Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(19)

He rose, lifting her with him, feeling that craving spike and tear when her mouth went wild on his. Once again he pressed her back to the stone, now dropping her to her feet as he yanked her trousers down. As she dragged at his.

“Mine,” he said, clamping her hips, thrust into her.

Yes, God, yes. The first orgasm burst through her, a reeling blow that left her dizzy, drunk, then desperate for more. She hooked a leg around him, opening so he would fill, and her hips pistoned, matching him stroke for frantic stroke.

The cool stone at her back, the heat of him against her, in her, drove her up again as he took and took.

When the need built again, when she felt herself about to fall into those wild blue eyes, she clamped around him. “Come with me, come with me, come with me.”

The pleasure flashed, bright as that sizzling diamond, as they took the fall together.

She didn’t know if she’d sinned, but she woke up the next morning pretty damn relaxed.

It might have been the calm, uncluttered mind that had a fresh thought popping in as she showered. She chewed over it as she stepped into the drying tube, turned the angles while the warm air swirled. Distracted, she ignored the robe on the back of the door and walked back into the bedroom naked.

“Darling.” Roarke smiled at her as he sat drinking coffee with the cat sprawled beside him. “You’re wearing my favorite outfit.”

“Ha-ha. Question.” She moved to the dresser to hunt up underwear. Her hand stopped dead, then lifted a red bra with sparkling, and sharply abbreviated, cups. “Where did this come from?”

“Hmm. The goddess of lingerie?” he suggested.

“I can’t wear a tit-sling like this to work. Jesus, what if I had to strip off?”

“You’re right, that bra would make you appear undignified when you’re standing half naked on the job>”

“Well, it would.” Since she didn’t wear one half the time, she pulled out one of her favored support tanks instead.

He watched her drag on the unadorned, practical white. “Question?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Question.” She stepped into equally unadorned, equally practical white panties.

And he wondered why the look of her in the simple, the basic, stirred him as much as red lace or black satin.

“If you had to go under awhile, potentially a number of years, would you tell a trusted friend?”

“How much do I trust this friend?”

“That’s a factor, but let’s say enough.”

“For me, it would depend on the risks, and the consequences if someone drove me to the surface before I was ready.”

She considered that as she strode to the closet. “Five years is a long time—a hell of a long time to be someone you’re not—and the highlighted stuff in the Bible makes me think it was something he intended to shed when the time was right. In five years, it would take a lot of willpower not to contact a friend, a relative, someone to dump some of the frustration on, or share the joke with. If New York was home for Fake Father Flores, odds are he had a friend or relation handy.”

Absently, Roarke scratched Galahad between the ears and set the cat to purring like a jet engine. “On the other hand, he might have chosen New York because it was a good distance from anyone who knew him, and/or closer to what he was waiting for.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She scowled as she dragged on pants. “Yeah.” Then she shook her head. “No. He could have requested a position in the East, in New York or Jersey, say. But he specified that church. If all you want to do is get distance, you wouldn’t narrow options. But, on the yeah side again, it could be the place is connected to the what he was waiting for.”

She thought of the youth center.

“Maybe, maybe. I’ll check it out.”

As she finished dressing, Roarke walked over to the AutoChef. Galahad unsprawled himself in ever-hopeful anticipation of another meal. Eve strapped on her weapon holster and eyed the plates Roarke carried back to the sitting area.

“Pancakes?”

“I want to have breakfast with my wife, and they’re a particular weakness of hers.” Roarke set the plates down, then pointed a finger at the cat as Galahad gathered himself to spring. The cat flopped down again, sneered, and turned his head away.

“I think he just cursed you,” Eve commented.

“That may be, but he’s not getting my pancakes.”

To save time, Eve had Peabody meet her at the youth center. The five-story concrete building boasted a fenced, asphalt playground with the far end set up for half-court basketball. A handful of youths had a pickup game going, complete with trash rock, trash talk, and regular fouling. As she crossed the asphalt, several eyes slanted toward her, and in them she saw both nerves and sneers. Typical reaction, she thought, toward a cop.

She homed in on the tallest of the bunch, a skinny, mixed-race kid of about thirteen wearing black baggies, ancient high-tops, and a red watch cap.

“School holiday?”

He snagged the ball, dribbled it in place. “Got twenty before bell. What? You a truant badge?”

“Do I look like a truant badge?”

“Nope.” He turned, executed a decent hook shot that kissed the rim. “Look like badge. Big, bad badge.” His singsong opinion elicited snorts and guffaws from his audience.