by J. D. Robb
“You a light sleeper, Ms. Franklin?”
“Hell, I sleep like the dead.” She started to laugh, then caught the implication. “Lieutenant, Leo was here. Honestly, I can’t imagine what sort of investigation you might be pursuing where Leo’s name came up in any way.”
“You’re aware it’s not the first time his name’s come up in a police investigation.”
“Those incidents are in the past. He had some bad luck with women, until me. He was here when I got home, and we had coffee together this morning at about eight. What’s this about?”
“Last fall Mr. Fortney purchased, in London, some stationery.”
“Oh for God’s sake.” Pepper tipped the bottle back for another drink. “I’m still angry with him about that. Ridiculous, and careless. Unrecycled. I don’t know what he was thinking. Don’t tell me he brought it with him into the U.S.?” She rolled her eyes, then stared at the ceiling. “Really, I know it’s against the law, technically. I’m very active in environmental groups, which is why I could have skinned him for buying that stationery. In fact, we had a row about it, and I made him promise to get rid of it. I’m sure there’s a fine, and I’ll see he pays it.”
“I’m not a Green Cop. I’m Homicide.”
Those brilliant blue eyes went blank. “Homicide?”
“Early this morning, a licensed companion identified as Jacie Wooton was murdered in Chinatown.”
“I know.” Pepper’s hand crawled up to her throat. “I heard the report this morning. You can’t possibly believe . . . Leo? He’d never do such a thing.”
“Stationery, of the type Mr. Fortney purchased in London, was used for a note left with the body.”
“He . . . he’s certainly not the only idiot who bought that stationery. Leo was home last night.” She bit off the words so that each one was highlighted. “Lieutenant, he’s occasionally foolish, tends to be a bit of a show-off, but he’s not vicious or violent. And he was home.”
She was going home herself, dissatisfied. She’d done all she could for Jacie Wooton in one day, but it wasn’t enough.
She needed to clear her mind. Take a couple hours’ downtime, then go back, read over the reports, the notes, juggle it around in her home office.
Fortney and Franklin just didn’t match for her. The guy was a putz, a braggart, a fake with a handsome face. Her impression of Franklin was that the woman was the real deal. Smart, strong, stable.
Then again, you never could tell why people ended up together.
She’d given up trying to figure out how she and Roarke had become a unit.
He was rich, gorgeous, sneaky, just a little dangerous. He’d been everywhere and had bought most of it. He’d done everything, and a great deal of what he’d done didn’t fall on her side of the law.
And she was a cop. Solitary, short-tempered, and unsociable.
He loved her anyway, she mused, as she drove through the iron gates of home.
Because he did, she’d ended up here, living in the huge stone palace draped in trees and flowers, surrounded by the stuff of fantasy. It was ridiculous, really, she thought, that someone who’d lived in reality, often the harshest wells of it, should end up in some sort of dreamscape.
She parked in front of the house. She’d leave her pea green cop issue there, as sort of an homage to Summerset, the gnome in her personal dreamscape.
He might’ve still been on holiday—sing hallelujah—but since he despised her habit of parking out front of the spectacular entrance, she saw no reason to stop.
She stepped inside, into the cool and rarified air of the house that Roarke built, and was immediately greeted by the cat. The pudgy and obviously irritated Galahad pranced up, batted his head against her ankle, and mewed shrilly.
“Hey, I’ve got to work for a living. I can’t help it if you’re alone all day with He Who Shall Not Be Named out of the country.” But she bent down, scooped the cat up. “You need a hobby. Or hey, maybe they make VR for pets. If not, Roarke will jump right on that.”
She scratched the cat as she headed out of the foyer and downstairs to the gym. “Little VR goggles for cats, with programs about war on mice, kicking a Doberman’s ass, that sort of thing.”
She dumped him on the floor of the gym, and knowing the true path to his heart, got a bowl of tuna from the AutoChef.
