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

“It seems odder to me that I’ve linked up with someone who can buy and sell planets at a whim.”

“Married.” He laughed. Turning her around, he nuzzled the back of her neck. “Go on, say it. We’re married. The word won’t choke you.”

“I know what we are.” Ordering herself to relax, she leaned back against him. “Let me live with it for a while. I like being here, away with you.”

“Then I take it you’re glad you let me pressure you into the three weeks.”

“You didn’t pressure me.”

“I had to nag.” He nipped her ear. “Browbeat.” His hands slid up to her br**sts. “Beg.”

She snorted. “You’ve never begged for anything. But maybe you did nag. I haven’t had three weeks off the job in… never.”

He decided against reminding her she hadn’t had it now, precisely. She rarely went through a twenty-four-hour period without running some program that put her up against a crime. “Why don’t we make it four?”

“Roarke — “

He chuckled. “Just testing. Drink your champagne. You’re not nearly drunk enough for what I have in mind.”

“Oh?” Her pulse leaped, making her feel foolish. “And what’s that?”

“It’ll lose in the telling,” he decided. “Let’s just say I intend to keep you occupied for the last forty-eight hours we have here.”

“Forty-eight hours?” With a laugh, she drained her glass. “When do we get started?”

“There’s no time like — ” He broke off, scowling when the doorbell sounded. “I told the staff to leave the clearing up. Stay here.” He snugged together her robe, which he’d just untied. “I’ll send them away. Far away.”

“Get another bottle while you’re at it,” she told him, grinning as she shook the last drops into her glass. “Someone drank all of this one.”

Amused, he slipped back inside, crossed the wide living space with its clear glass ceiling and feather-soft carpets. He wanted her there, to start, he decided, on that yielding floor with the ice-edged stars wheeling overhead. He plucked a long white lily out of a porcelain dish, imagining how he would show her just what a clever man could do to a woman with the petals of a flower.

He was smiling as he turned into the foyer with its gilded walls and sweeping marble staircase. Flipping on the view screen, he prepared to send the room service waiter to perdition for the interruption.

With some surprise he saw the face of one of his assistant engineers. “Carter? Trouble?”

Carter rubbed a hand over a face that was dead pale and damp with sweat. “Sir. I’m afraid there is. I need to speak with you. Please.”

“All right. Just a moment.” Roarke let out a sigh as he flicked off the screen, disengaged the locks. Carter was young for his position, in his middle twenties, but he was a genius at design and execution. If there was a problem with the construction, it was best to deal with it now.

“Is it the sky glide at the salon?” Roarke asked as he opened the door. “I thought you’d worked out the kinks there.”

“No — I mean, yes, sir, I have. It’s working perfectly now.”

The man was trembling, Roarke realized, and forgot his annoyance. “Has there been an accident?” He took Carter’s arm, steered him into the living area, nudged him into a chair. “Has someone been hurt?”

“I don’t know — I mean, an accident?” Carter blinked, stared glassily. “Miss. Ma’am. Lieutenant,” he said as Eve came in. He started to rise, then fell weakly down again when she gave him a quick push.

“He’s in shock,” she said to Roarke, her voice brisk. “Try some of that fancy brandy you’ve got around here.” She crouched down, kept her face level with his. His pupils were pinpricks. “Carter, isn’t it? Take it slow.”

“I…” His face went waxy now. “I think I’m going to be — “

Before he could finish, Eve whipped his head down between his knees. “Breathe. Just breathe. Let’s have that brandy, Roarke.” She held out a hand, and he was there with a snifter.

“Pull it together, Carter.” Roarke eased him back onto the cushions. “Take a swallow of this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“For Christ’s sake, stop sirring me to death.”

Color came back into Carter’s cheeks, either from the brandy or from embarrassment. He nodded, swallowed, let out a breath. “I’m sorry. I thought I was okay. I came right up. I didn’t know if I should — I didn’t know what else to do.” He spread a hand over his face like a kid at a horror video. He hitched in a breath and said it quickly. “It’s Drew, Drew Mathias, my roomie. He’s dead.”

Air exploded out of his lungs, then shuddered back in. He took another deep gulp of brandy and choked on it.

Roarke’s eyes went flat. He pulled together a picture of Mathias: young, eager, red hair and freckles, an electronics expert with a specialty in autotronics. “Where, Carter? How did it happen?”

“I thought I should tell you right away.” Now there were two high bruising red flags riding on Carter’s pasty cheeks. “I came right up to tell you — and your wife. I thought since she’s — she’s the police, she could do something.”