Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(41)

“I’ve got Salazar for that. It’s the broad strokes I’m after from you. And I’ve got a picture. The inside information’s vital. You can’t go forward without it. Inside information and the viable mark in Rogan, knowledge of the market, and the means to play it. Add to that the explosives—and most thieves, most market guys don’t just have that at their fingertips—and you get a picture.”

She frowned over at the board. “Okay.”

Roarke hefted the cat, dumped him on the other side of the sofa, shifted and nudged Eve back and under him, all as smooth as a dance.

She said, “Hey. I’m working.”

“You’re circling,” he corrected. “And my consultant fee’s due.”

“Put in the chit.”

He grinned. “I intend to.”

It made her laugh even as his mouth came down to hers with a quick nip of teeth. So she gave in to the moment, the mood, wrapped arms and legs around him.

“How fast can you get it done?”

He slid a hand up her side, down again. “Are you after fast or effective?”

“I know you, ace.” She arched up against him. “You can handle both.”

“A challenge then?”

She arched again, heat to heat. “You’re up for it.”

He laughed as well even as he captured her mouth again.

Quick, quick, and oh yes, efficient, those hands skimming, those clever fingers tugging and pressing. A thief’s steady hands, a pickpocket’s nimble fingers, they stole her breath. And had her disarmed, naked to the waist before she caught it again.

“So far, so good,” she managed.

Then lost her breath again as his mouth ravished her breast. With her heart hammering under the assault, she fought her way under his shirt to flesh.

The fire smoldered, rolled out heat and light. The cat, displaced and annoyed, plopped off the couch, stalked out of the room.

Roarke moved over her, savoring those long lines, subtle curves. He could make her tremble, always a thrill. And she could make him ache. Every gasp, every sigh he drew from her beat in his blood, tribal drums. Her hands, long and narrow like the rest of her, rushed over him, reached for him, unleashed him.

He drove into her, buried himself, filled her.

They held, breath ragged, eyes locked.

Her hands lifted to his face—one tender beat—then her fingers shot back into his hair, gripped, dragged his mouth back to hers for the hunger, mad and avid.

Then the movement, the hard and fast taking each of each, eclipsed all. The madness of need overtook with her arms chained around him, her hips flashing beat for beat.

When she cried out, flung herself off that whippy edge, he held on, held on, then fell with her.





9

Eve woke in the gray limbo before dawn, alone, naked, and to the alarm of her communicator beeping.

She fumbled for it.

“Block video. Dallas.”

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to officer, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, Eighty-Sixth Street. Possible homicide. Victim identified as Banks, Jordan.

“Crap,” she breathed it out. “Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. Dallas out.”

She rolled over. “Lights on, twenty percent.” Headed for the shower.

“Who did you talk to, you asshole? Who did you talk to?” she muttered while the hot pulse of jets pounded her. She jumped out of the shower and into the drying tube. Closed her eyes while warm air swirled.

Jumped out, grabbed a robe, and strode into the bedroom just as Roarke came in the door with the cat at his heels.

“You’re up early,” he commented.

“Banks is dead.”

“Ah, well. I’ll get the coffee.”

Grateful, she dived into her closet. “What the hell was he doing in Central Park?” She grabbed black pants, a shirt, a jacket. “What was he doing at the JKO?”

“The reservoir?”

“All I know until I get there. Except this is damn well connected. No way in hell this bomb goes off yesterday, I talk to him, and he’s dead by morning.”

She came out in the shirt—white—the pants—black—tossed a black jacket on the sofa in the sitting area, and grabbed the coffee Roarke held out to her.

“Thanks.”

“Should I go with you?” he asked as he wandered into her closet.

“No need.” She grabbed her pocket debris from the dresser as he walked out with a pale gray V-neck sweater and a pair of black knee boots with gray laces. “Come on.”

“Not so much for fashion—though they work—but for practicality. The temperature dropped overnight, and it’s sleeting, with some wind along with it.”

“Will winter never end?” She took the sweater, tugged it on, sat to pull on the boots.

Already dressed for the business day in one of his perfect suits, Roarke walked back to the AutoChef.

“I don’t have time for breakfast,” she said, rising to strap on her weapon harness.

“For this you do.” He handed her a fat, toasted bread pocket.

“What is it?”

He smiled. “Quick and effective.”

That got a smirk before she bit in. Eggs, creamy, bits of crispy bacon—and something sneaky like spinach.