The In Death Collection, Books 6-10

by J. D. Robb

  Love didn’t always win, she reminded herself. But justice could, if she was good enough.

  She got out of her car, left it where it was, and started up the steps to the front door. The minute she was inside, she peeled out of her leather jacket and dropped it carelessly over the elegant newel post banking the curve of stairs.

  Summerset slipped out of the shadows and stood, tall, bony, eyes dark and disapproving in a pale face. “Lieutenant.”

  “Leave my vehicle exactly where it is,” she told him and swung toward the stairs.

  He sniffed, an audible sucking of air through his nose. “You have several messages.”

  “They can wait.” She kept climbing and began to fantasize about a hot shower, a glass of wine, and a ten-minute nap.

  He called after her, but she’d already stopped listening. “Bite me,” she said absently, then opened the door to the bedroom.

  Everything inside her that had wilted, bloomed.

  Roarke stood in front of the closet, stripped to the waist, his beautiful back muscles rippling subtly as he reached in for a fresh shirt. He turned his head, and the full power of that face struck her. The poet’s mouth curved, the rich blue eyes smiled as he shook back his glorious mane of thick black hair.

  “Hello, Lieutenant.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be back for a couple of hours anyway.”

  He laid the shirt aside. She hadn’t been sleeping well, he thought. He could see the fatigue, the shadows. “I made good time.”

  “Yeah, you did.” Then she was going to him, moving fast, almost too fast to see the quick light of surprise, the deepening of pleasure in his eyes. His arms were open for her when she got there.

  She drew in his scent, deeply, ran her hands up his back, firmly, then turned her face into his hair and sighed, once.

  “You did miss me,” he murmured.

  “Just hold on for a minute, okay?”

  “As long as you like.”

  Her body fit with his; somehow it simply fit like one piece of a puzzle interlinking with another. She thought of the way Jeremy Vandoren had showed her the ring, the glinting promise of it.

  “I love you.” It was a shock to feel the raw tears in her throat, an effort to swallow them back. “I’m sorry I don’t tell you often enough.”

  He’d heard the tears. His hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, to rub gently at the tension he felt knotted there. “What is it, Eve?”

  “Not now.” Steadier, she drew back, framed his face with her hands. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re home.” Her lips curved as she leaned in and slanted them over his.

  Warmth, welcome, and the underlying shimmer of passion that never seemed fully sated. And with it, sheltered in it, she could for a little while push everything outside but this.

  “Were you changing clothes?” she asked against his mouth.

  “I was. Ummm. A little more of that,” he murmured and nipped at her bottom lip until she shivered.

  “Well, I think it’s a waste of time.” To prove it, she slipped her hands between their bodies and unbuttoned his trousers.

  “You’re absolutely right.” He pressed the release on her shoulder holster and shoved it aside. “I love disarming you, Lieutenant.”

  In a quick move that had his brow arching, she twisted and had him pressed against the closet door. “I don’t need a weapon to take you, pal.”

  “Prove it.”

  He was already hard when her hand curled around him. The blue of his eyes deepened with dark, dangerous lights flickering in them.

  “You haven’t been wearing your gloves again.”

  She smiled, sliding her chilly fingers up and down the length of him. “Is that a complaint?”

  “No, indeed.” His breath was clogging. Of all the women he’d known she was the only one who could leave him breathless with so little effort. He skimmed his hands up to cup her breasts, rubbed his thumbs gently over the nipples before unfastening the buttons of her shirt.

  He wanted her under him.

  “Come to bed.”

  “What’s wrong with here?” She lowered her head, bit his shoulder. “What’s wrong with now?”

  “Not a thing.” This time he moved fast, hooking a foot behind hers to throw her off balance, then tumbling with her to the floor. “But I’ve a mind to take you instead of the other way around.”

  His mouth clamped on her breast, sucking hard. Words strangled in her throat, images exploded in her brain, and her hips arched to him.

