by J. D. Robb
He loved the long, lean length of her, craved it with a hunger that was never quite sated. Her skin, always a surprise of delicacy, was damp and hot so that it slid like wet silk over his as they moved together. Her mouth came back to his, burning like a fever, and drenched them both in madness.
“Inside me.” She rolled, crawling, clawing over him. Straddling him. “Inside me.” And took him hard, fast, deep.
Her hips pistoned, a speed that blurred his brain. He could see the shape of her over him, the gleam of her eyes against the dark as she drove them both, brutally.
Battered, he rocked in the pleasure, let her take and take until her head fell back, until he felt the orgasm punch through her like a fist through glass.
Until she shattered.
Then he reared up, dragged her still shuddering body against him. And let go.
She fell into sleep like it was a pit and stayed there, sprawled facedown, for three hours.
She felt considerably better when she woke. She told herself the headache was gone, and it was so deeply buried under denial, it was nearly the same thing.
And a couple of catnaps during the day, she was sure, would do more for her than some chemical.
She didn’t even make it out of bed before Roarke was sitting beside her, fully dressed. He had his morning stock reports on screen, muted, a pot of coffee still seductively steaming on the table in the sitting area.
And he held a pill in one hand, a suspicious-looking glass of liquid on the bedside table.
“Open up,” he ordered.
“Uh-uh.”
“I hate to give you more bruises, but if I must, I must.”
They both knew he’d enjoy using brute force. “I don’t need anything. You’re nothing but a chemi-head pusher.”
“Darling, you say the sweetest things.” In a move too fast to evade, he had her earlobe pinched between his thumb and forefinger. One flick of his wrist and the shock of the twist had her mouth dropping open.
He popped the pill in. “Phase one.”
She swung at him, but since she was choking her aim was off. The next thing she knew he was yanking her head back by her hair and pouring the liquid down her throat.
She swallowed twice in self-defense before she managed to shove at him.
“I’ll kill you.”
“All of it.” With grim efficiency, he pinned her and forced the rest of the booster into her. “Phase two.”
“You’re a dead man, Roarke.” She swiped the back of her hand over her chin where some of the booster had dripped. “You don’t know it, but you’ve already stopped breathing. The walking dead.”
“I wouldn’t have to put us both through that if you’d take reasonable care of yourself.”
“And when you finally realize you’re dead, and drop to the ground—”
“Feeling better?”
“—and you’re laying there, I’m going to step over your cold, lifeless body, open the doors of that department store you call a closet, and I torch it.”
“Really, darling. No need to get nasty. Yes, better,” he decided with a nod.
“I hate you.”
“I know.” He leaned in to give her a light kiss. “I hate you, too. I’m in the mood for eggs Benedict. Why don’t you have your shower, then you can update me over breakfast?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
His grin flashed as he rose. “Such a clichéd and female weapon.” He turned, started down the stairs. And wasn’t the least surprised when she landed on his back.
“That’s more like it,” he managed as she squeezed his windpipe with her crooked arm.
“Just be careful who you call a female, ace.”
She dropped off, strode naked into the bath. Watching the indignant twitch of her ass, Roarke chuckled. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She only ate because there was no point in wasting the food. She only updated him because it helped her sort through data when she relayed events out loud.
He listened, idly stroking the cat.
“Between the hospital and MT staff,” he commented, “the media will have been fed by now. That could work in your favor.”
“I’m figuring. These two, they’re not the type to go into the wind. Too much ego on the line for them to stop cold. I’ve got a lot of data on them. Maybe too much, maybe that’s part of the problem. Too much data, not enough focus. You got all these lines to tug, they can get tangled on you.”
She got up to strap on her shoulder harness. “I’ve got to streamline it.”
“Why don’t you let me take Allegany? It’s mine, after all. People would be more likely to tell me things they wouldn’t tell a badge. And what they don’t tell me,” he added, “I can find out in other ways. Ways that would probably be legal, more or less, since I now own the company.”
“Your definition of more or less has a wider scope than mine.” But it would save her time, and time was essential. “Try to stay close to the line on it.”
“Whose line would that be? Yours or mine?”
“Har. I’ve got a briefing with the team at Central. Pass me anything you pick up.”
“Naturally.” Bringing the cat with him, he rose and crossed to her. Kissed her. “Take care of yourself, Lieutenant.”
“Why should I?” She headed for the door. “You get such a charge out of doing it for me.”
Roarke glanced down at the cat as he listened to his wife’s boots click down the hall. “That’s a point.”
In the conference room she’d booked at Central, Eve played the security disc from Moniqua’s building.
“We see here she’s more in line with Bryna Bankhead. Similar physical type, more sophisticated appearance and lifestyle. He uses yet another look himself here, which tells me he doesn’t like to repeat his character. Keeps it fresh for him. Same pattern, but he can walk through the performance from a new angle. Feeney?”
He picked up the rhythm. “According to the overscan of her home unit, he used the name Byron in correspondence with her. Probability indicates this is from the poet guy. Lord Byron. The e-mail messages go back two weeks.”
“Again, follows pattern. He takes his time. With this pattern he’d have studied her in real life. Finding a place near her apartment or her workplace. We check both.”
