Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(116)

That had saved her.

He was gentle with her and she with him, knowing gentleness was needed for both. Long, quiet kisses, like balm on a wound, all comfort to tend battered, bleeding souls.

So the swimming fatigue eased into a kind of dreamy wonder. He would give, she would give, and together they would find solace.

Patient hands on her skin, warming where the cold was buried so deep she’d never have reached it. His lips telling her wordlessly she was loved—she was cherished.

Then the words, those murmurs in Irish, like a soft caress over the unspeakable ache.

She gave them back to him, running her fingers through that silky hair, along those strong shoulders. To touch, just to touch, the miracle in her life.

Held warm and close in the dark, she felt that dreamy wonder begin the gradual lift to dreamy arousal.

She let it go—he knew the moment she did, the instant all the dark thoughts left her. And only the two of them remained in her heart, her mind.

With her wrapped around him, offering, asking, he could let it go. Only her, only this. Only love.

Only love, with her heart beating thickly under his lips, with her long, lean body moving. And her hands, so strong, so sure, gliding over him.

A warrior she was, would always be. But even a warrior needed tending.

He slipped inside her, gently, still gently, filling her as he murmured the words beating in his own heart. They moved slowly, riding long, sweet waves.

When those waves broke, they broke in beauty and a devotion neither had known with another.

“Can you sleep now?”

She let out a long sigh. “I think. But . . . let’s just hold on awhile. Okay?”

“We’ll hold on, you and I.”

Once again he felt her let go, this time into sleep. He lay quiet for a time, making certain she slept without the dark chasing her. Then he let himself follow her, still holding on.

—

She woke in the dark, heart pounding. Someone was screaming, and she feared it was her.

“It’s all right. It’s all right now.” He gripped her, swearing all the while. “It’s just the alarm.”

“It’s—what? It’s five?”

“No, it’s not yet bloody four. It’s the alarm I set on the searches. Just give me a moment, let me see what the buggering hell it is.”

“You got a hit. Lights on, twenty percent. You got a hit.”

“Let me bloody see, will you?”

Gone was the tender lover of the night, and in his place was a very annoyed, very tired man. He grabbed the PPC he’d set on the nightstand, scowled at it.

“Get coffee,” he snapped, “for both of us. I’ll not deal with this without coffee first. And yes, we’ve a hit. Let me see it through on this bleeding thing to make certain it’s worth being ripped awake.”

She didn’t argue. She wanted to, but she wanted coffee more. And it was so rare to see him tired and out of sorts, she’d give him that bloody minute before she pushed.

“There it is, there it is. Oh, she’s clever this one, and I’ll wager she had some help with it. But there it is.”

“What? Say what or I dump the damn coffee.”

“An address. Give me the shagging coffee.” He grabbed it, downed half the mug, hot and black. “An address, if I’m not mistaken, that is no more than a couple of blocks from Central. I need this coffee and a shower—and not a bloody boiling one. The copter is still outside, and we can be there in minutes.”

“I need to set it up.”

“Do what you need to do. I’m having a shower, cool enough to clear my head.”

“Give me that thing.” She snatched the PPC from him. “Go.”

She read the address—he was right. Close enough to Central that a cop with a decent arm could throw a rock through the window.

She started to tag Peabody, remembered she was naked, blocked video.

“Peabody,” came the muffled, slurred answer.

“We’ve got an address. Get to Central. I’ll be there within fifteen. Tag Baxter. I want him and Trueheart. And Uniform Carmichael. Are you getting this?”

“Yeah. I got it. I got it.”

“Bring McNab if he wants in—and Carmichael needs to tap three more uniforms. Move now, Peabody.”

“I’m up. I’m moving. I’ll make the tags.”

Eve clicked off—she’d deal with the rest on the way. But for now, she rushed into the bathroom and, bracing herself, stepped into the shower.

This time the scream she heard was her own. “Oh fucking hell, it’s freezing.”

“It’s set at ninety degrees, precisely.”

Because he sounded like himself, and amused about it, she gave him a snarl. “Get out, because it’s going up to one-oh-one. I’m out in two minutes.”

He left her to it, grabbed a towel, heard her heartfelt groan of relief after she called for jets at 101 degrees.

In just over two minutes, she darted back into the bedroom, dry but still naked, then dived into her closet.

By the time she dived out, dragging on trousers, he was already wearing his own, and a black sweater—and sliding a clutch piece into an ankle holster.

“I don’t want to see that weapon unless somebody’s pointing one at you.”