With the cat occupied, she stripped down, changed into workout gear, and set herself a twenty-minute run on the video track. She opted for a beach run, and set out at a light jog, feeling her feet slap sand.
By the time she was at full pace, she’d worked up a nice sweat and was enjoying the salty breeze of the sea, the sound of the surf.
You could keep your yoga, Eve thought. Give her a good, full-out run, then maybe a couple rounds with a workout droid, follow it with a good strong swim, and you’d have your mind, body, and spirit tuned right up.
When the machine blinked end of program, she grabbed a towel, scrubbed it over her sweaty face. With the intention of challenging the droid to a little hand-to-hand, she turned.
And there was Roarke, sitting on a weight bench with a cat in his lap, and his eyes on his wife.
Spectacular eyes, she thought. Violently blue in a face carved by clever angels. The dangerous poet, the poetic danger, whichever way you looked at it—at him—he was amazing.
“Hey.” She tunneled her fingers through her damp hair. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to see you wanted a hard run. You’ve had a long day, Lieutenant.”
There was Ireland in his voice, dreamy wisps of it that could, unexpectedly, wind around her heart. He set the cat aside, and walked over to tip up her chin. Rubbed his thumb in the shallow dent in its center.
“I heard about what happened in Chinatown. That’s what pulled you out of bed so early this morning.”
“Yeah. She’s mine. Just clearing my head before I get back to it again.”
“All right.” He touched his lips to hers. “You want a swim, then?”
“Eventually.” She rolled her shoulders to loosen them up. “Hand-to-hand’s next up. I was going to use the droid, but since you’re here . . .”
“Want to fight with me, do you?”
“You’re better than the droid.” She stepped back, began to circle him. “Marginally.”
“And to think some men come home after a day of work and are greeted by their woman.” He rolled up to his toes, and back, glad he’d changed with the idea of a workout. “A smile, a kiss, perhaps a cold drink.” His grin flashed. “How tedious for them.”
She lunged, he countered.
She kicked out, her foot coming within a half-inch of his face. He slapped it away, then swept her standing leg out from under her. She went down, rolled, and was up again in seconds.
“Not bad,” she acknowledged, and scored a hit mid-body before their forearms slapped together in a block. “But I was holding back.”
“Can’t have that.”
She came in on a spin—left hook, right cross—that would have knocked his head back if she’d connected. His backhand stopped a hairbreadth from her nose.
With the droid, she’d have pounded and gotten pounded in return. But this—the demand for control—was more challenging. And a hell of a lot more fun.
She got under his guard, flipped him, but when she leaped on the mat to pin him, he was already up again. She had to somersault aside, and came up just enough off balance to give him the opening.
Her breath whooshed out as she hit the mat, flat on her back, with his weight pinning her.
She stared up into his eyes as she got her wind back, lifting a hand so she could trail her fingers through the wonderful mane of black hair that nearly hit his shoulders.
“Roarke,” she murmured, and with a little sigh, tugged his hair to bring his lips to hers.
And when he relaxed, started to sink into her, she scissored her legs, arched, and flipped him over.
She was looking in his eyes again, and
grinning as she pressed the point of her elbow lightly to his throat. “Sucker.”
“I do tend to fall for that one, don’t I? Well then, it appears you’ve taken this—” He broke off, winced.
“What? You hurt?”
“No. Just must’ve jammed my shoulder a bit.” He rotated it, winced again.
“Let me take a look.” She eased back, shifting her weight.
And found herself flat on her back under him again.
“Sucker,” he said and laughed when her eyes went to slits.
“Foul.”
“No more foul than the seductive murmur of my name. You’re down, darling.” He touched his lips to the tip of her nose. “Well pinned.” His fingers linked with hers as he held her hands down. “Now I’m going to have you.”
“You think?”
“I do. Victor, spoils, all that. Not going to be a sore loser, are you?” he asked with his mouth rubbing hers.
“Who says I lost?” She arched her hips. “Like I said, you’re better than the droid.” She arched again. “Touch me.”
