by J. D. Robb
“She didn’t walk out of the country, so I’ll need to check on transportation services. She’s gone, but we’ll stick with procedure and do what we can to track her moves. If I can use your office.”
“As long as you like.”
“I came down hard on you.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Sorry.” She offered a hand. “And that was really good ass-kicking with the assistant. I admire that.”
“Thank you.” Vincenti accepted the hand. “Believe me, I have not yet finished that particular task.”
She’d gone over the Swiss border, using a private car service she’d arranged, probably on her pocket-link. The car had picked her up at the end of the shady lane that led to the villa’s gates. She’d been wearing a blue sundress, one she’d probably been wearing under the long, white robe.
From there it became sketchier. Public and private shuttle companies, airports, and ground transportation were being studied for any passengers meeting her description.
“She’s probably already back in New York.” Harnessed for takeoff, Eve shut her eyes as Roarke’s private shuttle began its taxi.
“I imagine so.”
“One step behind. After she gets over being pissed at having her little holiday interrupted, she’s going to feel really good about it. She took another battle, riding off unscathed while I eat her dust.”
“You were right about her, what she would do. What she would need. What she had here, Lieutenant, was sheer luck. Not to discount the value of luck, but I’ll wager on the side of brains and grit any day of the week.”
“I wouldn’t mind a little of that luck to go with them. I’m going to zone out for a while here.”
“That’s fine.” He tapped the release on the table in front of him and brought the data center into position.
“How come I didn’t know you could speak Italian?”
“Hmm? I don’t, at least not fluently. Enough to handle basic business and employee relations. And, of course, I have a working knowledge of all the more colorful obscenities and sexual come-ons.”
She could hear the faint click of him working the computer manually. “Everything in Italian sounds like a sexual come-on or colorful obscenity. Say something.”
“Silenzio.”
“Nuh-uh, I can figure that one out. Say something in the sexual come-on division.”
He glanced over. Her eyes were still closed, but her lips were curved upward. Apparently she’d run out of her mad, he thought, and was ready to recharge. One way or the other.
He shut the computer down, pressed the lever to have the table swing away. Leaning close, he whispered a silky stream of Italian in her ear, while his fingers roamed possessively up her thigh.
“Yeah, that sounds pretty hot.” She opened one eye. “What does it mean?”
“I believe it loses something in the translation. Why don’t I demonstrate?”
Chapter 21
Julianna stormed into her townhouse, heaved her travel bag aside. The hours on the run hadn’t chilled her anger, but instead had bottled it up under the rigid cork of control. Now that she was back, alone, unobserved, that cork popped.
She grabbed the first thing in range, a tall vase of delicate English bone china, threw it and its contents of white roses against the wall. The crash echoed in the empty house and set her on a rampage of temper and destruction. She batted lamps to the floor, pitched a large crystal egg into an antique mirror, stomped the already bruised roses into dust.
She upended chairs, tables, spilling precious crockery onto rug and wood until her foyer and living area resembled a war zone.
Then she threw herself down on the sofa and, pounding her fists onto the pillows, wept like a baby.
She’d wanted those few lovely days at the villa. She’d needed it. She was tired, tired, tired of fixing her own hair, of going without the simple necessities of facials and manicures.
And that bitch had ruined it all.
She’d had to leave a brand-new gown and shoes behind, as well as several other lovely outfits. And she’d missed her seaweed plunge and mud wrap.
Well, there would be payment made.
Sniffling, she rolled onto her back. If that little Italian twit in reservations hadn’t come through, she might have found herself hauled out of bed by the police. Infuriating. Humiliating.
But that hadn’t happened. To calm herself, Julianna breathed deeply and quietly as she’d taught herself in prison. It hadn’t happened because she was always prepared, always ahead. And it had been Eve Dallas who’d lost this battle, as she’d lost the others in this newly waged war.
That was enough comfort to give Julianna a slight lift. Imagine, racing all the way to Italy only to find an empty suite. And that clever little message. Yes, that had been a stylish touch.
In any case, she’d come back to New York to work specifically to pit herself against Eve Dallas. So it was foolish to become so upset and overwrought when the woman proved herself to be a skilled foe.
So skilled, Julianna mused, that it might be best to back off a bit. At least temporarily. This last skirmish had unnerved her. And yet . . .
It was all so exciting. She’d missed this blood rush, this adrenaline spike when she’d been inside. The only way to bring it all to peak was to finish what she’d planned to do.
Destroy Eve Dallas, once and for all.
What better way to do that than by killing the man she was weak enough to love? With the added bonus of going down in history as the woman who murdered the invulnerable Roarke.
It was really all so perfect. Julianna lifted her hands, turned them, and pouted a bit when she noticed she’d chipped a nail.
Eve ran short, unpainted nails over the heel of a black evening shoe. “The Italian police were persuaded to turn over all personal items from Dunne’s suite. This shoe is new. There’s barely any marks on the sole. It’s Italian, but with American sizing. My shoe authority . . .”—she glanced toward Roarke as she briefed her team—“tells me this means she most likely purchased it here in New York before leaving for Italy.”
