by J. D. Robb
“Good thinking.”
“She was sweet about it. Patted my hand. She walked me through the video herself, even coached me a little. Rudy came into it toward the end because she had a meeting to go to. He didn’t make me either. He flirted with me.”
“In what way?”
“In an automatic way. It was just part of the job, if you ask me. Approving smiles, compliments, hand holding. He is way not my type,” she added, “but I played along. He offered me more hot chocolate, but I managed to resist. I also got a tour of the place, was shown a club area they have where matches can meet if they feel awkward about making the connection outside. Very tasteful, leaning toward elegant. They’ve got a small coffee shop, too, for the same purposes. That’s casual. There were several couples linking up in there.” She wrinkled her nose. “I saw McNab getting the run-through, too.”
“Then we’re in, and on schedule. What about your match list?”
“I can go in tomorrow morning. They prefer you come in person rather than arranging for a transmission on a first go. They screened me in about an hour. Roarke’s new data held up, and from what I could see, they really dig. If I was going into this for real, I’d feel safe.”
“Okay, you get the match list, go through the routine. But you set up meets outside.” She considered a moment. “We’ll use one of Roarke’s places—medium-sized club or bar. We’ll put a couple cops on the inside. I’ll need to stay out. If Rudy or Piper are in on this, they’d make me. We’ll get a surveillance vehicle. I want you to set up at least two, try for three, of the meets tomorrow night. We can’t sit on this.”
She glanced at her wrist unit, tapped her fingers. “Let’s find an empty conference room. I need to pull in McNab and Feeney for an update. I want this to go smooth.”
“If McNab starts on me, I’m flattening him.”
“Wait till the case is closed,” Eve advised. “Then flatten him.”
She could see the lights from the end of the long drive the minute she was through the gates. At first, Eve wondered if the house was on fire, they were so bright and brilliant. As she sped closer, she saw the outline of a tree in the wide window of the front parlor. It was alive with white light, shimmering and glowing, sparking like little flames off the branches ladened with shiny globes of red or green.
Dazzled, she parked her car and jogged up the steps. Heading straight for the parlor, she stopped under the archway and stared. The tree had to be twenty feet high, at least four feet across. Miles of silver garland were artfully draped to set off the hundreds of colored balls. Atop, nearly brushing the ceiling, was a crystal star, each point pulsing with light. Beneath was a blanket of white that stood in for snow. She couldn’t begin to count the elegantly wrapped gifts stacked there.
“Jesus, Roarke.”
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
He came in silently behind her, made her jolt before she turned to shake her head at him. “Where the hell did you get it?”
“Oregon. It has a treated root ball. We’ll donate it to a park after the New Year.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “Them, I should say.”
“Them? You have more of these?”
“There’s one a bit bigger than this in the ballroom.”
“Bigger?” she managed.
“Another in Summerset’s quarters, and the one in our bedroom. I thought we’d trim that one tonight.”
“It’ll take days to trim one of these.”
“It only took the crew I hired four hours to do this one.” And he laughed. “Ours is more manageable.” He turned his head to brush his lips over her forehead. “I need to share this with you.”
“I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
She looked back at the tree and couldn’t for the life of her determine why it made her nervous. “I’ve got work,” she began, and would have stepped away. But he shifted, laid his hands on her shoulders, and waited for her eyes to meet his.
“I don’t intend to interfere with your work, Eve, but we’re entitled to a life. Our life. I want an evening with my wife.”
Her brows came together. “You know I hate it when you say ‘my wife’ in that tone.”
“Why do you think I do it?” He laughed when she tried to shrug his hands away. “I’ve got you, Lieutenant, and I’m keeping you.” Knowing how quickly she could counter a move, he scooped her off her feet. “Get used to it,” he advised.
“You’re going to piss me off.”
“Good, then we’ll have sex first. It’s such an adventure to make love with you when you’re annoyed with me.”
“I don’t want to have sex.” She might have, she thought irritably, if he wasn’t so damn smug about it.
“Ah, a challenge and an adventure. It just gets better.”
“Put me down, you jackass, or I’ll have to hurt you.”
“And now threats. I’m definitely getting excited.”
She refused to laugh. And when he stepped into the bedroom, she was braced and ready for a bout. Later, she would think Roarke knew her thought process entirely too well.
He dropped her on the bed, then dived onto her before she could shift into offensive mode. With one hand he handcuffed her wrists and drew her hands over her head.
She shot him one hot, narrow-eyed look. “I won’t go down easy, pal.”
“God, I hope not.”
She scissored her legs, clamped them around his waist, and managed to buck until they rolled. Galahad, who’d been enjoying a nap on the pillow, gave one ferocious hiss and leaped off.
“Now you’ve done it.” Eve grunted as he rolled on top of her again. “You annoyed the cat.”
“Let him find his own woman,” Roarke muttered, then crushed his mouth to Eve’s.
He felt the pulses in her wrists give two quick, hard bumps, felt the head-to-toe shudder her body gave beneath his, but she didn’t yield, wasn’t ready to, he thought. There were times, he knew, Eve liked a hot, fast war.
