by J. D. Robb
"Very well, but you can be sure I will contact the chief of police and security about your conduct." He studied her badge again. "Lieutenant."
"Feel free." With a signal to Peabody, she followed the doorman's stiff back to the entrance, where he activated his droid backup to man the post.
Inside the shining silver doors, the lobby of the Luxury Towers was a tropical garden with towering palms, flowing hibiscus and twittering birds. A large pool surrounded a splashing fountain in the shape of a generously curved woman, naked to the waist and holding a golden fish.
The doorman keyed in a code at a glass tube, silently gestured Eve and Peabody inside. Unhappy with the transport, Eve stayed rooted to the center while Peabody all but pressed her nose against the glass on the ascent.
Sixty-two floors later, the tube opened into a smaller garden lobby, no less abundant. The doorman paused by a security screen outside double arched doors of highly polished steel.
"Doorman Strobie, escorting Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD and aide."
"Mr. Brennen is not in residence at this time," came the response in a soothing voice musical in its Irish lilt.
Eve merely elbowed Strobie aside. "This is a police emergency." She lifted her badge to the electronic eye for verification. "Entrance is imperative."
"One moment, Lieutenant." There was a quiet hum as her face and ID were scanned, then a discreet click of locks. "Entrance permitted, please be aware that this residence is protected by SCAN-EYE."
"Recorder on, Peabody. Back off, Strobie." Eve put one hand on the door, the other on her weapon, and shouldered it open.
The smell struck her first, and made her swear. She'd smelled violent death too many times to mistake it.
Blood painted the blue silk walls of the living area, a grisly, incomprehensible graffiti. She saw the first piece of Thomas X. Brennen on the cloud-soft carpet. His hand lay palm up, fingers curled toward her as if to beckon or to plead. It had been severed at the wrist.
She heard Strobie gag behind her, heard him stumble back into the lobby and the fresh floral air. She stepped into the stench. She drew her weapon now, sweeping with it as she covered the room. Her instincts told her what had been done there was over, and whoever had done it was safely away, but she stuck close to procedure, making her way slowly over the carpet, avoiding the gore when she could.
"If Strobie's finished vomiting, ask him the way to the master bedroom."
"Down the hall to the left," Peabody said a moment later. "But he's still heaving out there."
"Find him a bucket, then secure the elevator and this door."
Eve started down the hall. The smell grew riper, thicker. She began to breathe through her teeth. The door to the bedroom wasn't secure. Through the crack came a slash of bright artificial light and the majestic sounds of Mozart.
What was left of Brennen was stretched out on a lake-sized bed with a stylish mirrored canopy. One arm had been chained with silver links to the bedpost. Eve imagined they would find his feet somewhere in the spacious apartment.
Undoubtedly the walls were well soundproofed, but surely the man had screamed long and loud before he died. How long had it taken, she wondered as she studied the body. How much pain could a man stand before the brain turned off and the body gave out?
Thomas Brennen would know the answer, to the second.
He'd been stripped naked, his hand and both his feet amputated. The one eye he had left stared in blind horror at the mirrored reflection of his own mutilated form. He'd been disemboweled.
"Sweet Jesus Christ," Peabody whispered from the doorway. "Holy Mother of God."
"I need the field kit. We'll seal up, call this in. Find out where his family is. Call this in through EDD, Feeney if he's on, and have him put a media jammer on before you give any details. Let's keep the details quiet as long as possible."
Peabody had to swallow hard twice before she was sure her lunch would stay down. "Yes, sir."
"Get Strobie and secure him before he can babble about this."
When Eve turned, Peabody saw a shadow of pity in her eyes, then it was gone and they were flat and cool again. "Let's get moving. I want to fry this son of a bitch."
• • •
It was nearly midnight before Eve dragged herself up the stairs to her own front door. Her stomach was raw, her eyes burning, her head roaring. The stench of vicious death clung to her though she'd scrubbed off a layer of skin in the locker room showers before heading home.
