Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(60)

“Cynics say no, and I can guess which camp you’d fall in.” He went to a panel in the wall, tapped it, and took out a bottle of red wine. “He made his fortune, and to his and Mum Pope’s credit, built good facilities, donated generously, funded a number of excellent causes. Now he’s firmly entrenched in enjoying his later years with his five iron and his—some say—dim-witted young wife.

“Into the tub now.”

“It’s a big tub. Why are you still wearing clothes?”

Roarke shook his head as he poured wine. “Does getting bruised from head to foot make you think about sex?”

“I think it’s more having you tend to the wounded. You’re a pretty sexy nurse.”

He laughed. “Into the tub, Lieutenant. We’ll see how you do with a soak and some wine.”

“You said I should relax and loosen up.” She held out a hand for him to help her up, then slid her body against his.

“So I did.” He answered her kiss, but gently. And when she started to lift her arms, wrap around him, she gasped.

“Okay, the shoulder’s still a problem,” she admitted. “That just means you have to do all the work.”

After setting the wine down, he took off his tie, his jacket, his shirt—watching her smile spread, and the gleam light in her eyes.

He picked her up, taking care, gave her a soft, warm kiss as he carried her into the bath. And slowly, gently, lowered her into the warm, frothing water.

“Oh God, yes.” She moaned in glorious relief. “That’s what I mean.”

“Relax,” he said again.

“Hey!” She scowled after him when he walked out.

She wanted some sex, so what? Some nice, loosen-up-the-aches-in-the-bubbling-tub sex. Bubbling tub he’d put something in she realized with a sniff. Something that smelled good and probably had some medicinal purpose.

She gave him a steady stare when he came back with her wine, with a second glass, and with some sort of cream in a bottle.

“What’s that?”

“Something that will help ease up that shoulder. Have some wine.” He passed hers off, set down the rest as he finished undressing.

“That’s more like it.”

“I haven’t finished giving you my report, have I?”

On a sudden, uncomfortable thought, she studied her glass with suspicion. “You didn’t tranq the wine, did you?”

“You took a blocker like a good girl. You’ve tolerated the ice packs with minimal complaint, and had a session with the wand. You’re stiff and sore, and will be tomorrow, but you don’t need a tranq. Still, the shoulder troubles me.”

“I bet it troubles me more.”

“You don’t take stupefying love into account.”

“Stupefying,” she said as he eased in behind her. “Not even love could make you stupid.”

“I’m in this boiling pot, aren’t I? Here now.” He rubbed the cream between his palms, then began to spread it over her shoulder.

“If I’m going to have a sore shoulder, I wish I’d gotten it kicking his ass.”

“You saved a baby.”

“Save the kid, lose the killer. But not for long. I’m going to get that f**ker.”

“I have every faith. To continue,” he said as he increased the pressure slightly, working steadily into the muscle and joint. “Carter Young-Sachs is considered a bit of a git. His mother in particular indulged him, and he hasn’t seemed to have outgrown his youthful dependence on that indulgence, or his affection for doing whatever he pleases whenever he pleases. He enjoys women, and doesn’t mind paying for them. He also enjoys a wide and colorful variety of illegal substances.”

“He was high when I talked to him.”

“Which, again, shows his assumption he can do as he pleases with impunity—as he always has. He puts in time at the business—he’s required to be in the offices or on company business for twenty-five hours a week in order to receive his generous salary and benefits.”

“Twenty-five hours a week? It’s a wonder he’s not suffering from exhaustion.”

“Time, according to those in the know, is about all he puts in. He’s charming and personable when he chooses to be, attractive, enjoys sports, and does well when he’s doing no more than entertaining clients.”

“He knows less than jack about company business,” Eve put in. “Every question I asked, he had to refer to his Nordic goddess admin who he’s banging.”

“It’s difficult to resist a goddess.”

“She’s banging for love. He’s in it for the bang. His ex—and she’s a looker, with money and family connections—gave me the picture of a man who wants what he doesn’t have, or someone else does. He goes after it, gets it. Forgets it. Mira would probably say something about his inner child. I just figure his inner child needs a good spanking.”

Whatever was in the cream, she thought, definitely did the job.

“I don’t know if he’s smart enough to screw around with the books, to skim or twist around some deal, plus he’d just figure he was entitled to it anyway. But I could see him ordering up a murder to get his hands on something that wasn’t his. Somebody else’s data, but only if he knew what the hell to do with it. That’s a puzzler.”