She glanced over as the door opened. Trueheart, young and ridiculously fresh in his uniform, flushed as heads turned in his direction. “Sorry. Excuse me, sir. I’m late.”
“No, you’re on schedule. Report?”
“Sir, subject Cline’s condition remains unchanged. No one without authorization entered her hospital room. I remained on post, inside the room, throughout the shift.”
“Were there any calls of inquiry relating to her?”
“Several, Lieutenant, beginning at approximately oh six hundred when the first media report hit. Five inquiries from reporters requesting medical information.”
“That jibes as I’ve had double that on my office ’link. Sign out, Trueheart. Go get some sleep. I want you to resume your post at the hospital at eighteen hundred. I’ll clear your duty sheet with your sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant? I appreciate you requesting me.”
Eve shook her head when he’d closed the door behind him. “Thanking me for sticking him with the most boring duty on or off planet. Okay, Roarke’s digging into Allegany. I want all pertinent data on J. Forrester, and this Theodore McNamara who’s currently dodging my messages. And we slog away at the online dealer. We concentrate on the chemicals. How, why, and where they get their supply.”
“My source in Illegals only came up with one strong possible,” Feeney said. “One known local dealer who specialized in the upper-end sex trade and made a profit. Name’s Otis Gunn, and he was in the swim about ten years ago. Had a pretty good line going until he got cocky and started cooking and serving his own Rabbit at parties.”
“What’s he up to now?”
“Year nine of twenty.” Feen
ey pulled a bag of nuts out of one of his sagging pockets. “Rikers.”
“Yeah? I haven’t visited the old homestead in a while. Wonder if they’ve missed me?” She broke off as her communicator signalled, paced away to answer. “I just cleared Louise through,” she said as she tucked the communicator away again. “She claims to have some information on last night’s hit.”
She looked at the case board, at the new picture she’d pinned to it. She’d kept Moniqua’s face separate from the dead. She wanted it to stay there.
When she turned back she saw something pass between McNab and Peabody. Something with just a little heat, so she looked away fast.
“Peabody, why don’t I have any damn coffee?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I will rectify that immediately.”
Peabody popped up, was actually humming under her breath as she programmed the AutoChef. And there was a bright look in her eyes when she carried the coffee to Eve.
“Eat any good pizza lately?” Eve muttered, and the light in Peabody’s eyes turned instantly to embarrassed guilt.
“Maybe. Just a slice . . . or two.”
Eve leaned in. “Ate the whole damn pie, didn’t you?”
“It was really good pizza. I sort of, you know, missed the taste of it.”
“No more humming on duty.”
Peabody squared her shoulders. “No, sir. All humming will cease immediately.”
“And no sparkly-eye crap either,” Eve added and yanked open the door to look for Louise.
“You can look pretty sparkly-eyed after really good pizza, too,” Peabody muttered, then decided not to press her luck when Eve snarled.
“Dallas.” Louise double-timed it down the corridor. She wasn’t wearing a power suit this morning, but the worn jeans and roomy shirt she usually donned for the clinic. “I’m so glad you are here. I didn’t want to go into all this over a ’link.”
“Sit down.” Because Louise was pale despite her rush through Central’s labyrinth, Eve took her arm and pulled her to a chair. “Take a breath, then tell me what you’ve got.”
“Last night. I had a date last night. Drinks at The Royal Bar.”
“Roarke’s place? In The Palace Hotel?”
“Yes. I saw them. Dallas, I saw them sitting in a booth near our table. I spoke with her in the ladies’ lounge.”
“Slow down. Peabody, some water here.”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” Louise continued. “If I had been I’d have seen . . . I can see her face right now as she sat in front of the mirror. It wasn’t just champagne. I’m a doctor, goddamn it, I should have seen she was drugged. I can see it now.”
“We see all kinds of things after. Here.” She shoved the water into Louise’s hands. “Drink, then suck it in, Louise. Suck it in and tell me everything you remember.”
“Sorry.” She sipped once. “When I saw the media report this morning, I recognized her. Realized.” She drank again. “I called and checked on her condition on the way over. There’s been no improvement. None. Her chances decrease every hour.”
“Last night. Concentrate on last night. You’re having drinks in the bar.”
“Yes.” She drew in a breath. Steadied. “Champagne, caviar. It was lovely. We were talking. I wasn’t paying much attention to anything but him. But I did notice, sort of absently, the couple in the booth. They had champagne and caviar, too. I think, I’m nearly sure, they were already seated when we got there. They were sitting very close together. Very intimate. They were a very attractive couple.”
“Okay, what next?”
“We danced. I forgot about them. But I went into the lounge, sat down to freshen up, and to get my balance. It was a very intense first date for me. While I was there, she came out of the stalls. She was throwing off all kinds of sexual sparks. Told me to congratulate her, that she was going to get very lucky. I was amused, and half wishing I could be that confident. They were leaving when I came out. They were leaving, and I never gave it a thought.”
She sighed. “Her color was too high, her eyes were glassy. I can see it now.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“Polished, attractive. They looked right together, and he looked natural in that sort of setting. I wish I’d noticed more. Maybe Charles did.”