What she wanted most was oblivion, and she said one desperate and sincere prayer that she wouldn't see the wreckage of Thomas Brennen when she closed her eyes to sleep.
The door opened before she could reach it. Summerset stood with the glittery light of the foyer chandelier behind him, his tall bony body all but quivering with dislike.
"You are unpardonably late, Lieutenant. Your guests are preparing to leave."
Guests? Her overtaxed mind struggled with the word before she remembered. A dinner party? She was supposed to care about a dinner party after the night she'd put in?
"Kiss my ass," she invited and started passed him.
His thin fingers caught at her arm. "As Roarke's wife you're expected to perform certain social duties, such as assisting him in hosting an important affair such as this evening's dinner."
Fury outdistanced fatigue in a heartbeat. Her hand curled into a fist at her side. "Step back before I—"
"Eve darling."
Roarke's voice, managing to convey welcome, amusement, and caution in two words, stopped her curled fist from lifting and following through. Scowling, she turned, saw him just outside the parlor doorway. It wasn't the formal black that made him breathtaking. Eve knew he had a leanly muscled body that could stop a woman's heart no matter what he wore—or didn't wear. His hair flowed, dark as night and nearly to his shoulders, to frame a face she often thought belonged on a Renaissance painting. Sharp bones, eyes bluer than prized cobalt, a mouth fashioned to spout poetry, issue orders, and drive a woman to madness.
In less than a year, he had broken through her defenses, unlocked her heart, and most surprising of all, had gained not only her love but her trust.
And he could still annoy her.
She considered him the first and only miracle in her life.
"I'm late. Sorry." It was more of a challenge than an apology, delivered like a bullet. He acknowledged it with an easy smile and a lifted eyebrow.
"I'm sure it was unavoidable." He held out a hand. When she crossed the foyer and took it, he found hers stiff and cold. In her aged-whiskey eyes he saw both fury and fatigue. He'd grown used to seeing both there. She was pale, which worried him. He recognized the smears on her jeans as dried blood, and hoped it wasn't her own.
He gave her hand a quick, intimate squeeze before bringing it to his lips, his eyes steady on hers. "You're tired, Lieutenant," he murmured, the wisp of Ireland magical in his voice. "I'm just moving them along. Only a few minutes more, all right?"
"Sure, yeah. Fine." Her temper began to cool. "I'm sorry I screwed this up. I know it was important." Beyond him in the beautifully furnished parlor she saw more than a dozen elegant men and women, formally dressed, gems winking, silks rustling. Something of her reluctance must have shown on her face before she smoothed it away, because he laughed.
"Five minutes, Eve. I doubt this can be as bad as whatever you faced tonight."
He ushered her in, a man as comfortable with wealth and privilege as with the stench of alleys and violence. Seamlessly he introduced his wife to those she'd yet to meet, cued her on the names of those she'd socialized with at another time, all the while nudging the dinner party guests toward the door.
Eve smelled rich perfumes and wine, the fragrant smoke from the applewood logs simmering discreetly in the fireplace. But under it all the sensory memory stink of blood and gore remained.
He wondered if she knew how staggering she was, standing there amid the glitter in her scarred jacket and smeared denim,
her short, untidy hair haloing a pale face, accenting dark, tired eyes, her long, rangy body held straight through what he knew was an act of sheer will.
She was, he thought, courage in human form.
But when they closed the door on the last guest, she shook her head. "Summerset's right. I'm just not equipped for this Roarke's wife stuff."
"You are my wife."
"Doesn't mean I'm any good at it. I let you down. I should've—" She stopped talking because his mouth was on hers, and it was warm, possessive, and untied the knots in the back of her neck. Without realizing she'd moved, Eve wrapped her arms around his waist and just held on.
"There," he murmured. "That's better. This is my business." He lifted her chin, skimming a finger in the slight dent centered in it. "My job. You have yours."
"It was a big deal though. Some whatzit merger."
