Forgotten in Death(54)

“I need to—”

“You’ll have it all.” Roarke rose as he spoke. “All tidy and clearly drawn in the morning so you can use it as a hammer when you get him in the box.”

“It’s a really big hammer. No, it’s a bunch of hammers. Hidden accounts? Wife doesn’t know. Maybe she knows he cats around, but I’m betting she doesn’t know her kid has a bunch of half sibs or her husband’s shelling out all that money, every month.”

“And a very tidy sum it is.” Roarke took her hand as they walked, brought it to his lips. “I have to thank you for giving me such an enjoyable task to end a long day.”

“I wonder if his uncle knows.”

“Now there’s a thought. I imagine Bardov might think boys will be boys about the catting about, although one hears he doesn’t do the same himself. Never has.”

“Is that what one hears?”

“It is. Regardless, those particular accounts aren’t set up through the business, or through the financial firm that Bardov uses, and that Tovinski uses for all the rest.”

“Where does he get the money for those accounts? All that extra dough?”

At the doorway of their bedroom, Roarke turned her into him. “Aren’t you the clever one? And now I wonder if all the funds come from Bardov-sanctioned jobs and tasks.”

“Huh.” She circled her arms around him. “That makes you a clever one, too. He could be moonlighting so he can pay all that out without his wife, his uncle knowing.”

“I’ll scratch through more in the morning. Now, why don’t we find something enjoyable to end our long day?”

“Yeah.” Because she needed it, needed him, she rested her head on his shoulder. “I could use some enjoyable.”

In something close to a dance, he circled her to the bed.

Fatigue? Yes, she felt it, knew her energy hit low ebb. But she needed to be held, to be touched, to be loved. She needed to give him the same.

When they reached the bed, he released her weapon harness. She lifted her head from his shoulder as he slid it off.

“How come your shoes didn’t get bunged up like my boots, since you went down there?”

“Once a cat burglar.”

He toed off his shoes, then eased her back on the bed.

The cat rolled over in visible disgust, then leaped off the bed.

When they lay together, she drew the tie out of his hair so she could comb her fingers through it. “You need to go back to your own stuff tomorrow.”

“Is that an order?”

“Like anybody gives you orders. But who’s going to buy Lithuania?”

“Lithuania?” He lowered his head to brush his mouth over hers.

“That’s a place. Somewhere.” Rolling, she reversed their positions, then just turned her cheek to his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, feel it.

It soothed and calmed and helped her believe everything could be all right. At least here. At least now.

Her communicator signaled in her pocket. “Crap. Sorry.”

She shifted, dragged it out. “It’s good. Uniform Carmichael. They have Alva’s books, the medical reports. They’re heading back.”

She set it aside on the bedside table, added her ’link.

“Now, where were we?”

He sat up, pulled her to him, and took her mouth.

Not calming and soothing, just the here and now.

She let the day, the work, the worries, the rest of the world evaporate with the kiss. And locked herself around him as she answered it with all she had.

He brought her home. Every day, no matter what she faced, he brought her home.

His hands slid up her back, down again. No, not soothing. Possessive. Those long, skilled fingers knew how to take what they wanted, and how to give her what she needed.

She could all but hear him think: Mine. And that, only that, brought a quick thrill that banished fatigue.

Wanting him to share that thrill, she unbuttoned his shirt. Her fingers, quick and determined, shoved the material aside, spread over the hard planes of his chest.

She wanted to touch him; wanted him to feel her touch. Wanted to know his heartbeat quickened with it.

And when he tugged her shirt aside, she pressed against him, skin to skin, so those heartbeats merged.

So right, he thought, the shape of her against him. Long and lean, angular and agile, the tough muscle under soft skin. He yearned for her, endlessly, and here in the dark with the world and all its sorrows shut away, she was only his.

Hands rushed now, yanking at belts. Wanting more.

He thought the more they craved from each other, always the more, would never be fully filled. Her body, so familiar to him, remained a source of wonder, and would always be, he knew, if they loved a thousand lifetimes.

He pleased himself, letting his hands roam and possess, his lips taste and feed. And felt her pleasure in that freedom with the rapid kick of her pulse, heard it in her quickened breath.

He drove her up, slowly, steadily, barely clinging to his own control as he sought to shatter hers. When she broke, quaking under him, the thrill of her release spilled from her into him.

Greedy, still greedy, she rolled—cat-quick—to straddle him. Still shuddering, still riding, she took him in. Her body bowed, her head fell back as, swamped in her own needs, she dragged him with her to that edge.