Rapture in Death (In Death #4)(30)

It shattered without warning, beyond his control. His body simply peaked like an engine on maximum power, battered into hers, then erupted. The hot wave of release swamped him, swallowed him, drowned him. It was the only time since he’d first touched her that he didn’t know if she had followed him over the edge.

He collapsed, rolled weakly away to try to find air for his overtaxed lungs. In the glowing moonlight, they sprawled on the grass, sweaty, half-dressed, shuddering, like the lone survivors of a particularly vicious war.

With a groan, she rolled over on her stomach, let the grass cool her burning cheeks. “Christ, what was that?”

“Under other circumstances, I’d call it sex. But…” He managed to open his eyes. “I don’t have a word for it.”

“Did I bite you?”

A few aches were making themselves known as his body recovered. He twisted his head, glanced at his shoulder, and saw the imprint of her teeth. “Someone did. I think it was probably you.”

He watched a star fall, shooting silver from sky to earth. It had been much like that, he thought, like plunging helplessly to oblivion. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. I have to think about it.” Her head was still spinning. “We’re on the lawn,” she said slowly. “Our clothes are torn. I’m pretty sure I have the imprint of your fingers dented into my butt.”

“I did my best,” he murmured.

She snickered first, then chuckled, then broke into fits of giddy, hiccupping laughter. “Jesus, Roarke, Jesus Christ, look at us.”

“In a minute. I think I’m still partially blind.” But he was grinning as he shifted. She was still shaking with laughter. Her hair stuck up at odd angles, her eyes were glassy, and there were grass stains as well as bruises on her pretty ass. “You don’t look much like a cop, Lieutenant.”

She rolled to sit up as he had, angled her head. “You don’t look much like a rich guy, Roarke.” She tugged on his sleeve — it was all that was left of his shirt. “But it’s an interesting look. How are you going to explain that to Summerset?”

“I’ll simply tell him my wife is an animal.”

She snorted. “He’s already decided that for himself.” Blowing out a breath, she looked toward the house. Lights glimmered on the lower level to welcome them home. “How are we going to get into the house?”

“Well…” He found what was left of her shirt, tied it around her br**sts, and made her giggle helplessly. They managed to tug on ruined slacks, then sat looking at each other. “I can’t carry you to the car,” he told her. “I was hoping you’d carry me.”

“We have to get up first.”

“Okay.”

Neither of them moved. The laughter started again, continued as they grabbed onto each other like drunks and staggered to their feet. “Leave the car,” he decided.

“Uh-huh.” They limped off, weaving. “Clothes? Shoes?”

“Leave them, too.”

“Good plan.”

Snickering like children breaking curfew, they stumbled up the steps, shushing each other as they fell through the door.

“Roarke!” Shocked tones, rushing feet.

“I knew it,” Eve muttered dourly. “I just knew it.”

Summerset rushed out of the shadows, his normally set face alive with shock and worry. He saw tattered clothes, bruised skin, wild eyes. “Was there an accident?”

Roarke straightened up, kept his arm around Eve’s shoulders as much for balance as support. “No. It was on purpose. Go to bed, Summerset.”

Eve glanced over her shoulder as she and Roarke helped each other up the stairs. Summerset stood at the base, gaping. The picture pleased her so much, she snickered all the way to the bedroom.

They fell into bed, exactly as they were, and slept like babies.

CHAPTER SEVEN

At shortly before eight the next morning, a bit sore and fuzzy-brained, Eve sat at her desk in her home office. She considered it more of a sanctuary than an office, really, the apartment Roarke had built for her in his home. Its design was similar to the apartment where she had lived when she’d met him, which she’d been reluctant to give up.

He’d provided it so that she could have her own space, her own things. Even after all the time she’d lived there, she rarely slept in their bed when he was away. Instead, she curled into the relaxation chair and dozed.

The nightmares came less often now, but crept back at odd moments.

She could work here when it was convenient, lock the doors if she wanted privacy. And as it had a fully operational kitchen, she often chose her AutoChef over Summerset when she was alone in the house.

With the sun streaming through the view wall at her back, she reviewed her caseload, juggled legwork. She knew she didn’t have the luxury of focusing exclusively on the Fitzhugh case, particularly since it was earmarked a probable suicide. If she didn’t turn up hard evidence in the next day or two, she’d have no choice but to lower its priority.

At eight sharp there was a brisk knock on the door.

“Come on in, Peabody.”

“I’ll never get used to this place,” Peabody said as she walked inside. “It’s like something out of an old video.”

“You should get Summerset to take you on a tour,” Eve said absently. “I’m pretty sure there are rooms I’ve never seen. There’s coffee.” Eve gestured toward the kitchen alcove and continued to frown at her logbook.