The In Death Collection, Books 16-20

by J. D. Robb

  He stabbed one of the steaks, lifting it off the grill to scowl at it. “This doesn’t appear to be medium rare.”

  When the juice dripping from it sparked another pocket of flame, he tossed it back on the bars.

  More fire spurted, and the machine, as it had a number of times before, issued a dour warning:

  ACTIVE FIRE IS NEITHER ADVISABLE NOR RECOMMENDED. PLEASE REPROGRAM WITHIN THIRTY SECONDS, OR THIS UNIT WILL GO INTO SAFETY MODE AS EXPLAINED IN THE TUTORIAL, AND SHUT DOWN.

  “Bugger it, you bloody bitch, how many times do you need to be reprogrammed?”

  Eve took another hit of champagne, and decided not to point out that bitch was inappropriate as the unit’s voice mode was distinctly male.

  Men, she’d observed, habitually termed the inanimate objects they cursed by uncomplimentary female names. Hell, she did the same herself.

  A couple of lightning bolts popped in the sky, and the thunder rolled closer in one long, menacing growl. Eve felt the first splat of rain in the rising wind.

  She walked over to rescue the bottle of champagne while Roarke stared at the grill.

  “I’m thinking pizza,” she said and started into the house.

  “It’s just a glitch.” Roarke scraped what was left of the food into the unit’s garbage disposal feature. “This isn’t finished,” he grumbled to it, and followed Eve into the house. “I’ll have another look at it tomorrow,” he told her.

  “You know . . .” She crossed to the AutoChef, which was, in her opinion, the sensible way to cook. “. . . it’s sort of nice to see that you can screw up like the rest of us mortals. Get all sweaty and frustrated and curse out inanimate objects. Though I’m not convinced that thing outside is inanimate.”

  “A factory defect, no doubt.” But he was grinning now. “I’ll see to it tomorrow.”

  “Bet you will. You want to eat in here?”

  “That’s fine. We won’t likely eat in the kitchen much after tonight, with Summerset due home tomorrow.”

  She stopped dead, the glass halfway to her lips. “Tomorrow? That can’t be right. He just left five minutes ago.”

  “Tomorrow, noon.” He walked over to flick a finger over the dent in her chin. “It’s been considerably longer than five minutes.”

  “Make him extend it. Tell him to . . . he should take a trip around the world. In a boat. One of those boats you row by hand. It’ll be good for him.”

  “I offered him more time. He’s ready to come home.”

  “Well, I’m not ready.” She threw up her hands.

  He only smiled, leaned in, and kissed her forehead as he might a child’s.

  She huffed out a breath. “Okay then. Okay. But now we have to have sex on the kitchen floor.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s on my to-do list, and we didn’t get to it yet, so we’ll have to go for it now. Pizza can wait.”

  “You have a to-do list?”

  “It was supposed to be spontaneous, and uncontrolled, but we’ll have to go with what we’ve got.”

  She drained the glass of champagne, set it down, then released her weapon harness. “Go on, strip it off, pal.”

  “A sexual to-do list?” Amused, fascinated, he watched her dump her harness on the counter, then start on her boots. “Was that bout we had last week on the dining room table, and the floor, on your list?”

  “That’s right.” She pried off a boot, kicked it aside.

  “Let me see the list.” He held out a hand, wiggled his fingers.

  Bent over for the second boot, she lifted her head. “It’s what you’d call a mental list.” She tapped her head. “All up here. You’re not stripping.”

  “I love your mind.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s just get this little chore ticked off, then we can—”

  She broke off when he swooped her up, then dumped her butt first on the kitchen counter. Taking her hair in two fists, he yanked her mouth to his, and ravished.

  “Spontaneous enough for you?” he asked when she sucked in a breath.

  “It might be—” The words tumbled back down her throat when he ripped her shirt open.

  “How’s that for uncontrolled?”