"Scottoline merger—more of a buyout, really, and it should be finalized by the middle of next week. Even without your delightful presence at the dinner table. Still, you might have called. I worried."
"I forgot. I can't always remember. I'm not used to this." She jammed her hands in her pockets and paced down the wide hall and back. "I'm not used to this. Every time I think I am, I'm not. Then I come walking in here with all the megarich, looking like a street junkie."
"On the contrary, you look like a cop. I believe several of our guests were quite impressed with the glimpse of your weapon under your jacket, and the trace of blood on your jeans. It's not yours, I take it."
"No." Suddenly she just couldn't stand up any longer. She turned to the steps, climbed two and sat. Because it was Roarke, she allowed herself to cover her face with her hands.
He sat beside her, draped an arm over her shoulders. "It was bad."
"Almost always you can say you've seen as bad, even worse. It's most always true. I can't say that this time." Her stomach still clenched and rolled. "I've never seen worse."
He knew what she lived with, had seen a great deal of it himself. "Do you want to tell me?"
"No, Christ no, I don't want to think about it for a few hours. I don't want to think about anything."
"I can help you there."
For the first time in hours she smiled. "I bet you can."
"Let's start this way." He rose and plucked her off the step up into his arms.
"You don't have to carry me. I'm okay."
He flashed a grin at her as he started up. "Maybe it makes me feel manly."
"In that case…" She wound her arms around his neck, rested her head on his shoulder. It felt good. Very good. "The least I can do after standing you up tonight is make you feel manly."
"The very least," he agreed.
*** CHAPTER TWO ***
The sky window above the bed was still dark when she woke. And she woke in a sweat. The images in the dream were muddled and blurred. All too glad to have escaped them, Eve didn't try to clarify the dream.
Because she was alone in the big bed, she allowed herself one quick, hard shudder. "Lights," she ordered. "On low." Then sighed when the dark edged away. She gave herself a moment to settle before checking the time.
Five-fifteen a.m. Terrific, she thought, knowing there would be no return to sleep now. Not without Roarke there to help beat the nightmares back. She wondered if she'd ever stop being embarrassed that she had come to depend on him for such things. A year before she hadn't even known he existed. Now he was as much a part of her life as her own hands. Her own heart.
She climbed out of bed, grabbing one of the silk robes Roarke was constantly buying her. Wrapping herself in it, she turned to the wall panel, engaged the search.
"Where is Roarke?"
Roarke is in the lower level pool area.
A swim, Eve thought, wasn't a bad idea. A workout first, she decided, to smooth away the kinks and the dregs of a bad dream.
With the objective of avoiding Summerset, she took the elevator rather than the stairs. The man was everywhere, sliding out of shadows, always ready with a scowl or a sniff. A continuation of their confrontation the night before wasn't the way she wanted to start her day.
Roarke's gym was fully equipped, giving her all the options. She could spar with a droid, pump up with free weights, or just lay back and let machines do the work. She stripped out of the robe and tugged herself into a snug black unitard. She wanted a run, a long one, and after tying on thin air soles she programmed the video track.
The beach, she decided. It was the one place other than the city she was completely at home. All the rural landscapes and desert vistas, the off-planet sites the unit offered made her vaguely uncomfortable.
She started out at a light trot, the blue waves crashing beside her, the glint of the sun just peeking over the horizon. Gulls wheeled and screamed. She drew in the moist salt air of the tropics, and as her muscles began to warm and limber increased her pace.
She hit her stride at the first mile, and her mind emptied.
She'd been to this beach several times since she'd met Roarke—in reality and holographically. Before that the biggest body of water she'd seen had been the Hudson River.
Lives changed, she mused. And so did reality.
At mile four when her muscles were just beginning to sing, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Roarke, his hair still damp from his swim, moved into place beside her, matching his pace to hers.
"Running to or away?" he asked.
"Just running."
"You're up early, Lieutenant."
"I've got a full day."
