by J. D. Robb
She supposed they were, though they always looked spectacular. Even in winter, there was something compelling about the shapes, the textures, the tones. But now it was all color, all scent. Dramatic here with tall, spikey things with brilliant and exotic blooms, charming there with tangled rows of simple blossoms. And all lush and somehow perfect, without giving the appearance that any hand had touched it but Mother Nature’s.
“Who does all the work out here, anyway?”
“Elves, of course.” He laughed and drew her into an arbored tunnel where hundreds of roses climbed and dripped onto green, shady ground.
“Imported from Ireland?”
“Naturally.”
“It’s cool in here.” She looked up. Little flickers of sun and sky shone through the ceiling of flowers. “Nature’s climate control.” She sniffed. “Smells like. . .” Well, roses of course, she thought, but it wasn’t that simple. “Smells romantic.”
She turned, smiled at him. But he wasn’t smiling back.
“What?” Instinctively she looked over her shoulder as if expecting some threat. A snake in the garden. “What is it?”
How could he explain what it was to see her standing there in the dappled, rose-drenched shade, looking baffled, a little confused by the beauty? Tall, lean, her disordered hair streaky from the sun. Wearing her weapon the way another woman might a string of good pearls. With careless confidence and pride.
“Eve.” Then he shook his head, stepped to her. Resting his forehead on hers, he ran his hands up and down her arms.
And how could he explain what it had been to stand by and watch her walk unarmed, unprotected into a room to face a madman alone? To know he might have lost her in an instant.
He knew she’d faced death countless times. Had faced it with her. They’d had each other’s blood on their hands before.
He’d held her through dreams more violent and vicious than any human soul should have to bear. He’d walked with her through the nightmare of her past.
But this had been different. She’d been shielded only by her own courage and wit. And standing back, having no choice but to stand aside and watch, and wait, having no choice but to accept it was what she’d had to do had driven an unspeakable fear into his heart like a spike.
He knew it was best for both of them if he didn’t speak of it.
But she understood. There were pockets and shadows inside him she still didn’t fully comprehend. But she’d come to understand love. It was she who lifted her face to his when he would have drawn back. She who lifted her mouth to his.
He wanted to be tender. It seemed right with the romance of roses, in the gratitude that she was here, whole and safe. But the flood of emotion all but drowned him. Swamped by it, he fisted a hand in the back of her shirt as if it were a line tossed into a raging sea. That storm swept through him and into the kiss.
She waited for the heat of it to drop them both, and for his hand to tear her shirt to ribbons.
But his fingers opened, stroked one hard, possessive line down her back before his hands came up to frame her face.
She could see the tempest in his eyes, swarming in the blue of them with a kind of primal violence that made the breath catch in her throat and her pulse pound in response.
“I need you.” His fingers dived into her hair, dragging it back from her face, fisting again. “You can’t know what kind of need is in me for you. There are times, do you understand me, I don’t want it. I don’t want this raging inside me. It won’t stop.”
His mouth crushed down on hers, and she tasted that need, the fierce and focused intensity of it. And the greed, the desperation of it.
She gave herself over to it without hesitation. Because he was wrong, as he was very rarely wrong. She understood the need, and she understood the frustration of knowing it wouldn’t be controlled.
The same war waged in her.
He released her weapon harness, dragged it off, tossed it aside. She only wrapped herself more tightly around him, moaned in drugged pleasure when his mouth, his teeth, fixed on the curve of her throat.
Somewhere a bird was singing its heart out, and the scent of roses grew heavy, hypnotizing. Air that had seemed so cool in the green shade went thick, went hot.
He yanked the shirt over her head, and those hands with their long, clever fingers raced over flesh until she all but felt it melt. But when she tugged at his shirt, he shoved her hands away, locked them together at the wrist behind her back.
He needed control, however fleeting, however tenuous.
“I’m taking you.” His voice was as thick as the air. “My way.”
“I want—”
“You’ll get what you want soon enough.” He unfastened the hook of her trousers. “But I’ll have what I want first.”
And he wanted her naked.
He leaned in, nipped her bottom lip. “Do off the boots.”