  He knew her, better, he often thought, than she knew herself. She needed heat, the potent flood of it, to drown out whatever was troubling her mind. Heat he could give her, and he would pleasure them both with wave after wave.

  She was thin. The weight she’d lost during her recovery couldn’t be spared on her slim frame and had yet to be put back in place. But he knew she didn’t want gentle strokes now. So he drove her, ruthlessly, relentlessly, until her breath was ragged and her heart slammed against his seeking mouth and hands.

  She writhed under him, her hands in his hair fisted tight, her breasts bared for him with the long tear-shaped diamond he’d once given her resting in the shallow valley between.

  He licked his way down her torso, over ribs, along the firm, flat belly, scraping teeth against the narrow line of hip as she began to buck. He tugged her trousers lower, exposing the soft curls between her thighs.

  When he swept his tongue over her, into her, the orgasm struck like a lightning bolt. Blood pumped under her skin, brought a dew of sweat to the surface. She was half in, half out of the closet, surrounded by the scent of him, trapped in it and glorying.

  She felt his fingers dig into her hips, lifting her, spreading her, taking her. Her own helpless moan echoed as he urged her up again. And flying, there was nothing left inside her but the driving need to mate.

  She reached for him, panting his name as her hands slid off his shoulders, around his back, as her legs lifted to hook around his waist.

  He glided into her, one smooth stroke of homecoming. His body shuddered once as she tightened around him, trapped him as she was trapped. His mouth crushed down on hers, feeding there as her hips began to pump.

  Fast and hard, with their eyes on each other now. Thrust, retreat, and thrust, breathing each other’s air. Closer, still closer with the good, solid slap of flesh against flesh.

  She watched his eyes go opaque an instant before he rammed himself home. Her body erupted, shattered beneath his. When he lowered his head, pressed his face to her throat, she once more turned hers into his hair. Once more breathed in his scent.

  “It’s good to be home,” he murmured.

  She had her shower, her glass of wine, then what she considered the ultimate in decadence: dinner in bed with her husband.

  “Tell me about it.” He waited until she’d relaxed, until she’d eaten. Now he poured her another glass of wine and watched the shadows come back into her eyes.

  “I don’t want to bring my work home.”

  “Why not?” He smiled, refilled his own glass. “I do.”

  “It’s different.”

  “Eve.” He skimmed a finger over the slight dent in her chin. “We are, both of us, very much defined by what we do for a living. You don’t—you can’t leave your work outside the door any more than I can. It’s inside you.”

  She leaned back against the pillows, looked up through the sky window at the dark winter sky. And told him.

  “It was cruel,” she said at length. “But that’s not it, really. I’ve seen things that were more cruel. She was innocent—there was something about her space, her walk, about her face, I don’t know, but she had an innocence. I know that’s not really it, either. Innocence is often destroyed. I know what it’s like—not to be innocent; I don’t remember being innocent. But I know what it’s like to be destroyed.”

  She cursed under her breath and set the wine aside.

  “Eve.” He took her hand, wait
ing until she turned her gaze to his. “A rape-murder might not be the best way for you to get back into active duty.”

  “I might have passed on it.” It shamed her to admit it, enough that she looked away again. “If I’d known, I’m not sure I would have taken the call.”

  “You can still pass it to someone else in your division. No one would blame you for it.”

  “I’d blame me. I’ve seen her now. I know her now.” Eve closed her eyes, but only for a moment. “She’s mine now. I can’t turn my back on that.”

  Eve pushed at her hair, ordered herself to focus. “She looked so surprised and happy when she opened the door. Like a kid might. Oh boy, a present. You know?”

  “Yes.”

  “The way the bastard looked at the camera before he went in. The big smile, the cagey little wink. And after, doing his victory dance into the elevator.”

  Her eyes fired up as she spoke of it, as she shoved herself straighter in the bed. Not just cop’s eyes now, Roarke thought. But the avenging angel.

