by J. D. Robb
She answered the door herself. Her face was pale and showed the ravages of tears. Her hand shook, just a little, as she reached for his. "You took so long."
"I'm sorry." She'd left her hair down, in a soft wave he wanted to press his face against. "This weather's slowed everything down. I don't know how anyone lives here."
"I don't want to. Not anymore." She closed the door, leaned back against it. "I'm scared, Zeke, and I'm so tired of being scared."
"You don't have to be anymore." Gently, swamped with love, he framed her face in his hands. "No one's going to hurt you again. I'll take care of you."
"I know." She closed her eyes. "I think I knew, the minute I met you, that my life was going to change." She lifted her hands to his wrists. "You're cold. Come in by the fire."
"I want to take you out of here, Clarissa."
"Yes, and I…I'm ready to go." Still, she walked into the parlor, close to the fire, shivering a little. "I packed a bag. It's upstairs. I don't even remember what I put in it." She drew a breath, leaned back into him when Zeke laid his hands on her shoulders. "I left a note for B. D. When he gets home tomorrow and reads it…I don't know what he'll do, Zeke. I don't know what he's capable of, and I'm afraid of what I've done by putting you between us."
"I want to be between you." He turned her to face him, his eyes quietly intense on hers. "I want to help you."
She pressed her lips together. "Because you feel sorry for me."
"Because I love you."
Tears glistened in her eyes again, shimmering like dew on wild violets. "I love you, Zeke. It seems impossible, incredible that I could feel like this. But I do. It's as if I'd been waiting for you." Her arms slipped around his waist, her mouth tilted toward his. "As if I could get through anything, survive anything, because I had to wait for you."
His mouth moved softly over hers, to soothe and to promise. When she laid her head against his heart, he drew her closer and simply held her.
"I'll get your bag." He brushed his lips over her hair. "And we'll go away from here."
"Yes." She looked up at him, smiled. "Yes, we'll go away from here. Hurry, Zeke."
"Get your coat. It's cold."
He walked out, up the steps. Now his heart began to pound. She was going with him. She loved him. And it was a miracle. He found the suitcase on the bed, saw the envelope addressed to her husband propped on the pillow.
That had taken courage, he thought. One day she'd understand how much courage she had inside her.
He was halfway down the steps again when he heard her scream.
• • •
Propped in a corner of the elevator, mostly naked, Peabody struggled for air. McNab had his face buried against her throat with his breath whistling like her mother's old teakettle.
They'd pulled, tugged, and torn at each other's clothes, bit, groped, and bruised each other's flesh. Then had finished the job exactly where they stood.
It had been, Peabody admitted as her brain began to engage again, the most incredible experience of her life.
"Jesus." His lips formed the word against her throat and had her pulse picking up speed again. "Jesus, Peabody."
He didn't think he could move if she'd stuck a stunner in his ear. Her body—oh my God—her body was amazing: ripe and lush, the kind a man could just sink into. If he could manage to get them both horizontal, he wanted to do just that. Maybe drown there.
She had her arms locked around him. Couldn't quite make herself let go. Just as she couldn't quite remember what they'd done or how they'd managed it. The last ten minutes were a whirling blur, a sexual haze. A quick walk through insanity.
"We've got to get out of here."
"Yeah." But he nuzzled at her neck another moment in a gesture she found scary and sweet. Then he stepped back, blinked, and stared at her. His gaze skimmed down, up, then made the trip again. "God, you look great."
She knew it was ridiculous. Her bra was hanging off one shoulder by one strap. She still had one uniform sock and shoe on, with her trousers caught on the ankle. She wasn't sure where her panties were, but thought they'd probably been torn to pieces.
And the two dozen ab crunches she suffered through every day still hadn't flattened her belly.
Despite it, she felt the sly feminine thrill slide up her spine at the approval in his voice and the heat in his eyes. "You look okay, too."
He was thin, she could nearly count his ribs, and his stomach was flat as a board. Normally, that would have annoyed her. But just now, looking at him, seeing his long blond hair tousled, and the goosebumps starting to pop out on his skin from the chill in the elevator, she found herself grinning.
