Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(26)

When her eyes went fixed, the orgasm ripped through him. Huge, amazing, like nothing before experienced.

He choked out his own cry, gulped and gasped for air until his body stopped vibrating.

Then he collapsed beside her, sated, stunned, and for the first time in his life, totally fulfilled.

“Jesus! Where have you been all my life?” He gave her thigh a little pat. “Thanks.”

Now he had to shower, and dig out her hoarded tip money, scout out anything in this dump worth taking. But first, he had to see what she had in the kitchen.

Like a fat joint of zoner, killing gave him the serious munchies.

6

THOUGHTS WEIGHED HER DOWN AS EVE TURNED through the gates of home. Often—usually, in fact—after a long day that first sight of the gorgeous, castle-like house Roarke built smoothed things out. The way it rose, spread, jutted against the evening sky at the end of the long curve of road tended to lift weights. Reminded her she had a home. After a lifetime that had begun in nightmares, shifted to the misery of shuffling foster care and state control, and to, at long last, her own place in New York that had been primarily a space to catch some sleep between investigations, she had a real home.

But tonight, there was just too much weight.

It strained against her that a selfish ass**le could elude her, even for a day. She needed to start fresh, go back to the beginning, and move through it all step-by-step. And without the distractions of an offer of a captaincy.

She needed to clear her head, look at it all from another angle.

She needed Roarke, she admitted. His ear, his eye, his canny brain.

She’d run it through for him, run it by him, bounce it off him, she determined as she braked at the front entrance. Maybe she’d missed something he’d see, or think of.

He’d help. That wasn’t assumption, but fact. And as much home to her as the stone and glass they lived in.

She started to climb out, and Peabody’s date night arrowed into her mind. And for Christ’s sake, she didn’t have time for that.

Didn’t make time, she corrected, and slumped back.

He did. Roarke made time, and she couldn’t claim he wasn’t one of the busiest people on or off planet.

She hardly ever made time for the fussy stuff, and now that added one more weight. Even when she wasn’t neck-deep in an investigation she just didn’t think of it.

Now thinking of it stacked guilt on her head like boulders.

She couldn’t manage a date night, just couldn’t, but she should be able to put a nice meal together, with a few fancy touches.

And balance out his eye, ear, canny brain.

She shoved out of the car, bolted for the front door, and through.

And saw Summerset, looming in black, with the pudgy cat at his feet.

“I don’t have time for witty repartee,” she snapped.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Is he home?”

“Not as yet.”

“I need to put a meal together, on the roof terrace.”

Summerset’s eyebrows lifted. “There’s nothing on the calendar.”

“Just …” She waved that away as the cat padded over to ripple between her feet. “I can handle the setup, but tell me what he should eat—we should eat. And don’t make it something I hate out of spite.”

Even scarecrows could be amused, she noted.

“Very well. I’d start with the tomato soup with poached shrimp.”

“Wait.” She yanked out her PPC to note it down. “Go.”

“Then move to a green salad with seasonal pears in a champagne vinaigrette. For the main, I’d suggest Lobster Thermidor.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Delicious. You’ll enjoy it. I’d serve it with a sauvignon blanc or champagne, and finish with a vanilla bean soufflé, brandy, and coffee.”

“Okay. Got it.” She raced for the stairs.

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Shut up!”

She charged into the bedroom. Damn it, damn it, she wasn’t wearing some fancy dress. It wasn’t date-date. But she strode into the closet, and the cat danced at her heels as if they played a game.

She had enough clothes for a hundred normal people, she should be able to put one decent outfit together.

And she was damned if she’d ask Summerset to consult here.

She grabbed black pants. Black went with everything, didn’t it? Then dug out a sweater—really soft—in a color than made her think of fall leaves, and with a sparkly band at the neck and hem. That way she didn’t have to deal with more sparkles.

Boots were probably wrong, she imagined, but she would not put on skyscraper heels.

It surprised her to find a pair of black shoes with a sparkly wedge-type heel. Shouldn’t surprise her, she thought as she veered into the quick change. She never knew what the closet fairy would stick in there next.

Given the circumstances, she slapped on some lip dye, some lash gunk, some face junk.

As good as he was going to get, she decided, and streaked for the elevator.

She leaped out, paused. She supposed she owed Summerset for the fact the sky roof was open to the deep indigo sky, and the internal heaters were spreading a comfortable warmth against the brisk November evening.

Now the rest was up to her.