Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(55)

“If you do, see if mine’s with it.”

He lifted his head, looked at her with eyes that managed to be wild and wicked, and a bit sleepy all at once. And she managed to lift her hand and brush the hair back from his face.

“So . . . was that all you’ve got?”

How, given their position and current state, he got his hand under her to pinch her ass—hard enough to make her yelp—was a wonder.

“Just asking. I may have seen God. She may have been smiling.”

“Well, she made us to fit together, didn’t she?”

“We do.”

“So we do.” He laid a kiss between her breasts, winced a little as he eased back to stand. “I believe it did hurt a little.”

She laughed, then hissed as she sat up. “Yeah, maybe. We did knock over murder files,” she noted. “And the coffeepot—but that was empty. Mostly. Can’t you wear less clothes? I ripped the shirt—the buttons off anyway. It probably cost more than the damn desk.”

“If I’d known desk sex was on tonight’s agenda, I’d have worn less.”

“If I go with the command center, there could be regular command center sex. Dress appropriately.”

Laughing, he picked up his shirt—a soft slate gray with just a hint of blue—examined it. “Well now, it’s done for, I suppose, and a small price to pay.”

She took it, put it on. Subtly breathed him in. “We have to pick this stuff up. I can’t pick up murder files naked.”

“Apparently I can,” he said, and helped her pick them up, gather up the clothes they’d discarded. “You can organize it all in the morning.”

“I guess. Maybe we should put that desk in some sort of display. With a plaque.”

“‘Dallas and Roarke Banged Here’?”

“No—though we could make a secret plaque for that. Just something like: ‘It Served Us Well.’”

“You’re oddly sentimental over a desk.”

“I am now. I need my pants.”

“Why? We’re going straight to the bedroom.”

“And Summerset could be lurking somewhere between here and there.”

“I can promise you he’s tucked into his own quarters by now.”

“Maybe he’s in his coffin, maybe he’s not, but I’m not walking to the bedroom in nothing but your torn shirt.”

“We’ll take the elevator,” Roarke said, solving the problem by calling for it. “So, what was it you asked for? All I had. And more?”

“You pulled it off.”

“Not yet. That was all I had.” He pulled the bundle of clothes out of her hand, dropped them. “This is more.”

“You couldn’t possibly—”

He just pushed her back against the elevator wall, and took her there. Fast and fierce.

When he was done, and very satisfied with himself, she started to slide bonelessly down the wall.

He plucked her up, restarted the elevator. Then carried her to the bed when the doors opened.

“You know what they say.” He wrapped an arm around her. “Mind what you wish for.”

“I didn’t mind.” But her voice was blurry as she slid toward blissful, exhausted, thoroughly used-up sleep.

Then she popped right up again. “Jesus cross-eyed Christ, the clothes! They’re still in the elevator.”

“They can be sorted out in the morning.”

“He’ll see! All those sex-tangled clothes. Get them back!”

“The elevator’s still there if it worries you.”

She leaped up, all but dived in to grab the clothes when the doors opened. Near to shuddering with relief, she dropped them in a heap on a chair.

She crawled back into bed, sighed, and slept in seconds.

Apparently, Roarke thought, sex-tangled clothes were acceptable when sorted out from a bedroom chair.

What a marvel her mind was, he decided, and slipped into sleep after her.

—

The dream gripped her with sharp, digging claws. Even knowing it for what it was, she couldn’t break free of it. It held fast, dragged her down.

Into the study in the Spring Street brownstone.

Edward Mira sat in the desk chair dressed in one of his senatorial suits, his glossy black hair swept back from his stony face.

“I’m dead.”

“I’m aware.”

“Yet you make my murderers my victims.”

“The way I see it, you did that. Did you rape them, Senator Mira?”

Leaning forward, he banged his fist on the desk. “I’m dead. Your responsibility is to me. But you’d smear my reputation, destroy my legacy? This is how you stand for the dead?”

“I’ll do my job. I’ll do my best to identify and apprehend the person or persons who killed you, even if doing that smears your rep.”

“Your best?” He sneered at her. “Your best to paint me as a monster so those who took my life are coddled and stroked.”

“My best to uncover the truth, whatever that means.”

“The truth?” He banged the desk again, but this time with the gavel he held. “I know the truth. I know what you are, what you did. You’re just like them.”