He grinned back. "I'm not done yet."
"Good. Neither am I."
• • •
Zeke raced down the stairs with Clarissa's suitcase tumbling after him. He burst into the parlor to see her sprawled on the floor, one hand holding her cheek. Through her splayed fingers an ugly red mark stood out against her skin.
B, Donald Branson stood over her, swaying, eyes glazed and furious.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" He snatched her coat from the floor, swung at her with it. "I didn't tell you to leave the house. You think you can sneak out while I'm away, you bitch?"
"Stay away from her." Though fury was bubbling in his gut, Zeke's voice was calm.
"Well, well." Branson turned, stumbled a little, and Zeke caught the stink of whiskey. "Isn't this cozy. The whore and the handyman." He shoved Zeke in the chest. "Get the hell out of my house."
"I intend to. With Clarissa."
"Zeke, don't. He doesn't mean anything, B. D." She pushed herself to her knees like a woman praying. "I was…just going out for a walk. That's all."
"Lying bitch. So you were going to help yourself to what's mine, were you?" He shoved Zeke again. "Did she tell you how many others she's whored with?"
"That's not true." Clarissa's voice broke on a sob. "I never—" She broke off, cringing when Branson swung back to her.
"Shut the fuck up, I'm not talking to you. Thought you'd put in a little overtime while I was out of town?" He sneered at Zeke. "Too bad I canceled the trip, but maybe you shoved your dick into her already. No." He laughed, knocking Zeke back a step. "If you'd had her, you'd know she's lousy in bed. Beautiful and a waste. But she's mine."
"Not anymore."
"Zeke, don't. I want you to go now." Her teeth were chattering. "I'll be fine. Just go now."
"We'll go." Zeke said it calmly as he bent down to pick up her coat. He didn't see Branson's fist fly out. He never expected violence. But it connected with his jaw, radiating pain, shooting sparks. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Clarissa cry out again.
"Don't hurt him. Please, don't hurt him. B. D., I won't go. I swear I—" Then she screamed again when he grabbed her up by the hair.
It happened fast, in a kind of red mist. Zeke jumped forward, striking out with one hand, grabbing for Clarissa with the other. Branson fell back, feet sliding on the polished floor. He went down hard, and there was a sharp crack as his skull rapped onto the marble hearth.
Frozen, Zeke stood, one arm locked around Clarissa to support her, and stared horrified at the blood that began to seep and pool from Branson's head.
"Sweet God. Sit down, here, sit down." He all but carried her to a chair, leaving her huddled as he rushed over to Branson. His fingers trembled as he pressed them against Branson's throat.
"There's no pulse." He drew in air sharply, ripped open Branson's shirt, and began to pump the heart. "Call for an ambulance, Clarissa."
But he knew it was too late. Open eyes stared up at him, the blood was streaming. When he forced himself to look, he could see no aura.
"He's dead. He's dead, isn't he?" She began to shake, her eyes huge on Zeke's, the pupils contracted to needlepoints of shock. "What will we do, what will we do?"
Nausea churned in Zeke's stomach as he rose. He'd killed a man. He'd left behind every belief and had
taken a life. "We have to call an ambulance. The police."
"The police. No, no, no." She began to rock then, her face white and strained. "They'll lock me away. They'll send me to prison."
"Clarissa." He made himself crouch in front of her, take her hands, though his felt soiled and evil. "You didn't do anything. I killed him."
"You—you—" Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. "Because of me. It's all because of me."
"No, because of him. You need to be strong now."
"Strong. Yes." Still shaking, she leaned back and her eyes never left his face. "I will be strong. I will. I need to think. I know, I…But…I feel ill. I—Could you get me some water?"
"We need to call the police."
"Yes, yes, I will. We will. But I need a minute first, please. Could you get me some water?"
"All right. Stay right here."
His legs felt like rubber, but he made them move. His skin felt as slicked with ice as the streets outside.
He had killed.
