Reunion in Death (In Death #14)

Reunion in Death (In Death #14)
J.D. Robb




CHAPTER 1

Murder was work. Death was a serious chore for the killer, the victim, for the survivors. And for those who stood for the dead. Some went about the job devotedly, others carelessly.

And for some, murder was a labor of love.

When he left his Park Avenue condo for his regular morning stroll, Walter C. Pettibone was blissfully unaware he was in his last hours of life. He was a robust sixty and a canny businessman who'd increased his family's already considerable fortune through flowers and sentiment.

He was wealthy, healthy, and just over a year before had acquired a young, blonde wife who had the sexual appetite of a Doberman in heat and the brains of a cabbage.

His world, in Walter C. Pettibone's opinion, was just exactly so.

He had work he loved, two children from his first marriage who would one day take over the business he'd taken over from his own father. He maintained a reasonably friendly relationship with his ex, a fine, sensible woman, and his son and daughter were pleasant, intelligent individuals who brought him pride and satisfaction.

He had a grandson who was the apple of his eye.

In the summer of 2059, World of Flowers was a major intergalactic enterprise with florists, horticulturists, offices, and greenhouses both on and off planet.

Walter loved flowers. And not just for their profit margin. He loved the scents of them, the colors, the textures, the beauty of both foliage and blossom and the simple miracle of their existence.

Every morning he would visit a handful of florists, to check the stock, the arrangements, and just to sniff and chat and spend time among the flowers and the people who loved them.

Twice a week, he was up before dawn to attend the gardener's market downtown. There he would wander and enjoy, order or critique.

It was a routine that rarely varied over the course of a half-century, and one he never tired of.

Today, after an hour or so among the blooms, he'd go into the corporate offices. He'd spend more time there than usual in order to give his wife the time and space to finish preparations for his surprise birthday party.

It made him chuckle to think of it.

The sweetheart couldn't keep a secret if she stapled her lips together. He'd known about the party for weeks, and was looking forward to the evening with the glee of a child.

Naturally he would act surprised and had practiced stunned expressions in his mirror only that morning.

So Walter went through his daily routine with a smile at the corners of his mouth-having no idea just how surprised he was going to be.

...

Eve doubted she'd ever felt better in her life. Rested, recharged, limber and loose, she prepared for her first day back on the job after a wonderfully undemanding two-week vacation where the peskiest task facing her had been whether to eat or sleep.

One week at the villa in Mexico, the second on a private island. And in both spots there had been no lack of opportunities for sun, sex, and snoozing.

Roarke had been right again. They'd needed the time together. Away. They'd both needed a period of healing. And if the way she felt this morning was any indication, they'd done the job.

She stood in front of her closet, frowning at the jungle of clothes she'd acquired since her marriage. She didn't think her confusion was due to the fact that she'd spent most of the last fourteen days naked or near to it. Unless she was very much mistaken, the man had managed to sneak more clothes in on her.

She yanked out a long blue gown in some material that managed to sizzle and sparkle at the same time. "Have I ever seen this before?"

"It's your closet." In the sitting area of their bedroom, Roarke scanned the stock reports on the wall screen while he enjoyed a second cup of coffee. But he glanced over. "If you're planning to wear that today, the criminal element in the city's going to be very impressed."

"There's more stuff in here than there was two weeks ago."

"Really? I wonder how that happened."

"You have to stop buying me clothes."

He reached over to stroke Galahad, but the cat turned his nose in the air. He'd been sulking since their return the night before. "Why?"

"Because it's embarrassing." She muttered it as she dived inside to find something reasonable to wear.

He only smiled at her, watching as she hunted up a sleeveless top and trousers to slip over that long, lean body he never quite stopped craving.

She'd tanned herself to a pale gold, and the sun had teased out blonde streaks in her short brown hair. She dressed quickly, economically, with the air of a woman who never thought about fashion. Which was why, he supposed, he could never resist heaping fashion on her.

She'd rested during their time away, he thought. He'd seen, hour by hour, day by day, the clouds of fatigue and worry lift away from her. There was a light in her whiskey-colored eyes now, a healthy glow in her narrow, fine-boned face.

And when she strapped on her weapon harness, there was a set to her mouth-that wide and generous mouth- that told him Lieutenant Eve Dallas was back. And ready to kick some ass.

"What is it about an armed woman that arouses me?"

She shot him a look, reached in the closet for a light jacket. "Cut it out. I'm not going to be late my first day back because you've got some residual horniness."

Oh yes, he thought, rising. She was back. "Darling Eve." He managed, barely, not to wince. "Not that jacket."