by J. D. Robb
“See if you can put a hook in McNamara. I’d like to work him into my day, see what he has to say about the partnership, scandal, and sex drugs.”
While Peabody made the call, Eve checked in for messages, grumbling when there was nothing new from Feeney or McNab.
“Dr. McNamara’s off planet, sir. Isn’t expected back for a couple days. I’ve left a request that he contact you with his admin, and on his voice mail.”
“Okay, we’ll shuffle him down in the pile for now. Give me the run on this first guy. Lawrence Q. Hardley.”
“Thirty-two. Single, white male. Family hit it big in the late twentieth in the Silicon Valley explosion. No marriage or cohabitation on record. No criminal or military record.”
“And no prints on file.”
“None. NYC resident since forty-nine. Assists in running family business, NY branch, and holds title of exec vp in charge of marketing. Reported income—salary, investments, dividends, expense quota, approximately five million two annually.”
Peabody studied the image alongside the data. “Looks pretty good, too. Maybe he’ll fall in love with me and beg me to marry him, thereby providing me with the style of living to which I would be willing to become accustomed.”
It didn’t work out that way. Hardley showed no particular interest in Peabody, but he did toward his pretty male admin. Things had looked hopeful when he’d become flustered and annoyed at the questioning, had refused to answer without his attorney present.
It took twenty minutes to arrange for the consult, and another twenty to wade through standard questions with the addition of the attorney through holo-projection.
An hour wasted, Eve thought as she slid back into her car, ticking Hardley off the list.
“Why didn’t he just tell us he was gay?” Peabody wondered. “And had an alibi for both nights in question?”
“Some people are still uncomfortable with alternative sexuality, even when it’s theirs. Run number two.”
They eliminated three out of the ten before Eve cut Peabody loose for the day. Because she knew her job—she didn’t have to like it—she swung to the curb in front of Peabody’s building and asked the question.
“So, are you having pizza or what?”
“I don’t know.” Peabody’s shoulders rose and fell. “I think probably not. It’ll just get all weird and screwed-up again. He’s really an asshole.” But she said it wistfully. “He really got hyped and looney about Charles.”
Eve shifted in her seat, wishing she could stem the thin trickle of sympathy for McNab. “I guess it could be rough on a guy to figure he was competing with someone like Charles.”
“We never said we were exclusive. And he can’t go around trying to direct my life. He can’t just start telling me who I can see, who I can be friends with.” Heating up, Peabody turned the glare on Eve. “And if I had been having sex with Charles, which I wasn’t, it wouldn’t be any of his damn business.”
Whoops, Eve thought. Forget your job for one little minute and take a blast right in the forehead. “Right. Absolutely right. Once an asshole, always an asshole. Good to remember that.”
“So screw him.” Peabody huffed out a breath and felt righteous. “He didn’t even bother to tag me during the day to see if I was up for it anyway. So screw him.”
“Sideways. We’ll interview the last names on the list tomorrow.”
“What?” Peabody brought herself back. “Right. Yes, sir. Tomorrow.”
Thinking she’d done a reasonably decent job of it, Eve shoved the car into crosstown traffic. With luck, she could be home in thirty minutes.
While she fought her way across and uptown, Roarke sipped a beer, and did his job.
“I think the pizza’s a good approach,” McNab said. “She’s got a weakness for it. And it keeps it casual-like. Friendly.”
“I’d pick up a bottle of red. Nothing fancy.”
“That’s good.” McNab’s face brightened. “But no flowers or anything.”
“Not this time. If you want to put things back as they were, you need to take her off guard. Keep her guessing.”
“Yeah.” Roarke, in McNab’s estimation, was the guru of romance. Anybody who could make Dallas soft was a veritable genius in affairs of the heart.
“But this deal with Charles,” he began.
“Forget it.”
“Forget it? But—” McNab stuttered in shock.