  It was a little hard to comment when her mouth was being assaulted again. He yanked what was left of her shirt down to her wrists. Her hands were trapped, tripping an instinctive panic that tangled messily with a spurt of excitement as he tugged the tattered material like a rope.

  Her hands were behind her back now, and the blood was buzzing in her ears. She couldn’t seem to draw a full breath. The champagne she’d drank began to spin giddily in her head, and her thigh muscles quivered.

  “My hands,” she managed.

  “Not yet.” He was mad for her. It seemed he spent his life mad for her. The shape and the scent of her, the taste and the feel of her. And now the sound she made as his hand raced over her.

  He feasted on her skin, the lovely rise of her breast with her heart raging under his mouth. She moaned again, trembled, losing herself, he knew, as he used his tongue, his teeth.

  Let go. There was nothing more arousing to him than when she let go.

  She still couldn’t breathe, but no longer cared. Sensations were storming her, too brutal, too dark, to be called something as mild as pleasure.

  She let him take, would have begged him to take more if she’d had the words. When he yanked her pants down her hips, she opened for him. And those hands, those wonderful hands, drove her over.

  She cried out as she came, as the orgasm flashed through her with such intense heat.

  Her head dropped weakly on his shoulder, and she managed one word. “More.”

  “Always.” His lips were on her hair, her cheek, then on hers again. “Always.”

  His arms came around her, and once freed, hers around him. She locked her legs around his waist and struggled to speak as her breath came in short, strained pants. “We’re not on the floor.”

  “We’ll get there.” He nipped at her shoulder, her throat, wondered how he could stop himself from simply eating her whole.

  He hitched her off the counter, taking her weight as their mouths fused again, as heartbeat slammed against heartbeat. Her hands had worked their way under his shirt, her short nails scraping over his damp skin.

  Then she tugged it up, tugged it off, and fixed her teeth on his shoulder. “God, your body. Mine, mine, mine.”

  They were on the floor, pulling at clothes, pulling in air as lungs threatened to burst. And this time when her legs locked around him, he buried himself inside her.

  Hot, so viciously hot, she trapped him there, rising up to take more of him, dragging him down to follow her. His hands slid off her slick skin, then found purchase on her hips. They dug in while he plunged.

  Chapter 12

  They were lying on their backs on the floor in a sweaty heap. Her throat was wild with thirst, but she wasn’t entirely sure she could swallow. Just breathing took all the energy she had left.

  As far as spontaneous, uncontrolled sex went, she thought they had a winner. She felt his fingers brush hers, and gave him top marks for recovery.

  “Is there anything left on your to-do list?” he asked softly.

  “No.” Her breath whistled in, whistled out. “That cleans it up.”

  “Thank God.”

  “We have to get up from here, before noon tomorrow,” Eve warned.

  “I think it has to be sooner. I’m starving.”

  She thought it over. “So am I. I don’t suppose you could pull one of your macho routines and carry me.”

  “I don’t suppose. I was hoping you’d carry me.”

  “Well.” They lay where they were another full minute. “Maybe we can try this together.”

  “On three then.” He counted it off. On three, they managed to pull each other to sitting positions, then just sat there, grinning.

  “That was really good. My idea,” she reminded him.

  “And one for the
record books. We’d better try to stand up.”

  “Okay, but let’s not rush it.”

  They staggered to their feet, swayed, then held each other up like a pair of drunks.

  “Wow. I’d say I got a little trashed watching you lose a round to that grill, but that’s not it. You trashed me. Appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure.” He rested his head on hers. “Just hold a minute, until the blood starts circulating again.”

  “Your blood has a tendency to circulate straight to your dick, and I need pizza. And a shower,” she realized. “A shower, then pizza, because, pal of mine, we are a mess.”

  “All right. Let’s get what’s left of these clothes.”

  She found the rag of her shirt, what used to be her underwear, and other assorted apparel. Together, they carried the evidence out of the kitchen.

  “And don’t think you’re going to nail me again in the shower. We’re done.”

  He nailed her again in the shower, but only because she’d brought it up in the first place.