By God, he was in the mood for one himself.
He bit her bottom lip, triumphing on the moan she couldn’t quite swallow. With his free hand he released her weapon harness, tugged it down her shoulder. Then, because he could, because heat was already pouring off her in waves, he hooked a hand in the opening of her skirt and ripped it down the center.
Now her body strained toward his, demanding, daring, even as she twisted under him in an attempt to evade or take control.
“Christ, I want you. It’s never enough.” His mouth clamped onto her breast.
No, never enough, was her last clear thought. She cried out, her strong body bowing up as those fierce pulls and tugs on her breast vibrated through her like wild music set to a furious beat.
Heat seemed to roar from her center out.
Freed, her hands dragged at his shirt, ripping at the silk until she found flesh with her fingers, with her mouth, with her teeth.
Rolling again, they yanked at clothes, tormented skin with greedy nips and bruising strokes. When she reached for him, closed her fist around him, he was iron hard and smooth as satin.
“Now, now, now.” She arched her hips, and came violently the instant he drove into her.
He held there, buried deep, panting as he blinked his vision clear to look at her. The fire that blazed in the hearth across the room shot flashes of light and shadow over her face, glinted into her hair, flickered in her eyes, which had gone dark and blind with what they brought to each other.
“It’s me who has you.” He drew back, thrust again. “Always.” He shifted, lifted her hips with his hands. “Go up again,” he demanded and began to destroy her with long, hard strokes.
She fisted her hands in the bedclothes as if to anchor herself. In the firelight she could see him over her, dark hair gleaming, eyes too blue to be real, muscles sleek, skin pale gold and dewed with sweat.
Need rose like a flood, and pleasure swamped her. Her vision blurred, turning him into a shadow, gilde
d at the edges. She heard herself choke out his name as her body shattered.
“And again.” He lowered himself, taking her mouth with his, linking his fingers with hers, pounding his body into hers. “Again,” he managed, as his blood rioted. “With me.”
And it was “Eve” he said, just “Eve,” when he emptied himself into her.
She lost track of time as she lay under him, firelight dancing on the ceiling. She wondered vaguely if it could be normal to need someone this much, to love to the point of pain.
Then he turned his head, his hair brushing her cheek, his lips brushing her throat. And she wondered why she should care.
“I hope you’re satisfied.” Her mutter wasn’t as snippy as she’d hoped it would be, and she caught herself stroking a hand down his back.
“Mmmm. I seem to be.” He nuzzled her throat again before lifting his head and looking down at her. “It seems to be mutual.”
“I let you win.”
“Oh, I know.”
The twinkle in his eyes had her snorting. “Get off me, you’re heavy.”
“Okay.” He obliged, then scooped her up again. “Let’s take a shower, then we can do the tree.”
“Just what is this obsession you have with trees?”
“I haven’t decorated one in years—not since Dublin when I lived with Summerset. I want to see if I can still do it.” He stepped into the shower with her, and she clamped a hand over his mouth, knowing his baffling preference for cold showers.
“Water on, at one hundred degrees.”
“Too hot,” he mumbled against her hand.
“Live with it.” And she sighed long and deep when the hot water began to pulse out from all directions. “Oh yeah, this is good.”
Fifteen minutes later she stepped out of the drying tube with her muscles warmed and limber, her mind clear and alert.
Roarke toweled off—another of his habits she couldn’t understand. Why waste time rubbing yourself with cotton when a quick spin in the drying tube took care of it? She was reaching for her robe when she noticed it wasn’t the one she’d left hanging there that morning.
“What’s this?” She took down the long flow of scarlet.
“Cashmere. You’ll like it.”
“You’ve bought me a million robes. I don’t see . . .” But her voice trailed off as she slipped it on. “Oh.” She hated it when she lost herself in something as shallow as textures. But this was soft as a cloud, warm as a hug. “It’s pretty nice.”
He grinned, belting a black robe in the same material. “Suits you. Come on, you can fill me in on the case while I tackle the lights.”
“Peabody and McNab are in. They’ll have their match lists by tomorrow.” She wandered back into the bedroom, and spotted the silver bucket with champagne; a silver tray with canapés was waiting. What the hell, she decided, and stuffed something glorious into her mouth as she poured two flutes. “Your covers for them passed screening.”
“Of course.” From a large box, Roarke took a long string of tiny lights.
“Don’t get cocky, we’ve got a long way to go. Nadine was in my office when I got to Central,” Eve added, and set Roarke’s champagne on the table by the bed. “She got a load of Peabody so I had to fill her in more than I wanted. Off the record.”
“Nadine is one of those rare reporters you can trust.” Roarke studied the tree, the lights, and decided to dive straight in. “She won’t leak sensitive data.”
“Yeah, I know. We got into that a bit.” Frowning, Eve circled the tree while Roarke worked. She had no idea if he knew what he was doing. “If Piper and Rudy hadn’t seen me, I’d have done the inside work myself.”