“Set it aside, Ian. At least for now. She’s fond of him, and whatever their relationship might be, it’s important to her. Every time you take a jab at him, you push her away.”
They were sitting, sharing beer, in some sort of den area McNab hadn’t even known existed. There was a pool table, an old-fashioned bar, view screens on opposing walls, and deep leather sofas and chairs the color of good red wine.
The art on the remaining walls were nudes. But they were classy nudes—long, streamlined female bodies that looked somehow foreign and refined.
It was, McNab thought, a real guy room. Away from the work stations, away from the ’links, where the only women were stylized art that didn’t drive you crazy. Here there were acres of wood, the smell of leather and tobacco.
Back to class, McNab thought.
Charles had class.
If that was what Peabody was after, he was sunk before he floated.
“We had some good times, you know? Not just good naked times, I mean. I was sort of getting into that stuff you suggested before. You know, taking her out places, coming up with flowers and shit some times. But when we busted up . . . It was bad.” He gulped beer. “Really bad. I figured the hell with her. But we work together a lot so you’ve got to have some level, right? Maybe I should just leave it like that, before it gets messed up again.”
“That’s an option.” Roarke took out a cigarette, lighted it, blew out smoke thoughtfully. “From what I’ve seen, you’re a good detective, Ian. And an interesting man of interesting tastes. If you didn’t have a good brain neither Feeney nor Eve would be working with you. However, despite being a good detective with a good brain, and an interesting man of interesting tastes, you’re leaving one vital factor out of this current equation.”
“What?”
Roarke leaned forward, gently patted McNab’s knee. “You’re in love with her.”
His jaw dropped. The beer in the pilsner slid dangerously toward the edge as it tipped. Roarke righted it.
“I am?”
“I’m afraid so.”
McNab stared at Roarke with the expression of a man who’d just been told he had a fatal disease. “Well, hell.”
Fifty minutes, two stops, and a long subway ride later, McNab knocked on Peabody’s door. Dressed in her rattiest sweatpants, an NYPSD T-shirt, and a new seaweed face pack guaranteed to give the skin a clear, youthful glow, she opened to see him holding a pizza box and a bottle of cheap Chianti.
“Thought you might be hungry.”
She looked at him—the pretty face, the silly clothes—and caught the siren’s whiff of spicy sauce. “I guess I am.”
It seemed to be the night for dating. In the posh and fragrant Royal Bar of the Roarke Palace, where a trio in evening dress played Bach, Charles lifted a shimmering flute of champagne.
“To the moment,” he said.
Louise clinked her glass musically to his. “And to the next.”
“Dr. Dimatto.” He skimmed a finger lightly over her hand as he drank. “Isn’t it a happy coincidence we both had the evening off?”
“Isn’t it? And an interesting one that we’d meet this morning at Dallas’s. You said you’d known her more than a year.”
“Yes. We brushed together on another of her cases.”
“That must be why she lets you get away with calling her Lieutenant Sugar.”
He laughed, topped a small blini with caviar, and offered it. “She intrigued me right from the start, I admit. I’m attracted to strong-willed, intelligent, and dedicated women. What are you attracted to, Louise?”
“Men who know who they are and don’t pretend otherwise. I grew up with pretense, with role-playing. And I shook it off as soon as I could manage. I stuck with medicine, because it’s my passion, but I practice it my way. My way didn’t please my family.”
“Tell me more about your clinic.”
She shook her head. “Not yet. You’re too good at drawing out personal information without giving any in return. I’ll tell you I became a doctor because I have a need, and a talent, to heal. Why did you become an LC?”
“I have a need, and a talent, for giving pleasure. Not just sexually,” he added. “That’s often the simplest and most elemental part of the job. Spending time with someone, discovering what it is they need or want, even if they don’t know themselves. Then providing it. If you do, the satisfaction’s more than physical for both parties.”
“And sometimes it’s just about fun.”