  “There was no passion, just sheer delight.” She closed her eyes again, bringing that image back, clearly, and when she opened them again, the fire was banked, smoldering deep. “It made me sick.”

  Annoyed with herself, she picked up the wine again, sipped once. “I had to tell the parents. I had to watch their faces when I did. And Vandoren, watching him go to pieces, seeing him try to understand that his world had just fallen apart. She was a nice woman, a nice simple woman who was happy in her life, about to get engaged, and she opens the door to someone who’s symbolically a figure of innocence. Now she’s dead.”

  Because he knew her, he took her hand, unballing the fist she’d made. “It doesn’t make you less of a cop because it touches you.”

  “Too many of them touch you and the edges get blurred. You get closer to the limit, to the time you know you’re not going to be able to face another of the dead.”

  “Did it ever occur to you to take a break?” When her brows drew together, he only smiled. “No, of course not. You’ll face the next, Eve, because that’s what you do. That’s who you are.”

  “I might be facing one sooner than I’d like.” She linked fingers with the hand that held hers. “Was she the one, Roarke? His true love? Or are there eleven more?”

  chapter three

  Eve circled the parking deck at the sky mall a second time. And ground her teeth.

  “Why aren’t these people at work? Why don’t they have lives?”

  “For some,” Peabody said solemnly, “shopping is life.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Eve passed a section where cars were stacked like poker chips, six high in their slots. “Screw this.” She whipped the wheel, threaded through the stacks, skinning by bumpers close enough to have Peabody closing one eye. “You know, you can buy anything you want right on screen in the privacy of your own home. I don’t get this.”

  “Screen shopping doesn’t give you the same buzz.” Peabody braced a hand on the dash as Eve jerked to a stop in the fire lane right outside of Bloomingdale’s. “You can’t use the senses, or your elbows to jab people out of the way. There’s no sport in screen shopping.”

  With a snort, Eve engaged her On Duty sign and stepped out of the car. Immediately her ears were assaulted with a blast of music. Christmas carols pumped, full blast, into the air. She decided that people ran inside, ready to buy anything, just to escape the noise.

  Though the temperature in the computer-controlled environment hovered at a pleasant seventy-two, a light, synthetic snow swirled in the enormous dome. The windows of the department store were filled with costumed droids. Santas and elves labored away in a workshop, reindeer flew or danced on rooftops, young, golden-haired children with angelic faces unwrapped bright packages.

  Behind another window, a teenage boy, decked out in the latest fashion trend of black unisuit and neon checked overshirt, did circles and flips on his new Flyer 6000 airskate—this year’s hot-ticket item. A push of the button beside the glass would engage the recording of his excited voice hawking the skate’s options and virtues, as well as its price and location in the store.

  “I’d like to try one of those suckers,” Peabody said under her breath as she followed Eve to the door.

  “Aren’t you a little old for toys?”

  “It’s not a toy, it’s an adventure,” Peabody said, reciting the tag line for the airskate.

  “Let’s get this over with. I hate these places.”

  The doors slid smoothly open and greeted them with a soothing promise: Welcome to Bloomingdale’s. You’re our most important customer.

  Inside, the music continued to play, but at a lower volume. But the voice level rose, dozens of people speaking at once making a cacophony of sound that rose up and up, to echo off the ceiling, where angels soared in graceful circles.

  It was a palace of consumption, with merchandise displayed temptingly on twelve glossy floors.

  Droids and staff swept through the crowds modeling fashions, accessories, the hair- and body-styles that could be purchased in the salons. The electronic map just inside the door stood ready to guide customers to their heart’s desire.

  Licensed child, pet, and elderly care facilities were located handily on the main level for those who didn’t care to shop with Junior, Fido, or Grandpa underfoot.

  Mini-carts to carry customers, their purchases, or both were available for a small rental fee. Hourly or daily rates available.