The two servants in the kitchen barely glanced at him when he came in. He had to stand a moment, his hand braced against the door. He couldn't remember why he'd come in, but he could hear, as if it was happening again, the sickening crack of Branson's skull hitting the hearth.
"Water." He managed to get the word out. He could smell meat roasting, sauce simmering. Sickness reared up into his throat. "Mrs. Branson asked me to get her some water."
Without a word, one of the uniformed droids moved to the refrigerator. Zeke watched with a dull fascination as she poured bottled water into a heavy glass, sliced a fresh lemon, added it and ice.
Because his hands were shaking, he took the glass she brought him in both of them, managed a nod of thanks, and walked back to the parlor.
Water leaped over the rim of the glass and onto the back of his hand when he saw Clarissa on her hands and knees frantically wiping up blood.
There was no body beside her.
"What have you done? What are you doing?" Panicked, he set the glass down and ran to her.
"What has to be done. I'm being strong and doing what has to be done. Let me finish."
She was fighting him, shoving, weeping, and the smell of fresh blood was strong.
"Stop. Stop this. Where is he?"
"He's gone. He's gone, and no one has to know."
"What are you talking about?" Zeke pulled the bloody rag from her, tossed it back on the hearth. "For God's sake, Clarissa, what have you done?"
"I had the droid take him." Her eyes were wild, as with fever. "I had the droid take him out, put him in the car. He'll throw the body into the river. We'll clean up the blood. And we'll run away. We'll just go away and forget this ever happened."
"No, no, we won't."
"I won't let them put you in prison." She reached out, grabbed his shirt. "I won't let them lock you away for this. I couldn't bear it." She lowered her head to his chest, clung. "I couldn't stand it."
"It has to be faced." He gentled his hands on her arms. "If I don't face it, I couldn't live with myself." When she sagged against him, he took her back to the chair."
"You'll call the police," she said dully.
"Yes."
• • •
They'd finally made it to the bed. Peabody wasn't altogether sure how they'd managed to get from the elevator to his apartment to his bed without killing each other, but that's where they were. The sheets were hot and tangled, and even now when McNab rolled weakly off her, her body pumped heat like a furnace.
"I'm not done yet," he said in the dark with a voice that hitched.
Peabody snorted, then began to laugh like a loon. "Me, neither. What are we, crazy?"
"A couple of more times, we'll probably burn it all out of our systems."
"A couple of more times, we'll be dead."
He reached out to stroke her breast. He had long, bony fingers, and she was becoming very fond of them. "Game?"
"Looks like."
He rolled over, replaced his fingers with his tongue. "I love your tits."
"Gee, thanks."
"No, I mean…ummm." He began to suck, slowly now, bringing an odd liquid flutter to her belly. "I really love your tits."
"They're mine." She could have bitten her tongue, and was grateful for the dark that concealed the flush as he chuckled against her. "I mean, I didn't like buy them or anything."
"I know, Dee. Believe me, nothing improves on Mother Nature."
God, she wished he hadn't called her Dee. It made it all personal, and well, intimate, when it was—it had to be…otherwise. She started to tell him so, but his hand was sliding, not rushing this time, just lazily sliding down her rib cage.
"Man, you are so…female." He had an urge to kiss her, long and slow and deep. As he lifted his head, started to order lights so he could see her when he did, a 'link beeped.
"Shit. Lights. Yours or mine?"
All at once, they were both cops. She dived for her coat pocket. "Mine, I think. It shouldn't be from Dispatch, it's my palm-link. Block outgoing video," she ordered, shoving the hair back from her face. "Engage. Peabody."
"Dee." Zeke's face filled the miniscreen. By the time he'd drawn a breath, let it out, her heart had stopped. She'd seen that stunned and glazed look in too many other eyes.
"What's happened? Are you hurt?"
"No. No. Dee, I need you to come. I need you to call Dallas and come to Clarissa Branson's house. I just killed her husband."
• • •
Eve finished reading the printout Roarke had given her and sat back in the chair at her desk. "So, Lamont's been stealing material from Autotron, bits and pieces at a time, for the last six months."
