Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(57)

She’d done what she needed to do, Eve thought—and did limp a little once she got down to the lobby. She’d planted seeds of doubt and unease, at least in the mind of the guilty.

And now she was going home, soaking her aching ass.

• • •

She bore down again as she maneuvered her body out of the car at the base of the steps of home. Just had to get by Dr. Doom, up the stairs, into the tub. A solid soak would do the trick.

Breathing carefully, she stepped inside.

Summerset scanned her, top to toe. “I suppose it couldn’t last forever.”

“What?” Just had to get up the stairs that, right that minute, looked like the towering side of an alp.

“Getting through the day without injury.”

“Who says I’m injured?”

“Slamming into the ground as you did would jar the body, bruise the points of impact.”

She imagined that was his delicate way of referring to her ass, but she still didn’t like it. When the cat wound his pudgy way through her legs, she realized she’d probably whimper out loud if she tried bending to pet him.

“There was a lot of grass.”

“Regardless. Oh, don’t be an idiot,” he snapped at her. “Take the elevator.”

“I’m fine. Just a little stiff.” She started for the steps, gave up. Crawling up them lost more pride points than just walking past him to the damn elevator.

“I assume you refused any medical attention. You want ice and heat, on and off. And a blocker.”

He was probably right, but she wanted that damn tub like she wanted to breathe. “I’m fine,” she repeated.

“You’re young, fit, quick, and have excellent reflexes,” he said as she walked to the elevator. “Because of that a child is being pampered and spoiled by his parents right now instead of lying in a hospital. Or worse. Take a blocker. He’ll only make you when he gets home, and he’s on his way.”

Summerset held out a little blue pill. “Take it now, and I can tell him you did.”

Simpler to just take it, she decided, because he was right again. Roarke would shove one down her throat if she didn’t. And that was stupid all around.

“Fine.” She took it, swallowed it.

“Ice,” he repeated.

“I don’t want ice unless it’s in a really big drink.” She stepped into the elevator.

“Master bedroom,” Summerset ordered before she could do so herself.

So she just closed her eyes, leaned against the wall, and let it take her where she wanted to go.

She’d been hurt worse, she reminded herself. A hell of a lot worse. Despite that dubious qualifier, she felt as if every muscle, bone, and tendon in her body had been pulled, knocked, and strained. The blocker would help, for now, but it wouldn’t help the aches and stiffness tomorrow, and they’d be a distraction, an annoyance. They’d just be in her way.

So she’d deal with them.

When she stepped out into the bedroom, heard the elevator door whisk closed behind her, she allowed herself a long, heartfelt, moaning sigh.

And that was enough self-indulgence.

She eased out of her coat, blessing it for its stun-proof lining. But at the moment it felt impossibly heavy. She started to pull off her jacket, realized when her shoulder pinged that sometime during the dash, leap, twist, catch, and fall, she’d wrenched it good and proper, and it had barely healed from a much nastier injury during a life-and-death struggle with Isaac McQueen a few weeks before.

She fumbled with her weapon harness, carefully slipped it off.

And Roarke walked into the room.

He studied her carefully, nodded. “Nice catch,” he said.

12

SHE’D EXPECTED WORRY, CONCERN, STROKING and soothing, so his matter-of-fact comment threw her off balance.

Probably his devious plan, she decided, to trick her into going to a health center.

“Thanks. It was an unexpected play.”

“At the least. How bad is it?”

“Not very. I took a blocker.”

“So I heard. Well, let’s have a look.”

Now she smiled. “You just want to get me naked.”

“My life’s work,” he said as he walked to her. He could see in her eyes it was more than “not very.” “As it is, I’ll tend to that myself.” He started to draw her sweater up and off, heard her hiss of pain.

“Okay, ouch. Just a second.” She pressed her hand on her shoulder, trying to re-angle, decrease the twinge.

She saw the change in his eyes, that flash of ice blue heat, and knew he thought—as she did—of McQueen.

“The same shoulder?” he said gently.

“It figures, doesn’t it? It’s—okay, it’s ouch, but mostly just sore.”

“I’ll cut the sweater off.”

“The hell you will. This is that cashmere stuff. And I like this sweater.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s so. I can like a sweater. It’s soft, and it’s warm, and we’re not hacking it up. We’ll just go easy, okay?”

“All right then.” Keeping his eyes trained on her face, he brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. “Relax now, loosen up and relax, and let me do it.”