  A droid with hair in snaking, flame-colored ropes approached with a small crystal bottle.

  “Keep that thing away from me,” Eve ordered.

  “I’d like some.” Obligingly, Peabody tilted back her head so the droid could spritz some perfume on her throat.

  “It’s called Do Me,” the droid purred. “Wear it, and prepare to be ravished.”

  “Hmm.” Peabody angled her head toward Eve. “What do you think?”

  Eve took one sniff, shook her head. “It’s not you.”

  “Could be me,” Peabody muttered, trudging after her.

  “Let’s try to keep our focus here.” Eve took Peabody’s arm as her aide paused at a cosmetic counter where a woman was being painted with sparkling gold from the neck up. “Let’s hit the men’s department, see if we can find out who waited on Hawley day before yesterday. She used credit so they’d have her address.”

  “I could finish up my Christmas shopping in about twenty minutes.”

  “Finish it?” Eve turned back as they stepped on the people guide going up.

  “Sure, I’ve only got a couple of little things left.” Peabody pursed her lips, then bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the grin. “Haven’t started yet, have you?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it.”

  “What are you getting Roarke?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Eve said again and jammed her hands in her pockets.

  “They’ve got great clothes here.” Peabody nodded toward the display droids as they turned left on the glide toward Men’s Casual Wear.

  “He’s got a closet the size of Maine full of clothes already.”

  “Have you ever bought him any?”

  Eve felt her shoulders hunch defensively and straightened her spine. “I’m not his mother.”

  Peabody paused by a droid modeling a dull silver silk shirt and black leather trousers. “He’d look good in this.” She fingered the sleeve. “Of course, Roarke would look good in anything.” She wiggled her brows at Eve. “Guys really love having a woman buy them clothes.”

  “I don’t know how to buy clothes for somebody else. I barely know how to buy them for myself.” When she caught herself trying to imagine Roarke’s face and body in place of the droid’s, she hissed out a breath. “And we’re not here to shop.”

  Scowling, she strode straight to the first checkout counter, then slapped her badge on it under the nose of the clerk.

  He cleared his throat and tossed his long black hair over his shoulder. “Is the
re something I can do for you, Officer?”

  “Lieutenant. You had a customer a couple of days ago, Marianna Hawley. I want to know who waited on her.”

  “I’m sure I can check on that for you.” His eyes, a trendy gold, shifted right, then left. “Lieutenant, would you mind putting your identification away, and perhaps, uh, buttoning your jacket over your weapon. I believe our customers would be more at ease.”

  Saying nothing, Eve jammed her shield back in her pocket, then hitched her jacket over her side arm.

  “Hawley,” he said, obviously relieved. “Would you know if her transactions were made with cash, credit, or store accounts?”

  “Credits. She bought two men’s shirts—one silk, one cotton—a cashmere sweater and jacket.”

  “Yes.” He stopped running the scan on his register. “I remember. I waited on her myself. An attractive brunette of about thirty. She was selecting gifts for her partner. Ah . . .” He closed his eyes. “Shirts in fifteen and a half, thirty-one-inch sleeves. Sweater and jacket, forty-two chest.”

  “Good memory,” Eve commented.

  “It’s my job,” he said, opening his eyes to smile. “Remembering customers, their tastes and needs. Ms. Hawley had excellent taste, and the foresight to bring along a wallet hologram of her young man so that we could program a color chart for him.”

  “Did she deal with anyone but you?”

  “Not in this department. I gave her my full time and attention.”

  “You have her address on record?”

  “Yes, of course. As I recall I offered to have her purchases sent, but she said she wanted to take them with her. She laughed and said that it added to the fun. She enjoyed her shopping experience very much.” His eyes clouded. “Does she have a complaint?”

  “No.” Eve looked him in the eye and knew in her gut she was wasting her time. “She isn’t complaining. Did you notice anyone hanging around while she was shopping, talking to her, watching her?”