She made him laugh. She’d been making him laugh, he realized, since he first met her. “Sometimes. If you were a client—”
“But I’m not.” She didn’t say it with a sting, but with a slow, very warm smile.
“If you were, I might have suggested drinks just like this. Giving us time to relax, to flirt, to get to know each other.”
The server topped off their glasses, but neither of them noticed. “And then?” Louise prompted.
“Then, we might dance a little, so you’d grow used to the way I held you. And I to the way you want to be held.”
“I’d love to dance with you.” She set her glass down.
He rose, took her hand. On the way to the dance floor they passed a shadowy booth where a couple ignored their own bottle of champagne and kissed passionately.
He turned, slid his arms around Louise. Fit her body to his with the easy skill of a man who knew, perfectly, how a woman fit against a man. There was a delicacy about her that stirred him. A directness that aroused and appealed.
In the cab that morning, she had handed him a card and suggested he call her sometime—when he wasn’t working.
Very direct, he thought again as he drew in the scent of her hair. Very clear. She was attracted, interested. But not as a client.
He’d been attracted, interested, and had suggested they have drinks that same evening.
“Louise?”
“Mmm.”
“I wasn’t free tonight. I broke an engagement to be here.”
She tipped back her head. “So did I.” She laid her head on his shoulder again. “I like the way you hold me.”
“I felt something as soon as I saw you this morning.”
“I know.” She relaxed, drifted on the music. On the moment. “I don’t have time for a relationship. They’re so messy and take so much effort. I’m selfish, Charles, about my work and often, very often, resent anything that gets in the way of it.”
Her fingers trailed into his hair. “But I felt something, too. I think I could make time to find out what it’s about.”
“I haven’t had much luck with relationships. My work usually gets in the way.” He turned his face into her hair, breathed in the scent. “I’d like to take time to find out.”
“Tell me.” She brushed her cheek against his. Smooth, she thought, with just enough friction to make her skin shiver. “If I were a client, what would we do after we dance?”
“Depending on what you wanted, we might go upstairs, to the suite I’d have reserved. I’d undress you.” He skimmed his palm over the warm, bare skin of her back. “Slowly. I’d tell you how beautiful you are as I took you to bed. How your skin’s like silk. I’d show you how much I want you as I made love to you.”
“Maybe next time.” She drew away, just a little, so she could look at him. “And it sounds nearly perfect. But if the next time comes, Charles, we’ll take each other to bed. And I’ll make love with you.”
His fingers tightened on hers. “It doesn’t matter to you, what I do?”
“Why should it?” She had to rise on her toes to touch her mouth to his, and left it at merely a whisper. “Anymore than it should matter to you what I do. Excuse me a minute? I want to freshen up.”
She walked to the women’s lounge and when she was sure she was out of sight, pressed a hand to her jittery stomach. She’d never had a reaction like this to a man.
To want a man, of course. To enjoy his company, to feel desire and interest and humor, affection. But never all at once, never so much of all on such short acquaintance.
She needed a minute to settle down.
She stepped inside the opulent lounge, moved directly to one of the deeply cushioned chairs in front of its individual triple mirror.
She took out her compact, then simply sat, staring at her own reflection. She’d said no more than the truth. She didn’t have time for a relationship. Particularly one that was bound to be intense and complex and complicated. She had so much she wanted to accomplish.
It was one thing to socialize now and then. A date, a party. Particularly if she could use the time to garner interest in the clinic, or the abuse shelter, or the expansion of the free med-van units she was working on.
But a relationship with Charles would be pure indulgence.
She’d had no idea how much she’d want to indulge.
She opened and closed her compact a few times, then began to powder her nose while lecturing herself to be a grown-up. As she fussed with her hair, a long, slim brunette in a clingy black gown came out of the stall area.
She was humming, a quick, jumpy tune that suited her quick, jumpy moves when she plopped into a chair and took out her lipstick.
