by J. D. Robb
“That’s your choice. You can ask your representative to meet us downtown, at Central, to discuss your priors. Assaults and sex crimes.”
His face turned nearly the same shade as his hair. “Those incidents are in my past. If you must know the sexual assault charge was completely unwarranted. An argument with a woman I’d been dating that escalated, and her revenge when I broke things off with her. I didn’t fight the charge as I felt it would only generate more ugly publicity and drag things out.”
“Indecent exposure.”
“A misunderstanding. I’d had a bit too much to drink after a party and, impaired, was relieving my bladder when a group of young women happened to pass. It was foolish and ill-advised, but hardly criminal.”
“And the battery?”
“A shoving match with my ex-wife. Who started the incident, by the way. Just an unfortunate display of temper, which she used to skin me in the divorce. I don’t appreciate having all this thrown in my face, or being accused of murder. I was at home and in bed last night. All night. And that’s all I have to say without my lawyer.”
“Funny,” Eve commented as she headed uptown. “A guy can be arrested and charged three times, but none of it was his fault. All misunderstandings.”
“Yeah, the law’s a bitch.”
“What we’ve got here, Peabody, is a weasely little man who likes to put on a big show. Look at me. I’m important, I’m powerful. I’m somebody. And he has a history of knocking women around, showing off his dick and losing his temper. Surrounds himself with phallic symbols and has a big-breasted blonde playing guardian of the gates.”
“I didn’t like him. But it’s a pretty big leap from shaking his wang to slicing up an LC.”
“Steps and stages,” Eve declared. “Let’s see if Pepper’s home, and how she slept last night.”
The brownstone was lovely, old and elegant. And meant, Eve calculated as she walked toward the door, private security. The sort the owner could turn on and off at whim.
She rang the bell, considered the entrance, the flow of flowers in pots running up the short set of steps, the proximity of neighboring houses.
When the door opened, she had an immediate flash, and not very pleasant, of Roarke’s majordomo, and the bane of her existence, Summerset.
The butler was dressed in stark black, as was Summerset’s habit. He was long and thin with pewter hair atop a narrow face.
She actually felt her gorge rise.
“May I help you?”
“Lieutenant Dallas, Officer Peabody.” Prepared to plow through him if necessary, she flipped out her badge. “I need to speak with Ms. Franklin.”
“Ms. Franklin is engaged in her yoga/meditation hour. May I be of some assistance?”
“You can assist me by getting out of the way, telling Ms. Franklin she’s got a cop at the door who wants to question her regarding an official investigation.”
“Of course,” he said so genially, she actually blinked. “Please come in. If you’d make yourself comfortable in the living area, I’ll inform Ms. Franklin. Would you care for any refreshment while you wait?”
“No.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Thanks.”
“I’ll just be a moment.” After gesturing them into a large, sunny room with long white sofas, he turned toward a staircase.
“Maybe we can trade Summerset for him.”
“Hey, Dallas, check it out.”
Eve turned and studied what Peabody was currently gaping at. The life-sized portrait of Pepper Franklin rose above the sea green mantel of a white hearth. In it, she appeared to be dressed in nothing but mists. They curled and draped around her, shimmering and thin so that her impressive body was displayed. Her arms were stretched out as if welcoming an embrace.
She was smiling, dreamily, her lips painted deep rose. Her hair was a tumble of gold around a heart-shaped face set off by wide, deep blue eyes.
Striking, Eve mused. Sensual. Powerful.
Just what, she wondered, was a woman with that much style and strength doing with a loser like Fortney?
“I’ve seen her on-screen and in mags and stuff, but this is—you know—wow. She looks like, I don’t know, a fairy queen.”
“Thank you.” The voice was silver wrapped in fog. “That was the goal,” Pepper said as she walked into the room. “It’s taken, more or less, from my role of Titania.”
She wore a skin-suit now, in dark purple, and had a short towel hooked around her neck. Her face, still striking, was sheened with perspiration, and her hair was bundled up carelessly.
“Lieutenant Dallas?” She offered a hand. “Excuse my appearance. I’m in the middle of yoga. It helps keep me in shape—body, mind, spirit. It also makes me sweat like a pig.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“I assume it’s important.” She sat, dropping down on the white sofa, letting out a long sigh. “Please, have a seat. Oh God, Turney, thanks.” She took the large bottle of water the butler brought her on a silver tray.
“Mr. Fortney is on the ’link. He’s called three times in the last thirty minutes.”
“He should know better than to call during yoga hour. Tell him I’ll get back to him.”
She took a long drink, angled her head. “Well, what’s this about?”
“I’d like you to verify Mr. Fortney’s whereabouts this morning between midnight and three.”
The easy smile vanished. “Leo? Why?”
“His name has come up in the course of an investigation. If I can verify his whereabouts during that period, we can eliminate it and move on.”
“He was here, with me. I got home about eleven forty-five. Maybe a few minutes later. We had a drink. I allow myself one glass of wine before bed after a performance. We talked about various things, then I went upstairs. I suppose I was in bed and asleep by twelve-thirty.”
“Alone?”
“Initially. I’m always beat after a show, and Leo’s a night owl. He was going to watch some screen, make some calls. Something.” She lifted one elegant shoulder.
“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.