Festive in Death (In Death #39)(90)

“Looking at it that way, we should hope for an alien invasion.”

She set her popcorn bowl aside, shifted over a little onto her hip. “We don’t need one. We found all that already without them.”

“And I didn’t have to risk being vaporized to get you here.”

“True, but that’s not a bad way to go, right? Getting vaporized is quick. You wouldn’t even know it, just ppsssht! Gone. Better than getting run over by a maxibus or barely surviving an air crash, or getting bitten in half by a shark. Then there’s—”

“Quiet.” He stopped her mouth with his, added a dance of his fingers along her ribs to make her laugh.

He rolled her over, then under him, pleased himself by ravishing her neck, her throat.

Galahad squawked, then hit the floor with a sharp ring of collar bells.

Sinking, she slid her bare foot up and down Roarke’s leg, angling her head to give him freer access before turning back again to offer her lips.

She twined and twisted her fingers in his hair, felt lazy and loose. Wine fogged her brain; pleasure misted it. She embraced both, embraced him.

The screen switched to its holding hum as the vid credits ended. Now she heard the quiet pop and crackle of the fire, the whisper of their movements in the nest of the sofa.

The tree’s lights shimmered as the short day slipped into the long night.

He peeled off her sweater, slid down to possess her br**sts with his mouth, his hands. As those mists thickened and swirled, she pressed up, stirring more heat. Moaning with it, she tugged at his shirt.

“Off, off. Too many clothes.”

She found his mouth with hers again as she fought off the shirt.

She had her teeth on his shoulder; he had her trousers halfway down her legs. Her communicator beeped.

“Ah, bloody hell” was his breathless and bitter response.

“I didn’t hear anything. Don’t stop—” It beeped again. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit.”

She dragged herself from under him, stumbled toward the table as she struggled to yank up her trousers.

“Block video,” she ordered. “Fuck. Fuck. Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

She muttered, “Why?” Then with her trousers still unsecured, sat on the table.

“Report to 18 Vandam. One person dead, another injured. Possible homicide.”

“Who’s dead?” she demanded, shoving up to hook her trousers.

“Data incomplete. See officers on scene.”

“Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. On my way.”

She shoved the comm in her pocket. “That’s the Quigley brownstone.”

“I know.” He was already up, putting on his shirt. “I’ll go with you.”

“I’ve got Peabody—”

“Christ, Eve, we just sat in that living room a few hours ago. I’m going with you.”

“God, I’m half drunk.” She reached for her weapon harness.

“Take some Sober-Up before you put that on. And I could use some myself.”

“What the hell time is it?” she muttered on her way to the bathroom.

“Twenty after seven.”

She paused, glanced back. “She said Copley would be home by six.”

Grim, she dashed to the bathroom for the Sober-Up.

With that, and the coffee Roarke programmed in go-cups, the mists lifted, the fog parted. For the second time that day, she climbed into the muscular SUV.

“I planted it in her head. I did it deliberately, figuring she’d let something slip to me, or dig out something and come to me with it. I never figured he’d go at her, never figured he’d be that stupid. If he killed her—”

“You’re jumping your fences, Eve. That’s not like you.”

She closed her eyes, pulled herself back in. “You’re right. I know better. No preconceived notions. But you said it yourself. She seemed a little afraid of him. I didn’t offer her protection, didn’t drive that lane, because she could’ve been part of it and the fear was useful.”

No point, no point in speculating, she warned herself. For all she knew, Copley could be dead.

Her comm sounded again. “Dallas.”

“Dallas, we’re heading in,” Peabody talked fast, “but it’s probably going to take about twenty minutes. We were at the SkyMall and traffic’s insane. We called in a black-and-white to speed it up, but we’re probably twenty out.”

“Just get there.”

“Soon as we can. Do you know the DB?”

“Not yet. I’ll get back to you.”

She shoved the comm in her pocket again.

The minute Roarke pulled behind a black-and-white, she jumped out, drew her badge out of her pocket.

Long strides took her to the door where a uniform scanned her badge, her face, skimmed a glance over Roarke. Nodded.

“What have you got, Officer . . . Kenseko?” she demanded, reading his nameplate.

“DB, female, head trauma. Another female, en route to the hospital, unconscious. Head and facial injuries. Male held on premises, ID’d as John Jake Copley, of this address. He ID’d the injured female as his wife, Natasha Copley. Wanted to go with her, but we held him here. He’s a handful, LT.”