“Ooh,” she said and snagged one of the cut-glass bottles of scent. “Do Me.” She spritzed it on lavishly, then to Louise’s surprised amusement, tucked the bottle in her evening bag. “That’s just the idea.”
She scooped back her long mane of curls, sent Louise a glittery smile. “Congratulate me.” Moniqua rose, skimmed her hands over her breasts, down her hips. “I’m about to get really lucky.”
“Congratulations,” Louise told her, and laughed a little as Moniqua slithered out of the room.
She slithered right up to the booth where the man she knew as Byron was already standing, holding out a hand. “Ready?”
She took his hand, leaned in, and rubbed her body provocatively over his. “Want to hear what I’m ready for?”
Though she whispered as they walked, they skirted close enough to where Charles sat that he caught one very imaginative suggestion. Idly, he glanced after them and wondered because of the man’s subtle detachment, if he was an LC on the job.
Then he looked over, saw Louise walking back. And couldn’t think of anything but her.
Moniqua Cline worked hard as a paralegal in one of the city’s midlevel firms. She had aspirations and ambitions, most of which were oriented toward career. But she had more intimate ones as well, which involved fantasies about the perfect mate who would share her love of neo-classic art, tropical get-aways, and poetry.
A man, in her dreams, with a sophisticated edge, a toned body, a romantic mind, and some good urban polish.
It seemed she’d found him in Byron.
He was so handsome, with his shoulder-sweeping bronze hair, his golden tan. Her nervous pulse had jumped like dice in a cup when she’d seen him waiting in the booth they’d agreed upon.
He’d already had champagne poured and ready.
When he’d spoken her name, the warmth, the faintest of British accents in his voice had made her want to melt.
The first glass of champagne had gone to her head. She’d been so hot, so itchy. When she’d slid across the booth, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from getting her hands on him. Her mouth on him, she’d felt drunk and happy.
Now they were alone in her apartment, and everything seemed soft and fluid. As if she were looking through a thin veil of warm, rippling water.
There was music playing, sweeping rainbow arches of music. And more champagne to dance in her head and
sweeten her tongue.
His mouth was silky as it skimmed over hers. His hands so skilled that everywhere he touched her throbbed and ached. Unbearably. He said lovely things to her, though it was hard to understand them through the dizziness, the arousal that bloomed inside her like roses.
Then he drew away and made her moan in protest.
“I want to prepare.” He took her hands, traced kisses over the backs. “Set the stage. You want romance, Moniqua. I’m going to give it to you. Wait here for me.”
Her head spun as she watched him get to his feet, pick up his bag. She couldn’t quite . . . think.
“I want—I need to . . .” She got shakily to her feet, gestured toward the bathroom. “Freshen up. For you.”
“Of course. Don’t be long. I want to be with you. I want to take you places you’ve never been.”
“I won’t.” She strained against him, lifting an eager mouth to his. “It’s so perfect, Byron.”
“Yes.” He led her to the bathroom door, nudged her gently inside. “It’s perfect.”
He lighted the candles. He turned down the bed, sprinkled rose petals on the sheets, plumped the pillows.
He’d chosen well, he decided, as he studied the bedroom. He approved the art, the colors, the good fabric of the spread. She was a woman of taste. He touched the slim, old volume of poetry on her bedside table. And intellect.
He might have loved her. If love existed.
He set two fresh flutes of champagne on the table. Added three drops of the drug to one. He would dilute it this time, extend the experience. Lucias had told him she could live for two hours, perhaps a bit more, with the combination of drugs in this proportion in her bloodstream.
He could do a great deal with her in two hours.
He turned when she came to the bedroom door. He held out a hand.
“Beautiful, Moniqua. My love. Let’s discover each other.”
It was better this time. Even better. Lucias was right. He was always right. The excitement of knowing this experience would be her last, that he would be the last thing she saw, felt, smelled, even tasted was almost unbearably erotic.