She tossed the shoe to McNab. “Run it, see if you can find out where she bought it, for what it’s worth.”
“She’s got little feet.”
“Yeah, she’s a real dainty man killer. As you’re aware, we focus now on the upcoming event at the Regency. Feeney, you’re in charge of electronics—surveillance, security, and so on. We have the commander’s go to put as many men on this as we need. Do. You’ll have to keep to background as the subject knows you. She’s going to think twice if she shows up and sees a known cop at some snazzy charity deal.”
“They usually have good food at those things.”
“You’ll get fed. Peabody, there’s a strong likelihood she’d recognize you. She researches and would have studied my aide. You’ll remain in the on-site Control.”
“Get your own plate,” Feeney told her.
“McNab, we can risk you. You’ll dude yourself up appropriately and work the ballroom.”
“Hey, frigid.”
“If she uses this opportunity to attempt a hit on the target, it’s most likely she’ll do it as server or staff. Easier to blend, to go unnoticed, to get in close enough to do the job. She’ll know the target very well.”
“The target has a name.”
She met Roarke’s eyes. “We know your name. So does she. She’ll know you have superior security and superior instincts. She’ll know you’ll be cautious. But she’ll also believe that you are unaware you’re a target, that you’ll feel reasonably comfortable at this sort of event, at your ease with the small talk and the mingling.”
And he would, she thought, while her nerves would be balled up into slippery wires. “She doesn’t know, or can’t be sure, if I’ve copped to her moving on you. Her other New York targets have all been similar to her previous choices. You don’t fit pattern. She’ll consider that one of her advantages. The hit will take form in a drink or possibly
some finger food. That means you eat and drink nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”
“It promises to be a very long evening. I have a stipulation here, if you don’t mind, Lieutenant.”
“What?”
“The possibility remains you are her target, or that she hopes to take a two-for-one with us.” He inclined his head as he saw this had occurred to her already. “Therefore, you eat or drink nothing right along with me.”
“Fine. The media’s already picked up the bone about the large contribution Roarke is presenting to Louise Dimatto that evening. This is an open door for her, and she will go through it.” Eve had thought long and hard about it. “She will. I nipped at her heels in Italy this morning, put the skids on her nice little holiday. She doesn’t care to be crossed. She’ll be pissed, but she’ll also be determined. So am I. So am I pissed and determined to slam that door shut on her.”
She paused, read the faces in the room to see if they understood her meaning. Julianna Dunne was hers. “Feeney, I’ll want your input on selecting what remains of the operation team. We’ll go over that once we’ve done a walk-through on-site. We’ll meet there, main security office, in thirty. Questions?”
“Not now.” Feeney got to his feet. “Imagine there’ll be plenty when we start the walk-through.”
“Then let’s save it. Peabody, you’re with Feeney and McNab. I’ll transport the civilian.”
“And the civilian has a name as well.” Mildly irked, Roarke got to his feet. “If you’ve a moment or two, Lieutenant, the Peabodys would like to say good-bye before they leave.”
“Fine. In thirty,” she said to her team as she walked out with Roarke.
“You’re trying to depersonalize this by referring to me as an object.” He paused at the top of the stairs, took her arm. “I don’t appreciate it.”
“That’s too bad. When this is done and she’s on ice, I’ll say your name five hundred times as punishment.” She could see his temper stir. “Give me a break on this, for God’s sake. Give me a fucking break. I’m handling this the only way I know how.”
“Understood. But you might understand that it’s the both of us doing the handling. And I won’t be relegated to a thing, Eve, not even for you.” He took her hand firmly in his. “You’ve had a year to learn how it works.”
A year? she thought as they walked down. As far as she could tell she wouldn’t figure out all the angles of marriage in a hundred years.
The Peabodys were in the front parlor, cozied together on one of the sofas and laughing. Sam got to his feet the minute Eve stepped into the room.
“There you are. We were afraid you wouldn’t have time to say good-bye, and give us the chance to say how glad we are we were able to get to know you this way. Both of you.”
“It’s been a pleasure having you here.” Roarke held out a hand. “And spending time with Delia’s family. I hope you’ll come back, and know you’re welcome here whenever you do.”
“We’ll look forward to that.” Phoebe’s gaze rested on Eve, long enough, deep enough to bring on the jitters. “And you, Eve? Will we be welcome?”
“Sure. Um, door’s always open.”
Phoebe laughed, then swept forward to catch Eve’s face in her hands and kiss both her cheeks. “Still don’t quite know what to make of us, do you?”
“I don’t know much about roots, but I recognize when somebody’s got good ones. Peabody does.”
Phoebe’s humor changed to baffled delight. “Why, thank you. That’s a lovely gift to take away with us. Be careful, as careful as you can manage,” she added and stepped back. “We’ll think of you often.”
“That was well done,” Roarke said when he and Eve were outside.
“I’m not a complete moron.” She yanked open the driver’s-side door of her vehicle, then caught herself. Calmed herself and studied him as he was studying her over the roof. “How about if I just call you the Civilian Roarke? You know, like a title.”