Eve felt the jolt in her belly, saw it in the quick jerk of her aide’s shoulders. “Charles?”
“Yes. Charles Monroe. I tried to reach him this morning, but he has his ’link on message mode only.”
“Okay.” Oh boy. “I may need to talk to you again.”
“You can reach me at the clinic all day.” She got to her feet. “I wish I was more help.”
“Everything helps.”
Eve said nothing about it as she drove. She intended to say nothing about it ever in this lifetime. But Peabody’s absolute silence broke her down.
“You okay about this?”
“I’m thinking about it. It wasn’t a job.”
“What?”
“They had this vibe going yesterday. It was a date, not a job. I’m okay with it,” she decided. “I mean, we’re just friends. It was just kind of a shock, that’s all.”
She glanced over, at the entrance to Charles’s building, when Eve pulled to the curb. Apparently, she’d better be all right with it.
He was heading to the elevator as they stepped off. “Dallas. I was just coming in to see you. I just saw—”
“I know. Let’s go inside first.”
“You know, but . . . Louise. Is she upset? I need to call her.”
Eve’s eyebrows raised as he fumbled with the keycode of his door. The unflappable Charles was definitely flapped. “Later. She’s okay.”
“Not thinking straight,” he confessed, and ran a hand absently over Peabody’s shoulder as they all stepped inside. “I spent an hour in the relaxation tank this morning. Didn’t turn on the screen until a few minutes ago. The report hit me in the face. We saw them, just last night. Him and the woman he tried to kill.”
“Tell me.”
It was almost identical to Louise’s statement, save for the interlude in the lounge. But Charles’s speculation that the man was an LC interested her.
“Why did you think that?”
“He was detached, just a little. It’s hard to explain. He was very solicitous, very smooth, but there was calculation under it. He let her make all the physical advances and let her pay the check. I was preoccupied,” he admitted, “but I noticed the way he looked after her when she went into the lounge. Calculation, again. And smugness. Just a quick impression on my end. Some LCS think of clients that way.”
“How about clients?”
“Sorry?”
“Some clients look at LCs that way.”
He studied Eve’s face, then nodded. “Yes. You’re right about that.”
She turned for the door. “Check with some of your associates for me, will you, Charles? For a client who likes classical music, pink roses, and candlelight.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “And poetry. You people keep client files on preferences, right?”
“If we want to stay in business, we do. I’ll ask around. Delia? Can I have a minute?”
Eve kept going. “I’ll get the elevator.”
“I know we’d penciled in dinner this evening,” he began.
“Don’t worry about it.” She found it easy to kiss his cheek. That’s what friends were for. “I like her.”
“Thanks.” He gave Peabody’s hand a squeeze. “So do I.”
Chapter 12
It usually made employees nervous when Roarke showed up unexpectedly at one of his companies. To his way of thinking, a few nerves helped keep people on their toes.
He paid well, and the working conditions that were found in all his companies, factories, subsidiaries, and offices throughout the world and its satellites were unquestionably high.
He knew what it was to be poor, and to be surrounded by the dingy, the dark, the dirty. For some—himsel
f, for instance—those were motivators to achieve more. By whatever means possible. But for most, a stingy wage and an airless box in which to earn it fostered hopelessness, resentment. And pilfering.
He preferred a higher overhead, which tended to keep those who belonged to him comfortable, loyal, and productive.
He walked through the main level of Allegany, making mental notes on what might need to be adjusted in security, in decor. He found no glitches in communication as within moments of his requesting to speak with the chief chemist he was being escorted to the thirtieth floor. The flustered receptionist who led the way offered him coffee twice and apologized for the delay in locating Dr. Stiles a total of three times before they’d reached the man’s office.
“I’m sure he’s very busy.” Roarke glanced around the large, somewhat disorganized room where the sun and privacy screens were both firmly fixed to the window.
The place was as dim as a cave.
“Oh yes, sir. I’m sure he is, sir. May I bring you some coffee while you wait?”
Three for three, he thought. “No, thank you. If Dr. Stiles is in one of the labs, perhaps—”
He broke off when the man stalked in, all flapping lab coat and scowl. “I’m in the middle of a project.”
“So I imagined,” Roarke said mildly. “I’m sorry to interrupt you.”
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded of the horrified receptionist. “Haven’t I told you I don’t want people fussing around in my office?”
“Yes, but—”
“Scoot. Scoot.” He scooted her personally, waving his hands at her like a farm wife scattering chickens. “What do you want?” he said to Roarke and slammed the office door smartly.
“It’s nice to see you again, too, Stiles.”
“I don’t have time for chitchat and politics. We’re working on the new heart regenerative serum.”
“How’s it going?”
“It has momentum, which you’re stopping by calling me out of my lab.”
He sat, gracelessly, a beefy man with the shoulders of an Arena Ball fullback. His face was dominated by a nose that sliced down the center of his face like an ax through granite. His eyes were black and brooding, his mouth set in a permanent frown. His hair, a dingy gray he refused to change, sprang up out of his scalp like steel wool.