"He covered his tracks well." It burned, oh, it burned to know he'd been paying the son of a bitch all along. "He had some autonomy, his requisitions would hardly be questioned. He just ordered a bit more than he required for the work, then obviously smuggled out the extras."
"Which were handed over to Fixer, I'd guess. This is enough to nail him on theft of hazardous material, anyway. And that's enough for me to haul his butt into interview and cook him."
Roarke studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. "I don't suppose you could hold off on that long enough for me to fire him. Personally?"
"I think I'll save myself the trouble of getting you out of assault charges and dump him in a cage out of your reach. I appreciate the help."
"Excuse me?" He turned back to her. "If you'd let me get my memo book, then repeat that for the record."
"Ha ha. Don't let it go to your head." Absently, she rubbed at a headache brewing in her temple. "We have to find the next target. I'll have Lamont brought in tonight, let him stew in a cage, but it's not likely he knows the where and when."
"He's bound to know a few of the whos." Roarke moved around the desk, stood behind her, and began to massage the tension from her shoulders. "You need to put this aside for a while, Lieutenant. Give your mind a chance to clear."
"Yeah, I do." She let her head fall forward as his hands worked magic. "How long can you keep that up?"
"A lot longer if we were naked."
She laughed and amused him by starting to unbutton her blouse. "We'll just see about that. Hell." She did up the buttons quickly when her communicator sounded.
"Dallas?"
"Jesus, Dallas. God."
"Peabody." She got to her feet quickly.
"It's my brother. It's Zeke. It's my brother."
Eve clamped a hand over Roarke's, squeezed hard, and forced her voice into a command. "Tell me. Say it fast and straight."
"He says he killed B. Donald Branson. He's at that address now. I'm on my way."
"I'll meet you there. Hold it together, Peabody. Don't do anything. Do you copy this? Do nothing until I arrive."
"Yes, sir. Dallas—"
"I'll be there in five minutes." She broke the connection and bolted for the door.
"I'm going with you."
She started to refuse, t
hen remembered the terrified look in Peabody's eyes. "We'll take one of your cars. It'll be faster."
*** CHAPTER SIXTEEN ***
Eve wasn't surprised to arrive on scene ahead of Peabody, but she was grateful. One look at the parlor, the blood smeared on the hearth, and the possessive and protective way Zeke kept his hand on Clarissa's shoulder had her stomach sinking.
Oh shit, Peabody, she thought. What a hell of a fix.
"Where's the body?"
"I got rid of it." Clarissa started to her feet on legs that were visibly shaking.
"Sit down, Clarissa." Zeke said it softly while easing her back into the chair. "She's in shock. She should have medical attention."
Shoving sympathy aside, and for the moment doing no more than filing the bruises on Clarissa's face away, she stepped forward. "Got rid of it?"
"Yes." She drew a deep breath, locked her hands together. "After—after it…I sent Zeke out of the room, asked him to get me some water."
She glanced toward the glass still sitting untouched on an inlaid table, the water that had sloshed out of it ruining the finish. "When he was gone, I got one of the droids to carry—to carry it out, drive it away. I programmed the droid. I—I know how. I instructed it to throw the body in the river. Off the bridge and into the East River."
"She was upset," Zeke began. "She wasn't thinking. It all happened so fast and I—"
"Zeke, I need you to sit down. Over there." Eve indicated the sofa.
"She didn't do anything. I did. I pushed him. I didn't mean…he was hurting her."
"Sit down, Zeke. Roarke, would you take Mrs. Branson in another room? She should lie down for a few minutes."
"Of course. Come on, Clarissa."
"It wasn't his fault." She began to weep again. "It was my fault. He was just trying to help me."
"It's all right," Roarke murmured. "Eve will take care of it. Come with me now." He sent his wife a long, silent look as he led Clarissa away.
"We're not on record yet, Zeke. No," she continued with a quick shake of her head. "Don't say anything until you listen to me. I have to know everything, every detail, every step. I don't want you to even think about leaving anything out."
"I killed him, Dallas."