Betrayal in Death (In Death #12)(54)

"Would you stay here with me?" She reached for his hand. "I know it's stupid, but..."

"No, it's not." He got into the sleep chair with her, stroking her hair as her arms came tightly around him. "Just turn it off until morning."

"I will." Just as she'd keep her arms around him to make sure he did the same. "Don't go away, okay?"

"I won't."

And knowing he wouldn't leave her, would rest, she closed her eyes, and let herself drift into dreamless sleep.

After a while, a long while, so did he.

She woke first, still wrapped around him, when the dark began to soften and thin. She stayed very still so as not to lose the rare opportunity to watch him sleep.

Love struck her, as it did often and without warning. Not the steady day-to-day feeling she'd grown used to, but the hot, wild spurt of it that geysered up and filled her with so many feelings they couldn't be separated.

Delight, confusion, possessiveness, lust, and a kind of smugness that butted right up against wonder.

He was so ridiculously beautiful, she doubted she'd ever fully comprehend how he could be hers.

He'd wanted her. Out of all the women in the world, he'd wanted her. Wanted, hell, she thought, grinning now. Pursued, demanded. Taken. And while she could admit all of that was exciting, he'd gone one step further.

He cherished.

She'd never believed anyone would, or could. And had never believed there was enough inside her to give all of those things back.

So here they were, the cop and the billionaire, squished together in an office sleep chair like a couple of overworked drones.

It was just f**king great.

She was still grinning when those fabulous eyes of his opened. Clear as blue crystal, alert, and ever so mildly amused. "Good morning, Lieutenant."

"I never get how you can come awake like that, from sleep to full alert, and without coffee."

"Annoying, isn't it?"

"Yeah." He was warm, he was beautiful, he was hers. She could have lapped him up like cream. And why not, she thought. Why the hell not?

"But since you're awake." She slid her hand down his body, found him hard and ready. "All the way awake. I've got a little job for you."

"Do you?" Her mouth was already roaming over his face, just missing his lips in teasing little bites. To his considerable surprise, and considerable pleasure, her fingers got very busy. They closed around him, not teasing at all, as her tongue laved thirstily along his throat.

"Well then," he managed. "Anything for the NYPSD. Christ!" He could all but feel his eyes roll back in his head. "Am I on the clock?"

Sometime later, feeling loose and limber, she came out of the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. It surprised her that Roarke still sat in the half-dark. The cat was on his lap now, and with the faintest of smiles on his face, Roarke stroked Galahad's back.

"I think, for an expert consultant, civilian, you've loafed long enough."

"Mmm-hmm." He took the coffee she offered. "Shutting down early to sleep, morning sex, bringing me coffee. You're very wifely these days. Are you taking care of me, Eve?"

"Hey, if you don't want the coffee, I'll drink it myself. And so what if I am? And don't call me wifely. It pisses me off."

"I do want the coffee, thank you very much. I'm touched and grateful you'd take care of me. And pissing you off by calling you wifely is one of my small pleasures."

"Great. Now that we've got all that settled, get your ass up so we can do some work."

CHAPTER TWELVE

She made the first calls and reached the detective sergeant working the homicides in Cornwall. During their fifteen-minute conversation, she was given the facts of the case in a broad North Country accent, the names of the two victims who had been identified by fingerprint, and DNA matches through Feeney's love child, IRCCA.

DS Fortique was cheerful and forthcoming and told her that after considerable tracking and backtracking they had finally tagged the identity of the hiker who had allegedly found the bodies and made the emergency call.

Fortique was perfectly willing to save Eve time and trouble by hauling the witness in and grilling him over a pair of two-foot silver wires.

Eve decided the British police were a great deal more cooperative than her own federal agents. She gave him back in kind by passing along the data on Yost's shopping adventures in London. They ended transmission on good terms.

Her call to the silver shop netted her a full description of Sylvester Yost, who was fondly remembered for his discriminating taste, impeccable manners, and extensive cash purchases.

Another knot tied off, Eve thought, and shifted her search to hotels.

The New Savoy wasn't quite as cooperative as the police or the merchants in London. She was passed from desk clerk to supervisor, from supervisor to hotel manager. And it seemed there she would stall.

The manager was a woman in her mid- to late fifties with hair the color of polished steel pulled ruthlessly away from a scrawny face that ended on a pointed chin. Her eyes were a surprising baby blue, and her voice, while remaining scrupulously polite, droned on and on over the same notes.

"I'm afraid I can't accommodate you, Lieutenant Dallas. It is the policy, the firm policy of The New Savoy, to ensure its guests' privacy as well as their comfort."