Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(27)

“I’ve been considering my method on that.”

“I’m pretty sure you just yank the zipper down.”

He smiled, gave her calves a series of squeezes that made their muscles sing. “Over you go then.”

She flopped onto her belly. “Roundtree knew the timing, just how long he could be out of the room. But I feel like I would’ve noticed him leaving. He was up front. Connie knew the timing, and did leave the room by her own admission. I bet Preston had not only seen the reel before, but probably helped edit it together. If this was planned—” She lost her train of thought for a moment when his lips replaced his hands on her calves, and felt even better.

“They’re top candidates. Steinburger and Valerie—they may very well have had that time down, too—and any one of them would know the value of murder and spin.”

He worked his way up to her thighs, warm lips, a tease of tongue.

“And any of the actors could have slipped out,” she murmured as part of her mind began a lovely, lazy drift.

“How would they know she’d be on the roof?”

“The killer could have arranged to meet her there. Or …” The zipper eased down fraction by fraction as his mouth continued to play her. “Or she arranged to meet the killer, which would lean toward impulse killing or crime of passion. Or … I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

“You’ll have to give thinking a pass then, as I’ve no intention of stopping.” He slid the narrow triangle of panties down her hips.

With his mouth at the small of her back, he slid his fingers into her.

Her hands curled into the sheets. “I’m still in the dress.”

“Only parts of you. You’re hot and wet. Soft and smooth.”

The orgasm rolled through her, one extended, luxurious swell that left her steeped in pleasure. He gave himself the delight of her back, long and lean under the sparkle of diamonds, to the curve of muscle in her shoulders, her arms. And back to the heat again so she cried out when the fire took her.

He turned her over, peeled away the dress.

“You’re still wearing a suit.”

He leaned down, circled her nipple with his tongue. “Give me a hand with the tie, would you?”

“You’re making me crazy,” she managed as she struggled to loosen the tie, tug it off.

“Still no intention of stopping.” But he shrugged out of his jacket as he feasted lazily on her br**sts. “You look like a pagan. A pagan warrior queen.” He scraped his teeth along her throat. “Naked, glowing, wearing nothing but ropes of diamonds.”

“I want you inside me.” Breath tearing, she bit at his ear. “Hot, hard inside me.”

“My hands are busy at the moment.” He filled them with her br**sts. “I’ll need help getting out of this shirt.”

She reached up, tore it open, sending buttons flying.

“Well, that’s one way.”

“It’s how it works when you’re a pagan warrior queen. Take me.” She gripped his hair, yanked his mouth to hers. “I want you to take me like there’s nothing you need more.”

“There isn’t. It’s you. It’s always you.”

But he eased back to deal with the rest of his clothes and used his eyes on her as effectively as he had his hands.

“Everything in me skips and scrambles when you look at me like that.”

“You’re mine.” And that brought him something beyond excitement, something deeper than passion. “You’re mine,” he said again.

And when she lifted her arms to him, brought him to her, chained him to her, he took her as if there was nothing he needed more.

6

PEABODY YAWNED UNTIL HER JAW CRACKED AS she contemplated her breakfast choices. In order to start the day right, in a healthy, body-conscious state, she shouldn’t have the bagel and schmear. She should choose the fruity yogurt. She certainly shouldn’t have the bagel and schmear and the fruity yogurt.

And she shouldn’t even think of the possibility of the cherry Danish she could pick up on the way to Central.

Why did she always think of the damn cherry Danish in the morning? She wasn’t entirely sure the thought of it didn’t put an extra pound on her ass.

“I’m having the fruity yogurt, and that’s it.”

At his seat at their tiny kitchen table, McNab poked at his bowl of Crispy Crunchie Charms and said nothing.

Peabody doctored her coffee first and wished the stupid low-cal sweetener tasted as good as the wonderful zillion-cal sweetener. But she felt righteous if deprived, sitting down with the healthy yogurt and the low-cal coffee.

She wished she could eat bowls of Crispy Crunchie Charms with an ocean of soy milk like McNab and his skinny ass that never seemed to gain an ounce.

Life was definitely unfair when your metabolism had all the zip of a lame turtle.

She drank some coffee, and felt her brain start to clear. She liked the way the sun came in their kitchen window in the morning, and played through the bright yellow curtains she’d made herself—still hadn’t lost her Free-Ager skills, she thought.

She’d enjoyed making the curtains, selecting the fabric, designing a pattern, sitting down at her little machine to whip it all together into something pretty and functional.