Portrait in Death (In Death #16)(93)

He'd taken what he needed, or simply wanted. He'd fought for, or bought, or in some way acquired what made him content. And the fight itself, the hunt, the pursuit were all part of the game that entertained him.

Now he was being given something, freely, something he'd never considered, never allowed himself to want. And he didn't know what the hell to do with it.

He needed to call Eve.

He looked across the field, across the silvered mists and gentle rise of aching green. Rather than pull out his pocket-link he continued to toy with the button. He didn't want to call her. He wanted to touch her. To hold her, just hold her and anchor himself again.

"Why did I come without you?" he murmured, "when I need you so bloody much?"

He heard the muscular hum, recognized it for what it was an instant before the jet-copter broke through the mists like a great black bird breaks through a thin net.

And recognized it as one of his own as it skimmed over the field, startling cows, and causing his uncle-cousin-they were all a blur of faces and names to him yet-to stop the tractor and lean out to watch the flight.

His first reaction was a quick clutch in the gut. Eve, something had happened to Eve. His knees went weak at the thought as the copter arrowed down for a landing.

Then he saw her, the shape of her in the cockpit beside the pilot. The choppy cap of hair, the curve of her cheek. Pale, naturally. She hated riding in those machines.

The grass of the field went swimming in the displaced air as the copter set down. Then the sound died, the air was still.

She jumped down, a light pack slung over her arm. And his world righted again.

He didn't move, couldn't seem to as he was so struck by the sight of her. Striding across the green, casting a wary look at the cows over her shoulder before her eyes met his. Held his.

His heart rolled over in his chest; the most lovely sensation he'd ever known.

He walked forward to meet her.

"I was just wishing for you," he said. "And here you are."

"Must be your lucky day, Ace."

"Eve." He lifted a hand, not quite steady, skimmed his fingers along her jaw. "Eve," he said again, and his arms were around her, banded like steel as he lifted her off her feet. "Oh God. Eve."

She felt the shudder run through him as he buried his face in her hair, against the curve of her neck. And knew she'd been right to come. Whatever else there was, she'd been right to come.

"Everything's okay now." To soothe, she ran her hands over his back. "It's okay."

"You landed in a field of cows, in a jet-copter."

"You're telling me?"

He rubbed his hands up and down her arms before linking them with hers and easing back to look at her face. "You must love me madly."

"I must."

His eyes were wild and beautiful, his lips warm and tender as he pressed them to her cheeks. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, but you missed a spot." She found his mouth with hers and let him sink in. When she felt the heat, the punch, her lips curved against his. "That's better."

"Much. Eve-"

"We've got an audience."

"The cows don't mind."

"Don't talk about the cows, they creep me out." When he laughed, she nodded over his shoulder. "Two-legged audience."

He kept an arm around her waist, possessively, drawing her close to his side as he turned. He saw Sinead standing by the rambling roses, an eyebrow cocked.

"This is my wife," he told her. "This is my Eve."

"Well, I hope she's yours, the way you've got a hold of her. A tall girl, isn't she, quite handsome, too. Looks like she suits you."

"She does." He lifted Eve's free hand to his lips. "She does indeed. Eve, this is Sinead Lannigan. This is... my aunt."

Eve took the woman's measure in a slow, careful study. Hurt him, her face said clearly, deal with me. She watched Sinead's eyebrow wing higher, and a faint smile ghost around her mouth.

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Lannigan."

"Sinead will do. Did you come all the way from New York City in that little thing?"

"Just the last leg."

"Still, you must be a brave and adventurous soul. Have you had breakfast then?"

"She wouldn't have, no," Roarke said before Eve could respond. "Brave and adventurous, she is, but a weak stomach for heights."

"I can speak for myself."

"I'll wager you can." Sinead nodded. "Come in then, and welcome. I'll fix you breakfast. Your man hasn't eaten either."

She walked back toward the house. Understanding his wife, Roarke gave Eve's hand a quick squeeze. "She's been nothing but kind. I'm staggered by the kindness I've found here."

"Okay. I could eat."

Still, she held her opinion in reserve as she found herself seated at the enormous kitchen table with Sinead manning the stove and the pots and skillets on it like a conductor mans an orchestra.

She was given tea, nearly as black as coffee and so strong she was surprised it didn't melt the enamel on her teeth. But it settled her as yet uneasy stomach.

"So you're a cop. One who hunts murderers." Sinead glanced back over her shoulder as she wielded a spatula. "Roarke says you're brilliant, and dogged as a terrier, with a heart big as the moon."