Naked in Death (In Death #1)(24)

“I do. Just because I prefer the stairs doesn’t mean the staff shouldn’t have a choice.”

“And staff,” she continued. “I haven’t seen one remote domestic in the place.”

“I have a few. But I prefer people to machines, most of the time. Here.”

He used a palm scanner, coded in a key, then opened carved double doors. The sensor switched on the lights as they crossed the threshold. Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this.

It was a museum of weapons: guns, knives, swords, crossbows. Armor was displayed, from medieval ages to the thin, impenetrable vests that were current military issue. Chrome and steel and jeweled handles winked behind glass, shimmered on the walls.

If the rest of the house seemed another world, perhaps a more civilized one than what she knew, this veered jarringly in the other direction. A celebration of violence.

“Why?” was all she could say.

“It interests me, what humans have used to damage humans through history.” He crossed over, touching a wickedly toothed ball that hung from a chain. “Knights farther back than Arthur carried these into jousts and battles. A thousand years…” He pressed a series of buttons on a display cabinet and took out a sleek, palm-sized weapon, the preferred killing tool of twenty-first century street gangs during the Urban Revolt. “And we have something less cumbersome and equally lethal. Progression without progress.”

He put the weapon back, closed and secured the case. “But you’re interested in something newer than the first, and older than the second. You said a thirty-eight, Smith & Wesson. Model Ten.”

It was a terrible room, she thought. Terrible and fascinating. She stared at him across it, realizing that the elegant violence suited him perfectly.

“It must have taken years to collect all of this.”

“Fifteen,” he said as he walked across the uncarpeted floor to another section. “Nearly sixteen now. I acquired my first handgun when I was nineteen — from the man who was aiming it at my head.”

He frowned. He hadn’t meant to tell her that.

“I guess he missed,” Eve commented as she joined him.

“Fortunately, he was distracted by my foot in his crotch. It was a nine-millimeter Baretta semiautomatic he’d smuggled out of Germany. He thought to use it to relieve me of the cargo I was delivering to him and save the transportation fee. In the end, I had the fee, the cargo, and the Baretta. And so, Roarke Industries was born out of his poor judgment. The one you’re interested in,” he added, pointing as the wall display opened. “You’ll want to take it, I imagine, to see if it’s been fired recently, check for prints, and so forth.”

She nodded slowly while her mind worked. Only four people knew the murder weapon had been left at the scene. Herself, Feeney, the commander, and the killer. Roarke was either innocent or very, very clever.

She wondered if he could be both.

“I appreciate your cooperation.” She took an evidence seal out of her shoulder bag and reached for the weapon that matched the one already in police possession. It took her only a heartbeat to realize it wasn’t the one Roarke had pointed to.

Her eyes slid to his, held. Oh, he was watching her all right, carefully. Though she let her hand hesitate now over her selection, she thought they understood each other. “Which?”

“This.” He tapped the display just under the. 38. Once she’d sealed it and slipped it into her bag, he closed the glass. “It’s not loaded, of course, but I do have ammo, if you’d like to take a sample.”

“Thanks. Your cooperation will be noted in my report.”

“Will it?” He smiled, took a box out of a drawer, and offered it. “What else will be noted, lieutenant?”

“Whatever is applicable.” She added the box of ammo to her bag, took out a notebook, and punched in her ID number, the date, and a description of everything she’d taken. “Your receipt.” She offered him the slip after the notebook spit it out. “These will be returned to you as quickly as possible unless they’re called into evidence. You’ll be notified one way or the other.”

He tucked the paper into his pocket, fingered what else he’d tucked there. “The music room’s in the next wing. We can have coffee and brandy there.”

“I doubt we’d share the same taste in music, Roarke.”

“You might be surprised,” he murmured, “at what we share.” He touched her cheek again, this time sliding his hand around until it cupped the back of her neck. “At what we will share.”

She went rigid and lifted a hand to shove his arm away. He simply closed his fingers over her wrist. She could have had him flat on his back in a heartbeat — so she told herself. Still, she only stood there, the breath backing up in her lungs and her pulse throbbing hard and thick.

He wasn’t smiling now.

“You’re not a coward, Eve.” He said it softly when his lips were an inch from hers. The kiss hovered there, a breath away until the hand she’d levered against his arm changed its grip. And she moved into him.

She didn’t think. If she had, even for an instant, she would have known she was breaking all the rules. But she’d wanted to see, wanted to know. Wanted to feel.

His mouth was soft, more persuasive than possessive. His lips nibbled hers open so that he could slide his tongue over them, between them, to cloud her senses with flavor.