Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(40)
She all but felt her bones melt even as the drugging pleasure spread, as it quickened, as it gathered, and released.
When she finally curled against him, body limp, mind empty, she slept.
“There now, a ghrá.” He touched his lips to her hair. “Rest that busy brain.”
He closed his eyes and slept with her.
9
When she woke, alone, Eve stared up at the fading stars through the sky window over the bed. She lived in a house, she thought, with three males—including the cat—who insisted the day began before dawn.
With Roarke undoubtedly in his office wheeling some deal with somebody on the other side of the planet, and the cat surely gobbling down breakfast served by Summerset, she considered giving sleep another shot.
But since her brain had already started to wake enough to think about work, she gave that up. She rolled out of bed, hit the bedroom AC for coffee, then gulped down its precious, life-giving properties on the way to the shower.
There, under the hot pulsing spray of multiple jets, she went over her day’s crowded—and hopefully productive—agenda.
First up, check the search results. Since EDD would have Gwen’s electronics, she’d have them do a cross-match with the contacts.
It wouldn’t hurt to ask the desk manager at House Royale if any of those names were on Gwen’s approved guest list.
She stepped out of the shower, into the drying tube. As the warm air swirled she closed her eyes and refined her moves.
It was still shy of sunrise when she walked into her closet. Sighed.
Roarke wasn’t there to pick over her choices, and she had to admit that the picking over sometimes made it easier.
She went with brown pants that made her think of chocolate, and that made her think of checking on her hidden stash in her office at Central.
And made her think, unkindly, of the elusive Candy Thief. She grabbed a white shirt—always safe, in her opinion—then a navy jacket because it had brown buttons, but mostly because it was leather, and she was weak.
She started to grab brown boots, but saw the navy ones with the chocolate laces.
“Damn it.”
She took the navy.
By the time she dressed, the sun had started to sneak in the windows.
Since neither Roarke nor the cat had made an appearance, she headed to her office.
She heard Roarke’s voice—that don’t-fuck-with-me business mogul’s voice—so poked a head through the doorway.
“Hold,” he said, and paused the transmission. He smiled at her, easy as sunrise. “You’re up early, and looking quite put together.”
“I want to look through the search results. Don’t want to interrupt, just wanted you to know I was out here. I’m curious though. Has whoever’s on the other end of this pissed themselves yet?”
“Possibly.” His smile turned to a cold, feral grin.
“Well, when you’re done scaring the piss out of whoever, I’m in here.”
She started to go straight to her command center, then stopped and recalculated.
If she ordered up breakfast before he did, there would be no possibility of oatmeal or of something sneaky like spinach hiding in an omelet.
“Pancakes,” she murmured, and made it happen before she got to work.
The over ten thousand members stunned her. But then Roarke had, correctly, she thought, included all the boroughs, and the near reaches of New Jersey and Connecticut.
And, being Roarke, he’d ordered secondary searches.
Just New York, just Manhattan, which cut those numbers to just under six thousand, and just over two, respectively.
Too many, she admitted—and as a cop she shouldn’t have been surprised to find so many bigoted nutballs.
His search criteria for members in that geographic area with violent records dropped the number down to just over three thousand for the whole thing, and seven hundred and change for Manhattan.
She considered, drummed her fingers.
“Computer, continue search adding the following filters. First, search for violent crimes against persons—exclude animals and property. Second, search multiple counts, all violent crimes. Third, multiple counts against persons only.”
Acknowledged. Working …
She sat back with her coffee.
She started to swivel to study her board, and Galahad leaped on her counter. Stared, stared deeply, with those bicolored eyes.
“I know you’ve already eaten, so that won’t work.”
He stepped down into her lap. “No more food for you, tubby.”
But she scratched his head as the comp announced completion of the first search.
“Display. Okay, better.”
By the time Roarke came out, she had the new searches complete.
“After whoever pissed him/her/themselves, did they offer to pay you to buy their planet?”
“Manufacturing complex, not a planet, and we’ll say we came to terms. Breakfast in here, is it?”
Obviously amenable, he walked to the doors, opened them to the little terrace and the dawn of a May morning. He stood there, looking out, in his pale gray suit, dark blue tie, and shirt that somehow blended both colors.
Eve paused her work, gave Galahad another rub before dumping him. She went to Roarke, slipped her arms around him.
“Now, this is a lovely way to start the day.”