furniture or have an unused room, and palm plate and voice security.”
“Ah, his private office. He probably had the unregistered equipment in it removed before we spoke to him this morning.”
“That’d be my take. Feeney’s on board with that, too. I’ve got the building’s security discs, but even if we see him personally carrying out boxes, or hauling in a dresser, he’s clear. Fully within his rights. I’ve got nothing on him but suspicion, and knowing he’s wrong.” She scowled, loaded her fork again. “He’s just wrong.”
“Wrong enough to have killed her, or had her killed?”
“I don’t know. Yet. PA Sandy covers his big fat lie of this morning by saying he assumed Alex was home all evening. Bullshit.”
“I tend to agree, but because?”
“Because they live in the same space, because they know each other and have since college. Because that little prick knows exactly what goes on when, where, and how.”
“Why lie when Alex was going to tell he’d gone out?”
“Good question. Could be he’d advised Alex to say he’d been home, told him he’d corroborate, then Alex changed his mind. Anyway, we’re checking on the alibi, but haven’t hit either way there. He’s smart,” Eve muttered. “Alex is smart and fairly cool-headed. So why would he pull something so ham-handed and useless as wrecking my ride?”
“You could’ve been much more seriously hurt. Yes, you could’ve been,” Roarke said before she could protest. “If you’d taken a full broadside, I’d be eating cold pasta beside your hospital bed this evening. Those police-issues are like bloody tin cans.”
“They’re reinforced,” she began, then shrugged at his steely stare. “Okay, they’re crap. But I kinda liked that one, damn it. It had some moves, and wasn’t completely ugly. I was used to it. And now I’m going to spend a couple of headachy hours on paperwork. Sucks sideways.”
“That may be your answer. You’re injured—minor or serious—your vehicle is wrecked, and you’re required to spend time on routine paperwork rather than the investigation.”
“A lot of risk, small benny. You have to steal two vehicles, tag mine, hire people willing to ram into another vehicle in broad daylight on a busy street. I don’t know why it would be worth it to him.”
“You’re responsible for his father’s imprisonment, and you’re mine. Anything he could do to hurt you may be worth it to him.”
“Maybe. Maybe. Could’ve been the little prick’s idea, and execution. He doesn’t like me.”
“And I’ll bet you were so friendly and polite in your dealings with him.”
“Nah, I liked pinching at his tight ass. Either way, I mean if it was either of them that set up that stupid ambush, it’ll trip them up. And Alex will be taking up residence in a cage next to his old man’s. I’m working with Mira. In some ways he fits her profile, in others, it’s not quite the right fit. I have to keep looking at her. There’s a connection between Coltraine and her killer, and looking at her may be how to find him. Find him, wrap him up, put him down.”
“Do you want it to be Alex because of his father?”
She took time to drink a little wine, consider it. “I hope not, but I can’t discount that element. I know—who’d know better?—that who and what we come from go a long way to forming who we are. Would I be a cop if it wasn’t for what was done to me? What he did to me? Would you be who you are without what was done to you?”
“It comes down to fate for me, I think. There are choices made, of course, along each step, but part of fate is what we make.”
She frowned. “That only makes sense if you’re Irish.”
“Could be. You chose, Eve, the law, the order of it. You could’ve chosen to hide inside the victim instead of standing for others.”
“I couldn’t be the victim. It wasn’t a choice. I couldn’t be what they’d tried to make me, and live that way. Neither could you. You couldn’t be the kind of man your father was, one who took orders from others, who beat young boys, who killed the innocent.”
“And enjoyed it.”
“Yeah, enjoyed it. Your father and mine.” Everything inside her darkened. “And Max Ricker. They got off on the cruelty, and the power it gave them over someone smaller or weaker. So we know a lot about that, you and me—and him. And Alex. We know a lot about that, because it’s in us. You and me, we took different roads, but we never took that one. We never took the cruel for the sake of it. But it’s in us.”
“And you have to wonder which road Alex took.”
“He was trained to run his father’s empire. That empire took a major hit last year. But the son developed his own interests, too. He’s got those contacts, that backing, that foundation, and the smarts and know-how to absorb some of his father’s holdings—some that slipped through. To restructure others. He’s crooked, and a cop he used to sleep with is dead.”