“Perhaps if you punched it up just a bit. As in the Awesome and All-Powerful Civilian Roarke. Has a ring.”
She reached over the roof to take his hand. “I’ll think about it.”
She ate, drank, slept, she breathed the operation. She could have drawn a detailed blueprint of the Grand Regency Hotel in her sleep. She’d spoken with all of Roarke’s key people. Or grilled them like fish, as he’d put it during one of their several heated disagreements on operational procedure.
She had also run thorough and deep background checks on them, and though she’d been mollified and impressed by just how carefully Roarke chose his top security people, she didn’t think it wise to mention it to him.
She slept poorly, often waking in the middle of the night with the sick feeling she’d neglected a key detail. The single detail that would lose Julianna.
She was moody, snappish, and continually pumped on caffeine.
She came close to the point where it was difficult for her to spend five minutes in a room with herself, but she kept right on pushing.
The night before the operation, she stood in her office, studying the image of the ballroom on-screen once again while the cat ribboned affectionately between her legs. Calculating the angles she’d already calculated, she arranged, re-arranged the proposed movements of the men who were assigned to the floor.
When the screen went blank, she thought she’d finally blown her eyes.
“That’s enough.” Roarke stepped up behind her. “You could build a bloody replica of the hotel with your bare hands by now.”
“There’s always a way to slide through a crack, and she’s good at it. I want another pass at it.”
“No. No,” he repeated as he massaged her shoulders. “It’s time we both put it aside until tomorrow. Take a pass at each other.” He nuzzled her neck. “Happy anniversary.”
“I didn’t forget.” She said it quickly, guiltily. “I just thought maybe we could . . . I don’t know, save it for after tomorrow. Until after everything’s clear.” She cursed softly. “And when the hell is everything really clear, so that’s stupid. But I didn’t forget.”
“That’s good, as neither did I. Ah. Come along then, I’ve something to show you.”
“I’m sort of surprised you’re talking to me. I haven’t been a bundle of joy to be around the last couple of days.”
“Darling, you’re such a master of understatement.”
She stepped into the elevator with him. “Yeah, fine, but you haven’t been Mr. Smooth yourself, pal.”
“Undoubtedly true. I don’t care for anyone questioning or countermanding my orders and arrangements any more than you. Let’s have a truce, shall we?”
“I guess I could use one. Where are we going here?”
“Back,” he said, and when the doors opened led her out.
The holo-room was a large clean space of mirrored black. When the elevator closed behind them, he drew her into its center. “Begin designated program, dual settings.”
And the black shimmered, wavered with color and shape. She felt the change in the air—a soft and fragrant warmth that had the faint hint of rain. She heard that rain patter softly against the windows that formed, on the floor of a balcony where the doors were open to welcome it.
And in front of her, the sumptuous beauty spilled around her and took shape.
“It’s the place in Paris,” she murmured. “Where we spent our wedding night. It was raining.” She stepped to the open doors, held her hand out, and felt the wet kiss her palm. “Steamy with summer, but I wanted the doors open. I wanted to hear the rain. I stood here, just here, and I . . . I was so in love with you.”
Her voice shook as she turned back, looked at him. “I didn’t know I could stand here a year later and love you more.” She scrubbed the heels of her hands over her damp cheeks. “You knew this would get me all sloppy.”
“You stood there, just there.” He walked to her. “And I thought, She’s everything I want. Everything there is. And now, a year later, you’re somehow
even more than that.”
She leaped into his embrace, locking her arms around his neck, making them both laugh as he was forced to take two backward steps to maintain balance.
“Should’ve been ready,” he chuckled against her lips. “I believe you did that a year ago as well.”
“Yeah, and I did this.” She tore her mouth from his to sink her teeth lightly into his throat. “Then I’m pretty sure we started ripping each other’s clothes off on the way to the bedroom.”
“Then in the interest of tradition.” He got two fistfuls of the back of her shirt, yanked hard in opposite direction and ripped the fabric.
She went after his by the front, tugging until buttons flew, until she had her hands on flesh. “Then we—”
“It’s all coming back to me.” He pivoted, bracing her back against a wall, ravishing her mouth while he ripped at her trousers.
“Boots.” Her breath caught, her hands kept busy. “I wasn’t wearing boots.”
“We’ll ad-lib.”
She fought to toe them off as her clothes, pieces of them, hung here and there like rags.
She stopped hearing the rain. The sound was too subtle to compete with the pounding of her blood. His hands were rough, demanding, rushing over her in a kind of feral possession until she could all but feel her skin screaming.
He drove her to peak where they stood, a brutal blinding peak that jellied her knees. His mouth was on hers, swallowing her cries as if he could feed on them.
Washed in the heat, she fell against him. And dragged him to the floor.
They went wild together, rolling over the delicate floral pattern of the rug, whipping all the needs to aching then pushing for more.
There was nothing else. Nothing for him now but her. The way her skin sprang damp as passions ruled her. The way her body lifted, writhed, slithered. The taste of her filled his mouth, pumped into his blood like some violent drug that promised the razor’s edge of madness.
He savaged her breasts while her heart galloped under his hungry lips. Mine, he thought now as he had then.