Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(35)

She tightened around him when the orgasm slashed through her, then curled into him when he reared up, when his mouth fixed hungrily on her breast.

Lost now, captured, he pushed her back so both her mind and body went spinning. And he drove into her, one wild animal thrust after another, with a sudden pounding greed that ripped her past control. Her fingers wrapped around the thin, curving tubes of the headboard, gripping hard as if to anchor herself, a scream of mindless pleasure strangling in her throat as he pushed her knees back to go deeper.

When her body erupted beneath him, his mouth swooped down to hers. And he let himself go.

She was covered with rose petals and nothing else. Those slim, disciplined muscles were as lax as the melted candlewax pooled fragrantly beneath the white tapers.

As her breathing slowed to normal, Roarke nibbled at her shoulder, then he rose to get the robe and draped it over her.

Her response was a grunt.

Both amused and pleased that that was the best she could do, he moved to the far corner of the room and ordered the jet tub to fill at one hundred and one degrees. He popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, set it back in its bucket of ice, then snatched his limp wife off the bed.

“I wasn’t asleep.” She said it quickly and with the slurred tone that told him that’s just what she’d been.

“You’ll blame me in the morning if I let you sleep and you don’t do your probability scan.” With this, he dumped her in the hot, frothing water.

She yelped once, then moaned in sheer, sensual delight. “Oh God. I want to live here, right here in this tub, for about a week.”

“Arrange for some time off and we’ll go to the Alps for real and you can soak in a tub until you turn into one big pink wrinkle.”

It was exactly what he wanted — to take her away, to see that she was completely healed and recovered. And he imagined he had as much chance of doing so as he had of convincing her to kiss Summerset on the mouth.

The image of that even made him grin.

“Joke?” she asked lazily.

“Oh, it would be a delightful one.” He handed her a flute and, taking his own, climbed in to join her.

“I have to get to work.”

“I know.” He let out a long breath. “Ten minutes.”

The combination of hot water and icy champagne was just too good to refuse. “You know, before you, my breaks used to consist of a cup of bad coffee and a… a cup of bad coffee,” she decided.

“I know, and they still do entirely too often. This,” he said and sank a little deeper, “is a much superior way to recharge.”

“Hard to argue.” She lifted her leg, examined her toes for no particular reason. “I don’t think he’s going to give me much time, Roarke. He’s working on a deadline.”

“How much do you have?”

“Not enough. Not nearly enough.”

“You’ll get more. I’ve never known a better cop. And I’ve known more than my share.”

She frowned into her wine. “It’s not out of rage, not yet. It’s not for profit. It’s not, that I can find, for revenge. He’d be easier to track if I had a motive.”

“Love. True love.”

She cursed softly. “My true love. But you can’t have twelve true loves.”

“You’re being rational. You’re thinking a man can’t love more than one women with equal degrees of fervor. But he can.”

“Sure, if his heart is in his dick.”

With a laugh, Roarke opened one eye. “Darling Eve, it’s often impossible to separate the two. For some,” he added, mistrusting the quick glint in her eye, “physical attraction most usually proceeds the finer emotions. What you may not be considering is that he might very well believe each of them the love of his life. And if they didn’t agree, the only way he can convince them is to take their lives.”

“I have considered it. But it isn’t enough to give me a full picture. He loves what he can’t have, and what he can’t have he destroys.” She jerked her shoulder. “I hate all the goddamn symbolism. It muddles things up.”

“You have to give him points for theatrical flare.”

“Yeah, and I’m counting on that to be what trips him up. When it does, I’m tossing jolly old St. Nick in a cage. Time’s up,” she announced and rose out of the water.

She’d just flicked a towel from a heated bar when she heard the muffled beep on her communicator. “Shit.” Dripping, she dashed across the room to snatch up her trousers and pull it from the pocket.

“Block video,” she muttered. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas. Lieutenant Eve. DAS at 432 Houston. Apartment 6E. Report to scene immediately as primary.”

“Dispatch.” She dragged a hand through her damp hair. “Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Officer Delia as adjutant.”

“Affirmative. Dispatch out.”

“DAS?” Roarke picked up the robe to drape it over her again.

“Dead at scene.” She heaved the towel aside and, bending, tugged on the trousers. “Damn it, goddamn it, that’s Donnie Ray’s apartment. I just interviewed him today.”

Donnie Ray had loved his mother. That was the first thing Eve thought of as she looked at him.