He lifted a brow when she increased her pace. His wife had a healthy competitive streak, he mused, and easily matched her stride. "I thought you were off."
"I was." She slowed, stopped, then bent at the waist to stretch out. "Now I'm not." She lifted her head until her eyes met his. It wasn't only her life now, she remembered, or her reality. It was theirs. "I guess you had plans."
"Nothing that can't be adjusted." The weekend in Martinique he'd hoped to surprise her with could wait. "My calendar's clear for the next forty-eight hours, if you want to bounce anything off me."
She heaved out a breath. This was another change in her life, this sharing of her work. "Maybe. I want to take a swim."
"I'll join you."
"I thought you just had one."
"I can have two." He skimmed a thumb over the dent in her chin. The exercise had brought color to her cheeks and a light sheen to her skin. "It's not illegal." He took her hand to lead her out of the gym and into the flower-scented air of the pool room.
Palms and flowing vines grew lushly, surrounding a lagoon-styled pool sided with smooth stones and tumbling waterfalls.
"I've got to get a suit."
He only smiled and tugged the straps from her arms. "Why?" His graceful hands skimmed her breasts as he freed them and made her brows raise.
"What kind of water sport did you have in mind?''
"Whatever works." He cupped her face in his hands, bent to kiss her. "I love you, Eve."
"I know." She closed her eyes and rested her brow against his. "It's so weird."
Naked, she turned and dove into the dark water. She stayed under, skimming along the bottom. Her lips curved when the water turned a pale blue. The man knew her moods before she did, she thought. She did twenty laps before rolling lazily to her back. When she reached out, his fingers linked with hers.
"I'm pretty relaxed."
"Are you?"
"Yeah, so relaxed I probably couldn't fight off some pervert who wanted to take advantage of me."
"Well then." He snagged her waist, turning her until they were face to face.
"Well then." She wrapped her legs around him and let him keep her afloat.
When their mouths met, even the whisper of tension fled. She felt loose and fluid and quietly needy. Sliding her fingers up, she combed them through his hair—thick, wet silk. His body was firm and cool against hers and fit in a way she'd nearly stopped questioning. She all but purred as
his hands skimmed over her, just hinting of possession.
Then she was underwater, tangled with him in that pale blue world. When his mouth closed over her breast, she shivered with the thrill of sensation, from the shock of being unable to gasp in air. And his fingers were on her, in her, shooting her to a staggering climax that had her clawing toward the surface.
She gulped in air, disoriented, delirious, then felt it whoosh out of her lungs again when his clever mouth replaced his fingers.
The assault on her system was precisely what she'd wanted. Her helplessness. His greed. That he would know it, understand it, and give was a mystery she would never solve.
Her head dipped back to lay limply on the smooth side of the pool as she simply wallowed in the pleasure he offered her.
Slowly, slyly, his mouth roamed up, over her belly, her torso, her breasts, to linger at her throat where her pulse beat thick and fast.
"You've got amazing breath control," she managed, then trembled as gradually, inch by inch, he slipped inside her. "Oh God."
He watched her face, saw the heat flush her cheeks, the flickers of pleasure move over it. Her hair was slicked back, leaving it unframed. And that stubborn, often too serious mouth, trembled for him. Cupping her hips, he lifted her, moved in deep, deeper to make her moan.
He rubbed his lips over hers, nibbled at them while he began to move with an exquisite control that tortured them both. "Go over, Eve."
He watched those shrewd cop's eyes go blind and blurry, heard her breath catch then release on something like a sob. Even as his blood burned, he kept his movements achingly slow. Drawing it out, every instant, every inch until that sob became his name.
His own release was long and deep and perfect.
She managed to drag her hands out of the water and grip his shoulders. "Don't let go of me yet. I'll sink like a stone."
He chuckled weakly, pressed his lips to the side of her throat where her pulse still danced. "Same goes. You should get up early more often."
"We'd kill each other. Miracle we didn't drown."
He drew in the scent of her skin and water. "We may yet."