Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(36)

When his eyes drooped, she couldn’t help herself. She drew him to her, kissed his mouth, arched under his hand when he stroked her breast.

And cradled him when the drug took him under.





8


Roarke wanted to tell her she needed sleep, but he let her be. It might be better, he considered, if she simply wore herself out with this one. And perhaps her sleep, when it came, would be quiet.

He ran the names she sent him, studied them, wondered if any of them would prove a murderer.

Students, businesswomen, chefs, assistants, technicians.

Some married, some not. Some city residents, some not.

Rowan Rosenburg was the youngest at twenty-one, with Emilie Gro-man the oldest at thirty-six.

So far, he added.

Eve sent him four more, and when he completed those, he got up to check on her.

She sat at her command center, the cat in her lap, studying the board.

“Taking a break,” she told him. “The last one I did? She started to come out of it when he was finished with her. She started to cry, so he dosed her again, just forced it down her throat. He got her dressed, kept telling her she’d had a lovely time, but the party was over and she needed to go home. Told her where to get a cab. I don’t know how he got her out of the house, she was barely functioning, because he turned off the camera.”

“Cecily Freeman?”

“Yeah.”

“She works in IT, and from what I dug up, was recruited by Perfect Placement for a position in Windsor Hotels sixteen months ago. Shortly after she took the position she engaged a therapist. She’s twenty-five. She’s gay.”

“They’re all just bodies to him, wills to be broken, objects to be used and humiliated. It’s all I can stomach tonight.”

“Good. You need sleep.”

“Freeman,” she said as she dumped the cat and rose. “She was coming out of it, went into therapy. She might remember more than most. And, remembering, want payback.”

“Possible.” Roarke steered her to the elevator. “She’s five-four, a hundred and fifteen pounds. She’d surely have needed help.” He kissed the top of her head. “Why don’t we split a soother?” he suggested as they stepped into the bedroom.

The cat sprinted in behind them, took a flying leap to land his pudgy body on the bed.

“I was thinking of a soother.” She turned to him, turned into him. “But not that kind.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Darling Eve. You’re so tired.”

“I passed tired awhile back. But I need to let myself feel, let myself know, what sex can be. What it’s supposed to be when it matters. I need to show you.” She brushed her lips to his. “And for you to show me.”

He kissed her temple, called for the lights to dim, the fire to light. In that soft glow he eased back, eyes on hers, to unhook her weapon harness.

They could soothe each other, he thought as he set the harness aside. Perhaps he needed that gift as much as she.

He’d taken off his suit coat, his tie in his office, so she unbuttoned his shirt as he unbuttoned hers. As the shirts slid to the floor, he circled her toward the bed.

He eased her down to sit, to take off her boots.

When she reached for him, brought him close, the cat let out an annoyed grunt before stalking to the side of the bed and leaping down.

It made her laugh, curl closer. Then their lips met.

Slow, soft, spinning out the moment, saturating the moment with tenderness as the kiss deepened.

As she gave herself to it, to him, she wondered how she’d ever gotten through all the hard, dark days before him. Having this, arms to hold her, a heart to beat against hers, shined a light so constant, so steady, she could always find her way out of the dark and the hard.

She laid her hand on his heart, thinking: This. This, this. Knowing he gave her that heart, every day, changed the world.

As they drowned each other in the kiss, she traced the shape of his face with her fingers, drew in his scent.

This, she thought again, mattered. This held. This shined.

And closed all the ugly in the world away.

While the fire crackled, the bed sighed, he drew off her support tank to trace his hands over the long lines of her, the subtle curves of her.

He traced his lips over the sharp line of her jaw, over the slight dent in her chin, down the strong line of her throat to where her pulse beat.

He knew where to touch, how to touch to make that pulse quicken, thicken. As it did, as her fingers skimmed through his hair, he whispered kisses over her breasts.

Half dreaming, she breathed out his name, let herself float on the tenderness he offered. Giving hers to him as her hands roamed.

They built desire in delicate layers, clouds of sensation to shimmer.

When he shifted, when their eyes met, she rose to him. She cupped his face with her hands; he slid inside her.

Joy, so simple, so elemental, flowed through her like a river warmed in sunlight.

He lowered his mouth to hers; she linked her fingers with his. Lost in her, he murmured in Irish, words that streamed from his heart as they floated on the joy.

Even when they slipped under, they held strong.

And so he showed her, as she showed him.

Later, with her curled against him, the cat a furry lump at the small of her back, Roarke felt her drift.

“There now, a ghrá,” he murmured. “Only quiet dreams tonight.”