“I will. Let’s start with this.”
His mouth came down on hers, warm and soft, sliding her into the kiss, deepening it until, once again, she lost her breath.
“It’s never quite enough,” he whispered, trailing his lips over her face, down her throat. “Never will be.”
“There’s always more.”
So he took more, skimming those lips, scraping his teeth over the swell of her breasts beneath the loose cotton T-shirt.
Her heart began to thud, anticipation. Her fingers curled tighter against the ones that held her hands prisoner. She didn’t try to free herself, not yet. Here, too, was control. His and hers. And trust. Absolute.
When he drew her hands down to her waist, roamed with that busy mouth over her torso, she braced herself for the onslaught of pleasure.
Her skin was already damp, her muscles taut. He loved the feel of them, hard and strong, under all that smooth skin. He loved the lines of her, and the subtle, almost delicate curves.
He released her hands, then drew the shorts down. With a slight frown, he traced a fingertip over her thigh. “You’ve a bruise here. You’re always coming up with bruises.”
“Hazard of the job.”
She faced worse hazards, they both knew. He lowered his head, touched his lips lightly to the faint discoloration.
Amused, she stroked his hair. “Don’t worry, Mom. It doesn’t hurt.”
The laugh caught in her throat as his mouth got to work.
Her hand fisted in his hair now, and her other hand dug into the mat as her system shot from rest to revved. A shock-wave of heat, a stunning ache that gathered in a fist of pressure, then imploded inside her.
“Teach you to call me mum,” he said, and nipped lightly at her thigh while she shuddered.
She got her breath back, whistled it out again. “Mom,” she repeated, and made him laugh.
He wrapped his arms around her so they rolled, playfully now. Hands sliding over flesh, tugging off clothes, lips meeting for nibbles or longer tastes.
She felt free and careless, and foolishly in love as she held him against her. Easy enough to laugh even as her body quaked, to rub her cheek against his in innocent affection even as he slid into her.
“Looks like I’ve pinned you again.”
“How long do you think you can keep me down?”
“Another challenge, is it?” His breath was backed up in his lungs, but he moved slowly, watching her watch him.
With long, smooth, almost lazy strokes he urged her up again until he saw her eyes begin to blur, and the flush deepen in her cheeks. And then heard her low sound, that helpless sound, of pleasure.
“There’s always more,” he said and captured her lips with his again and let himself fly with her.
Chapter 4
They ate in the dining room at Roarke’s suggestion that they have a meal like people who have lives outside their professions. The remark was pointed enough to have Eve checking her intention of grabbing a burger at her desk in her home office. But her initial enjoyment of the crab salad was spoiled by his reminder that they had plans the following evening.
“Charity dinner dance,” he prompted when she stared blankly. “Philadelphia. We need to make an appearance.” He sipped his wine and smiled at her. “Not to worry, darling. It won’t hurt very much, and we won’t have to leave until after seven. If you’re running late, you can change on the shuttle.”
She poked sulkily at chilled crab. “Did I know about this?”
“You did. And if you ever glanced at your personal calendar, you wouldn’t so often be surprised and appalled by these little obligations.”
“I’m not appalled.” Dinner, dancing. Fancy outfit, fancy people. God. “It’s just that if something breaks at work—”
“Understood.”
She bit back a sigh because it was true. He understood. She heard enough comments from other cops about spouses or lovers who didn’t, or couldn’t, or wouldn’t, to appreciate it.
And she knew she wasn’t nearly as flexible and understanding about the role she had to play as the wife of one of the richest and most influential men on or off planet.
She stabbed more crab and made an effort to pull her marital weight. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“It might actually be fun. Sunday promises to be.”
“Sunday?”
“Mmm.” He topped off her wine, figuring she’d need it. “The cookout at Dr. Mira’s. It’s been a very long time since I attended something I suppose would be termed a kind of family picnic. I hope there’s potato salad.”
She picked up her wine, drank deep. “She talked to you. You said yes.”