  They ate pizza in the sitting area of the bedroom. By the time she was working on the third piece, she felt the hollow in her belly might just fill again.

  “What did you do today?” she asked him.

  “About what?”

  She cocked her head. “Every now and again, I like to touch base with what it is you do. It reminds me you’re not just a pretty sex object.”

  “Ah, I see. I had meetings.” He lifted his shoulders as she continued to stare at him. “Most often, when I explain what it is I do, you get this glassy look in your eye, or fall into unconsciousness.”

  “I do not. Well, okay, the glassy look maybe, but I’ve never lost consciousness.”

  “I had a meeting with my broker. We discussed current market trends and—”

  “I don’t need every minute detail. Broker meeting—stocks and bonds and blah blah. Check. What else?”

  His lips twitched. “A conference regarding the Olympus Resort. Two new areas are ready to open. I’m expanding the police and security force. Chief Angelo sends her regards.”

  “Right back at her. Any trouble up there?”

  “Nothing major.” He washed down pepperoni pizza with champagne. “Darcia wondered when we might be coming back for a visit.”

  “The next time I pass out and can be dragged into a space shuttle.” She licked pizza sauce off her finger. “What else?”

  “Internal staff meeting, a number of security checks. Routine. Discussion of preliminary reports on a sheep farm in New Zealand I’m considering buying.”

  “Sheep? Baa-baa?”

  “Sheep, wool, lamb cutlets, and other by-products.” He passed her a napkin and that made her think of Mrs. Parksy. “I had an extended business lunch with a couple of developers and their rep, who’d like me to come aboard their project. A massive indoor recreation center in New Jersey.”

  “Will you?”

  “Doubtful. But it was entertaining to hear them out, and eat on their expense account. Is that enough for you?”

  “That was just through lunch?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a busy guy. Is it harder for you to handle all this stuff out of New York than it was when you traveled?”

  “I still travel.”

  “Not like you used to.”

  “It used to hold more appeal for me. Before I had a wife who invited me to nail her on the kitchen floor.”

  She smiled, but he knew her too well. “What’s troubling you, Eve?”

  She nearly told him about her dream, her memory, but pulled back from it. The subject of mothers had to be sensitive for him yet. Instead she used work. It wasn’t an evasion. Work did trouble her.

  “My gut knows who he is already, has from the first time I saw him. But I can’t see him, so I don’t know for sure. Not in my head. He changes, and he’ll change again, so I can’t see him. Not his type, or even his mind. Because that changes, too. He’s good at what he does because he changes. Because he assumes the personality of what he imitates. I don’t know if I can stop him.”

  “Isn’t that what he’s hoping for? That he’ll frustrate you by assuming a different personality, different method, different victim type, all of it?”

  “So far, mission accomplished. I’m trying to separate him from, let’s say, the cloak he wears. To see him as he is so I’ll know if my gut’s right. So I can move from instinct to evidence to arrest.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “Arrogance, intelligence, rage. Focus. He has excellent focus. Fear, too, I think. I’m wondering if it’s fear that makes him imitate others, instead of striking out in his own way. But what does he fear?”

  “Capture?”

  “Failure. I think it’s failure. And maybe that fear of failure has its roots in the female authority figure.”

  “I think you see him more clearly than you give yourself credit for.”

  “I see the victims,” she continued. “The two he’s killed already, and the shadow of the one who’ll be next. I don’t know who she’ll be, or where, or why he’ll choose her. And if I don’t figure it out, he’ll get to her before I get to him.”

  Her appetite was gone, as was the euphoria of good sex. “You’re a busy guy, Roarke,” she said. “Got a lot on your plate.”

  “I prefer that to an empty one. So do you.”

  “Good thing for us. I need to look into my list of suspects. I need to find this female authority figure, because when I do, I find him. I could use a hand.”

  He took hers, squeezed it. “I happen to have one available.”

  The most practical way to begin, she thought, was alphabetically. And, though it still scraped the pride a bit, to let Roarke man the computer.