Roarke lifted an eyebrow as he secured the first string and took out another. “I might have some mild objection to my wife dating strange men.”
She went back to the tray, took another pretty canapé at random. “I wouldn’t have slept with any of them . . . unless the job called for it.” She grinned at him. “And I would have thought of you the whole time.”
“It wouldn’t have taken very long—since I’d have cut off his balls and handed them to you.”
He kept stringing lights as she choked on her wine. “Jesus, Roarke, I’m only kidding.”
“Mmm-hmm. Me, too, darling. Hand me another string of these.”
Not at all sure of him, Eve pulled out another string of lights. “How many of these are you going to use?”
“As many as it takes.”
“Yeah.” She blew out a breath. “What I meant—before—was I’ve done undercover before, Peabody’s green.”
“Peabody’s had good training. You should trust her. And yourself.”
“McNab’s still kicking about it.”
“He’s smitten with her.”
“He really— What?”
“He’s smitten with her.” Roarke stepped back, pursed his lips. “Tree lights on,” he ordered, then nodded, satisfied as the tiny diamond points blinked on. “Yes, that’ll do it.”
“What do you mean, smitten? Like he’s got a case on her? McNab? No way.”
“He’s not sure he likes her, but he’s attracted.” Wanting to see his work from another angle, Roarke walked over, picked up his wine, and sipped as he studied. “Ornaments, next.”
“He irritates the hell out of her.”
“I believe you felt the same way about me initially.” He toasted his wife in the glow of tree and fire lights. “And look where we ended up.”
Eve stared at him for a full ten seconds, then sat heavily on the side of the bed. “Oh Christ, this is perfect. This is just perfect. I can’t have the two of them working together like this if there’s a thing there. Annoyance I can deal with; sexual shit, no way.”
“Sometimes you have to let your children go, darling.” He opened another box, chose an antique porcelain angel. “You put the first one on. It’ll be our little tradition.”
Eve stared at it. “If anything happens to her—”
“You won’t let anything happen to her.”
“No.” She let out a breath, and rose. “No, I won’t. I’m going to need your help.”
He reached out, stroked a fingertip over the shallow dent in her chin. “You have it.”
She turned, picked her branch, and hung the angel. “I love you. I guess that’s turning out to be our little tradition, too.”
“It’s my favorite.”
Late, very late, when the tree lights were off and the fire burned low, she lay awake. Was he out there, now? Would her ’link beep, announcing another body, another soul lost because she was too many steps behind?
Whom did he love now?
chapter ten
The snow started to spit out of the sky at dawn. No pretty postcard snow, but thin, mean needles that hissed nastily as they hit pavement. By the time Eve settled in her office at Cop Central, there was a slick layer of ugly gray over the city streets, sidewalks, and glides that would certainly keep the MTs and traffic cops busy.
Outside her window, two weather copters from rival channels dueled in a war to pass the bad news to viewers and report on the latest fender bender or pedestrian spill.
All they had to do, Eve thought bad-temperedly, was open their own fucking doors and see for themselves.
It was going to be a lousy day.
Keeping her back to the arrow-slit view of her window, she fed data into her computer with little hope that she’d get a decent probability match.
“Computer, probability program. Using known data, analyze and compute. List in order of probability which names most likely to be targeted by True Love killer.”
Working . . .
“Yeah, you do that,” she muttered. While her machine whined and clunked, she took copies of photos confiscated from Personally Yours and, rising, fixed them to a board over her desk.
Marianna Hawley, Sarabeth Greenbalm, Donnie Ray Michael. Faces smiling hopefully. Putting their best side forward. The lonely, looking for love.
The desk clerk, the stripper, and the sax blower. Different lifestyles, different goals, different needs. What else did they have in common? What was she missing that linked them all to a killer?
What did he see when he looked at them that attracted and enraged? Ordinary people, living ordinary lives.
Probability percentages even for all subjects.
Eve glanced over at her machine and snarled. “The hell with that. There has to be something.”
Insufficient data for further analysis. Current pattern is random.
“How the hell am I supposed to protect two thousand people, for Christ’s sake?” She closed her eyes, reeled in her temper. “Computer, eliminate all subjects who live with a companion or family member. Recalibrate remaining.”
Working . . . Task complete.
“Okay.” Rubbing her fingers over her eyes, she nodded. All three victims had been white, she thought. “Eliminate all subjects not Caucasian. Recalibrate remaining.”
Working . . . Task complete.
“Number remaining?”
Six hundred twenty-four subjects remaining . . .
“Shit.” She turned back to study the photos. “Eliminate all subjects over the age of forty-five and under the age of twenty-one.”
Working . . . Task complete.
“Okay, all right.” She began to pace as she thought it through. Grabbing her hard-copy file, she pushed through paperwork. “First-timers,” she muttered. “They were all first-timers. Eliminate all subjects with repeated consults from Personally Yours. Recalibrate remaining.”
Working . . .
This time the machine bogged and rattled. Eve gave it an impatient smack with the heel of her hand.
“Piece of shit,” she muttered, and set her teeth as the machine whined again.
Task . . . complete.