“Of course. We should take a bottle of wine or I wonder if beer’s more appropriate.” Enjoying himself, he lifted an eyebrow. “What do you think?”
“I can’t think. I don’t know about this stuff. I’ve never been to a cookout. I don’t understand the ritual. If we’re both off on Sunday, we could just stay home, in bed. Have sweaty sex all day.”
“Hmm. Sex or potato salad. You’ve hit me at two basic levels.” Then he laughed at her, and passed her half a roll he’d already buttered. “Eve, it’s a simple family gathering. She wants you there because you’re important to her. We’ll sit around and talk about, I don’t know, baseball or some such thing. We’ll eat too much and enjoy ourselves. And you’ll have the chance to meet her family. Then we’ll come home and have sweaty sex.”
She scowled at the roll. “It just makes me nervous, that’s all. You like having conversations with strangers. I don’t get that about you.”
“You have conversations with strangers all the time,” he pointed out. “You just call them suspects.”
Defeated, she filled her mouth with bread.
“Now, why don’t we talk about something that won’t make you nervous? Tell me about the case.”
There was a lovely twilight outside the windows, and candles flickering prettily on the table. Wine sparkled in crystal and silver gleamed. And her mind, she realized, kept slipping back to a hacked body in a cold drawer at the morgue. “It’s not exactly dinner conversation.”
“Not for normal people. But it works for us. The media reports were sketchy.”
“I’m not going to be able to keep them that way if and when he hits again. I ducked reporters all day, but I’m going to have to give them something tomorrow to stem the appetite. She was an LC, bumped down to street level because of some illegals busts. She seemed to be clean now, though I’d still like to find her supplier just to knot that thread.”
“A down-on-her-luck LC shouldn’t have the media slathering very long.”
“No, it won’t be who, it’ll be how that gets them drooling. He took her in an alley. The way it looked, she went in to do the job. He faced her to the wall, slit her throat. Even from behind, he couldn’t have avoided all the blood spatter.”
She picked up
her wine again, staring into it rather than drinking. “Then he laid her out, across the alley floor. Morris thinks a laser scalpel. He cut her pelvis out, took the whole works. You could all but swim in the blood.”
She drank now, let out a breath. There was something about blood, she thought, the scent of death blood. Once you smelled it, you never completely got it out of your system.
“Clean job, though, almost surgical. Had to have a bag to take it away in, had to work fairly quickly, had to clean himself up before he walked back out again. Even down there, that time of night, somebody’s going to notice a guy covered in blood.”
“And no one did.”
“No.” They’d check again, she thought. And again. But odds were they’d come up zero. “See no evil, hear no evil, speak all you want as long as it doesn’t put you in the mix. He didn’t know her, I’m almost sure. Otherwise, he’d have gone for the face some. That’s what they do. Thrill crime, lust driven. Woman hater. Peabody got dog sick, and spent a good part of the day kicking herself about it.”
He thought of what the victim, what the alley must have looked like and rubbed a hand over Eve’s. “Have you ever? Gotten sick?”
“Not on scene. It’s like saying you did more than I can take, more than I can handle, and I can’t stand over this body and look at what you did. But sometimes, later, it comes back on you. Middle of the night mostly. Then you get sick.”
She drank now. “Anyway . . . he left a note, addressed to me. Don’t freak,” she said when she felt his fingers tighten over her hand. “It’s professional rather than personal. He’s admired my work, wanted to give me a chance to see his. He wanted me on this one, an ego thing. I’ve had two very hot cases this summer, with wall-to-wall media attention. He wants that sort of buzz.”
His fingers stayed over hers. “What did it say?”
“Just that—cocky. He signed it Jack.”
“Emulating the Ripper then.”
“You save me a lot of steps when you get it. Yeah, the choice of victim, the location, the method, even the note to a cop. Too much of it’s already leaked to the media, and if they get their teeth in it, it’s going to be a frenzy. I want to shut him down fast, before the panic. Been working with the note—the paper.”