Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(61)

“I don’t know. I have to get up. I have to move.” She rubbed her hands over her arms when he released her. “Maybe I was — what do they call it? Projecting or transposing. What the hell. I’d been thinking of Monica Rowan, what kind of woman would have turned her kids over to a man like James Rowan. Like I said before, it reminded me.”

“We don’t know that she did.”

“Well, he had them, anyway, just like my father had me. It’s probably all it was. I’ve never had any memory of her. I’ve got nothing of her.”

“You’ve remembered other things,” he pointed out, and rose to warm her arms himself. “This could be one of them. Eve, talk to Mira.”

“I’m not ready for that.” She pulled back immediately. “I’m not ready. I’ll know when I am. If I am.”

“It eats at you.” And at him, when he saw her suffering like this.

“No, it doesn’t drive my life. It just gets in the way of it sometimes. Remembering her, if there’s anything to remember, isn’t going to bring me any peace, Roarke. To me, she’s as dead as he is.”

And that, Roarke thought as he watched Eve turn back to her machine, wasn’t nearly dead enough.

“You need some sleep.”

“Not yet. I can do another hour.”

“Fine.” He walked to her and had her up and over his shoulder before she could blink.

“Hey!”

“An hour should be just about right,” he decided. “You rushed me earlier.”

“We’re not having sex.”

“Okay, I’ll have sex. You can just lie there.” He rolled onto the bed with her.

There was something miraculous about the way his body fit to hers. But she wasn’t going to pay any attention to that little miracle. “What part of no didn’t you get?”

“You didn’t say no.” He lowered his head to nuzzle her cheek. “You said you weren’t having sex, which is entirely different. If you’d said no…” His fingers busily unbuttoned her shirt. “I would, of course, respect that.”

“Okay, listen up.”

Before she could speak, his mouth was on hers, soft, seductive. And wonderfully sly. His hands were already sliding, slipping, searching over her. She didn’t quite choke back the moan.

“Fine.” She gave up and sighed when his lips laid a hot trail down her throat. “Be an animal.”

“Thank you, darling. I’d love to.”

He took every bit of the hour, while the machines hummed away. He pleased her, and himself, knowing when her body went lax with release under his, she would tumble mindlessly into sleep.

And for a night, at least, there would be no more dreams.

It was dark in the room when she awoke, with just the lights from the console and screens flickering. Blinking, her brain still musty, she sat up and saw Roarke at the controls.

“What time is it?” She didn’t remember she was naked until she swung her legs from the bed.

“Just six. You have some matches here, Lieutenant. They’re on disc and hard copy.”

“Did you sleep?” She started to search for her pants, and saw the robe neatly laid across the foot of the bed. The man never missed a damn step.

“Yes. I haven’t been up long. I assume you’re going straight in today?”

“Yeah. Team briefing at eight hundred.”

“The report on Henson — what there is of it — is printed out.”

“Thanks.”

“I have a number of things to see to today, but you can reach me if you need to.” He rose, looking dark and dangerous in the half light, the night’s growth of beard shadowing his face, the black robe carelessly belted. “There are a couple of names on the match list I recognize.”

She took the hard copy he offered. “I guess it was too much to expect otherwise.”

“Paul Lamont rings the clearest bell. His father fought in the French Wars before the family immigrated here. Paul’s father was very skilled and passed considerable knowledge on to his son. Paul is a member of the security team for one of my businesses here in New York. Autotron. We make droids and various small electronics.”

“You pals?”

“He works for me — and we… developed a project or two several years ago.”

“And it’s not the kind of project a good cop needs to know about.”

“Exactly. He’s been with Autotron for more than six years now. We haven’t had contact beyond that relationship for nearly that amount of time.”

“Uh-huh. And what are these skills his dear old dad passed along to him?”

“Paul’s father was a saboteur. He specialized in explosives.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Peabody hadn’t slept well. She dragged into work heavy-eyed and vaguely achy, as if she were coming down with some nasty little bug. She hadn’t eaten, either. Though her appetite was dependable — sometimes too dependable — she expected few could eat hearty after spending several hours tagging body parts.

That she could have lived with. That was the job, and she had learned how to channel all thoughts and energies into the job during the months she’d worked under Eve.

What she couldn’t live with, and what spread a thin layer of cranky over fatigue, was the fact that a great deal of her thoughts — and not pure ones — and entirely too much of her energies had been centered on McNab during the long night.