Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(89)

She left her clothes heaped on the floor, strode directly into the bath, and ordered water at blistering.

He just waited her out. She would, he knew, need to fight it first. Even to fight him and his offer of comfort. That prickly, resistant shell was only one of the aspects of her that fascinated him.

And he knew, as if he’d been inside her head, inside her heart, what she had gone through viewing that disc.

So when she came out, bundled in a robe, her eyes too dark, her cheeks too pale, he simply opened his arms and took her in.

“Oh God, God!” She clung, her fingers digging into his back. “I could smell him on me. I could smell him.”

It tore him to pieces to see her break, to feel her shudders and the quake of her heart against his. “He can’t ever touch you again.”

“He touches me.” She buried her face in his shoulder, filled herself with the scent of him. “Every time he comes into my head he touches me. I can’t stop it from happening.”

“I can.” He picked her up, and sat on the bed to cradle her. “Don’t think any more tonight, Eve. Just hold onto me.”

“I can do my job.”

“I know.” But at what cost? he wondered and rocked her like a child.

“I don’t want drugs. Just you. You’re enough.”

“Then go to sleep. Let go.” He turned his head to kiss her hair. “And sleep.”

“Don’t go away.” She burrowed into him and sighed once, long and deep. “I need you. Too much.”

“Not too much. It can’t be too much.”

She’d put a memory into their box, he thought. Now he put a wish there. One night, or the few hours left in it, she would sleep in peace.

So he held her until she slipped away into dreamless slumber.

And was holding her still when she woke.

They were wrapped around each other, her head nestled into the curve of his shoulder. Sometime during the night he’d undressed and slipped them both into bed.

She lay still a moment, studying his face. It seemed impossibly beautiful in the soft light. Strong lines, long thick lashes, that dreamy poet’s mouth. She had an itch to stroke his hair, the silky sweep of it, but her arms were pinned.

She kissed him instead, lightly, as much to thank him as to rouse him enough to allow her to wiggle free. But his hold merely tightened.

“Mmm. Another minute.”

Her brows lifted. His voice was thick, slurry, and his eyes stayed closed. “You’re tired.”

“God, yes.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re never tired.”

“I am now. Quiet down.”

It made her chuckle, that edge of sleepy crossness in his tone. “Stay in bed awhile.”

“Damn right.”

“I have to get up.” She pried an arm free and did stroke his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

“I would if you’d shut up.”

She laughed, then slithered free. “Roarke?”

“Oh Christ!” He rolled in defense and buried his face in the pillow. “What?”

“I love you.”

He turned his head, heavy eyes slitting open with a lazy gleam that had her juices flowing. That, she thought, was the magic of him. That he could make her yearn for sex after what she’d seen, what she’d experienced.

“Well then, come back here. I can probably manage to stay awake long enough.”

“Later.”

His response was a grunt as he pushed his face back into the pillow.

Deciding not to take it the wrong way, she dressed, ordered up coffee, strapped on her weapon. He hadn’t stirred a muscle when she left the room.

She decided to check in with McNab first and found him sprawled out flat in her sleep chair with Galahad draped over his head like fat earmuffs. Both of them snored.

At her approach, the cat slitted one eye open, gave her a bored look, then offered her an irritable meow.

“McNab.” When she got no response from him, Eve rolled her eyes and gave his shoulder a light punch. He only snorted and turned his head.

The slight shift had the cat drooping lower. Galahad retaliated by digging in with his claws. McNab snorted again and smirked in his sleep. “Watch the nails, honey.”

“Jesus.” Eve punched harder. “No sick sex dreams in my chair, pal.”

“Huh? Come on, baby.” His eyes opened, glazed and heavy, then focused on Eve’s face. “Uh, Dallas, what? Where?” He lifted a hand to the weight on his shoulder and closed it over Galahad’s head. “Who?”

“You forgot why, but don’t ask me. Pull it together.”

“Yeah, yeah. Man.” He turned his head again and found himself eyeball to eyeball with Galahad. “This your cat?”

“He lives here. You awake enough to give me an update?”

“Okay, sure.” Struggling to sit up, he ran his tongue around his teeth. “Coffee. I’m begging you.”

Because she shared the addiction, she was sympathetic enough to go into the kitchen and order him a double-sized mug, strong and black.

The cat was in his lap when she came back, kneading McNab’s thighs and watching him as if daring the man to protest. McNab took the mug in both hands and downed half the contents.

“Okay, wow. I dreamed I was off planet on some resort island and making it with this incredibly built mutant with fur instead of skin.” He eyed Galahad again and grinned. “Jesus.”