She stabbed a bite of meatball. “Maybe Coltraine was dirty, maybe she wasn’t. But she was involved with him. And maybe, since she’d made her distance there, taken this fresh start, she was working up to some whistle-blowing on him. That’s a good, strong motive to kill her.”
“But?”
“But.” She shook her head as she ate. “Where’s her documentation? Feeney and his gang of geeks would’ve detected a wipe, or tampering. I damn well think I’d have detected somebody being in her place and doing that wiping or tampering. But her comps are clear. He’s not as good as you.”
“Why, thank you, darling.”
“I’m serious. There’s nothing in his background that leads me to believe he’s that savvy with the e-work. That he’s that damn good he could pull all this off. Get to her, get to her files, and leave nothing. No trace.”
She stared into her wine as if she might find that trace, that one vital clue swimming in the deep red. “If she was going after him, or she was going to drop the dime there, she’d have documentation. She was a maniac about documentation. Her reports and case notes are fucking textbook. It was her strength.”
“Kept elsewhere.”
“Yeah, yeah, shit, like I haven’t thought of that?” Frustrated, she took another sip of wine. “I’ve got nothing that indicates she had a safe house, a bank box, a hidey-hole. Nothing that . . . Oh fuck me. Fuck me!”
“Again? Good God, Eve.”
“Yeah, a riot of laughs.” She pushed her glass into his hand, shoved up. “Morris. She hooks up, falls for Morris. Spends a lot of time with him, a lot of time at his place.”
“Ah. And may have passcoded and hidden something on one of his units. Or stashed copies of said data among his data discs.”
“I’m an idiot for not thinking of it.”
“That would make me an idiot, as I didn’t think of it either. And I’m a bloody genius about these things.” He smiled when she stared at him. “So I’m told.”
“I’ve got to check it out. I’ve got to—crap, he could be a target, too.”
“I believe we’re going out,” Roarke said, and set his wine and hers aside.
From the sidewalk, Eve stared at the windows of Morris’s loft while her stomach clenched. The privacy screens were engaged, and she could see only the faintest glow behind the glass.
“God, I hate this. He wants to be alone, just wants time and space to grieve, and I’ve got to go in there, pry in there.”
“A lesser friend would have waited until tomorrow, and sent an EDD contingent in. You’re respecting him and his grief as much as you possibly can.” Roarke took her hand. “I don’t want to put myself in his place, but if I were? I’d want the same.”
“I promised to tell him the trut
h, and keep him in the loop. Well, this is the damn loop.” She bore down, walked over, and pressed his buzzer.
It took time, but she saw the security light go on. She faced the camera. “I’m sorry, Morris, really sorry to disturb you. We need to come up. We need to talk.”
The only response was the green glow, and the mechanical thunk of the locks being released. They went in, but when she turned to the stairs, the elevator grate opened, and its light went green.
“Okay then.” She took a breath, stepped in with Roarke.
When the grate opened again, Morris stood on the other side.
He looked as he had that afternoon. A little tired, Eve thought, a little more worn, but much the same. The lights of the loft were quiet, as was the music haunting the air.
“Have you made an arrest?”
“No. But I need to tug on another line of investigation.”
He nodded, then seemed to focus on Roarke for the first time. “Please, come in. Both of you.”
Roarke touched Morris’s arm, just the lightest of contacts. “I wish there were more than words, because they’re never enough, or they’re simply too much. But I’m very sorry.”
“I’ve been sitting here, in the dark—or near dark—alone, trying to come to terms. Death is my business. It’s a reality, a finality I’ve made into my profession. But I can’t come to terms.”
“Death is your business,” Roarke said before Eve could comment. “Eve often says the same. I’m on the outside, of course, but I’ve never seen it that way. The truth is your business. Seeking it for those who can’t seek it for themselves is what you’ve made into your profession. She worries for you.”
“Roarke.”
“Quiet,” he said to Eve, mildly. “Hurts for you. You mean a great deal to her. To both of us. We’ll do whatever it takes to help find the truth for Amaryllis.”
“I saw her today.” Morris stepped away, sat—weariness in every movement. “Clip had done all he could. The people in my house, all they could. How many times have I stood there while someone looked on dead love? How many hundreds and hundreds of times? It doesn’t prepare you for when it’s yours. They’ll release her soon. I’ve, ah, cleared it to have her memorial tomorrow, in one of Central’s bereavement suites. At two. Her family will have one next week in Atlanta. I’ll go. And still, it doesn’t seem real.”