  He may have gotten spanked by a barbecue grill, but on a desk unit, he was king.

  “We’ll start with Breen,” she told him. “I want everything I can get on Thomas A. Breen and his wife, without trampling on privacy laws.”

  He sent her a pained look as he sat at her desk. “Now, what fun is that?”

  “Keep it clean, ace.”

  “Well then, I want coffee. And a cookie.”

  “A cookie?”

  “Yes.” The cat leaped on the desk to bump his head against Roarke’s hand. “You have a cookie cache in here. I want one.”

  She stuck her hands on her hips, tapped her fingers. “How do you know I have a cache?”

  He stroked the cat and smiled at her. “Unsupervised, you forget to eat half the time, and when you remember, you go for the sugar.”

  She took some exception to the “unsupervised” remark, but had another priority. Eyes slit, she came closer, watched his face as keenly as she would a prime suspect. “You haven’t been sneaking into my office at Central and riffling my candy stash?”

  “Certainly not. I can get my own candy.”

  “You could be lying,” she said after a moment. “You’re pretty slippery.”

  “And so you said in the shower.”

  “Har-har. But I don’t see you skulking around Central lifting my chocolate just to drive me buggy.”

  “Not when I can easily find more convenient ways to do so. Where’s my coffee?”

  “Okay, okay. Thomas A. Breen.”

  She went into the kitchen off her home office, felt the cat ribbon around her legs despite the fact he’d had a slice of pizza. She programmed a pot of coffee, got down mugs, then—sending a cautious glance toward the office—went to the small utility closet and dug into the space behind the cat food for the bag of triple chocolate chunk cookies.

  She started to take one out for Roarke, decided she could go for one herself. Then thought, what the hell, he was helping her out. They’d blow what was left in the bag.

  Sensing dessert, Galahad went into serious purr-and-rub mode. She poured a handful of cat treats into his bowl, watched him pounce on them like a lion on a gazelle as she loaded the coffee and cookies on a tray.

  �
��Initial data’s up, though I assume you already have the basics,” Roarke said. “More’s coming. Why are you looking at Breen?”

  “First, it’s standard to run anybody I interview during an investigation.” She set down the tray. “I’m going deeper because he flicked my switch. Don’t know why, exactly.”

  She walked toward the wall screen where Roarke had already brought up the standard data. “Thomas Aquinas Breen, age thirty-three, married, one child, male, age two. Writer and professional father. Decent reported income. He makes a solid living, and appears to be on the track to making more. One bust for illegals—Zoner—age twenty-one. College smoke, nothing surprising. Native New Yorker, NYU grad: fine arts with post-grad work in criminology—I like that one—and creative writing. Earns his living writing magazine articles, short stories, and the two published nonfiction books to date, both substantial best-sellers. Married five years, both parents living and in Florida.”

  “Sounds normal.”

  “Yeah.” But it wasn’t, Eve thought. It wasn’t quite the pretty picture it presented. “Got a nice house in a nice neighborhood. Couldn’t afford it on what he made prior to the second hit book, but the wife has a high-powered job, so you assume they combined incomes as they’ve lived there since their second year of marriage. He deals with the kid, she makes the more regular bucks.”

  He sampled a cookie. His wife, he thought as the chocolate exploded in his mouth, had an unerring sweet tooth. “I have any number of employees with a similar setup.”

  “There was just something off, that’s all. Hard to pin. Then you add that this guy spends his day thinking about murder, reconstructing it with words, reading about it, imagining it.”

  “Really?” He poured coffee for both of them. “Who would devote so much time and energy to murder?”

  “I heard the sarcasm. The difference is a murder cop’s supposed to find murder abhorrent. This guy gets off on it. Not that big a leap between fascination and experimentation. He’s got the education, the flexible schedule, the knowledge, and a motive if you figure over and above the thrill, these murders, once it hits the media big, will juice up sales of his books. His wife’s a fashion exec, and I bet she knows the value of publicity, too.”