“Let go of my hands.”
He merely slid his down into the opening of her trousers, tightening his grip on her wrists when her body jerked. “The boots.”
He laid his lips on hers, slid his hand over her. His tongue slipping in to soothe, his finger slipping in to arouse with a patient seduction opposed to that steely grip on her wrists.
Even as she murmured a protest, her arms went limp. Dazed, she began toeing off her boots, and the movement of her own body shuddered her over peak.
She was hot and wet and trembling.
He wanted to touch, to taste, to explore and exploit every inch of her. Releasing her hands, he moved down her body. And when his mouth clamped over her, she erupted.
Her hands grabbed at his hair as she choked on gasps. But he only gripped her hips and continued to destroy her.
She was his now. In this garden, in this world. She was his.
Her world was spinning, all the color and scent gone mad around her. His mouth was like a fever, burning against her with a torment so exquisite it felt like death.
She could feel the heat rolling through her again, filling her, pumping into her blood and bone until it burst like a nova and left her shattered.
And still he wouldn’t stop.
“I can’t. I can’t.”
“I can.”
When the next rush buckled her knees, he pulled her down.
This time he dragged her arms over her head and once again locked her wrists together. “Do you remember the first time I had you? I can’t, you said, but you did.”
“Damn it.” Her body bowed up. “I want you inside me.”
“I will be.” He closed his free hand over her breast. “I can make you come this way now. You’re primed for it. Everything in you is ready for me.”
His hand was like magic over her skin. Under it her breast felt impossibly full, unbearably sensitive. And her heart beat like a fist.
“It pleasures me to watch it take you over.”
He watched now as the helpless pleasure raced over her face, as her breath came faster through her lips. She bowed up again, a trembling arch. Then burst. Then melted.
He shifted away, began to undress.
She lay sprawled, damp, naked, conquered on the soft green grass. She wore only a long chain from which dripped the fat tear of a diamond, and the simple St. Jude’s medal. He’d given her those, symbols and shields. That she would wear them, together, moved him unbearably.
Her arms stayed flung over her head as he’d left them. Surrendered, as she surrendered to no one else.
He was rock hard and desperate to mate.
He straddled her, ran his hands over her face, her throat, her breasts. “Eve.”
She saw his face so intense, so strongly beautiful in the deep shade. A trio of thin sunbeams shot down through the leaves and flashed light over his hair.
“I want you to take me. Is that what you need to hear? I want to be taken, as long as it’s by you.”
He drove himself into her. Shoved her knees back and drove himself deeper. She cried out, the shock of sensat
ion slicing through her as he plunged.
“Harder,” she demanded and yanked until his mouth was on hers again. “Harder.”
His body quivered, and control snapped like brittle glass. Caught up in his own madness he ravished her mouth, her body. Pounding as he heard her cry out, pounding as he felt her gather again.
“With me.” He took her hands, linking fingers now. “Come with me.”
He gave himself, as she had given, so they could take each other.
The blood was still roaring in his ears when he managed to roll, drawing her with him so she was cushioned by his body rather than pinned under it.
The storm inside him had burned itself out. His hand was gentle as he stroked over her back.
“Some walk.”
He smiled a little. “Yes, well, a bit of fresh air always does a body good.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it was the fresh air that did the trick.” She snickered. “Now I get why people go to the countryside for a little R and R.”
“I’m feeling pretty rested and relaxed at the moment.”
She lifted her head now, studied his face. “Yeah?”
He knew what she was asking. Knew she’d understood. “Yeah. I suppose we’d better tidy ourselves up and get inside. They should be bringing McNab along soon, and I’ve yet to tell Summerset.”
“I’ll leave that happy little job to you.”
“Coward.”
“Bet your ass.” She rolled off him, then looked around on the grass for her clothes. “Where the hell’s my shirt? Did you eat it?”
“Not to my knowledge.” He glanced up, pointed. “There, hanging on the roses.”
“The many uses of the garden,” she commented as she strode over to tug it free. “Visual and olfactory stimulation, sex ’capades and clothes hanger.”
He got up laughing, and the rich, easy sound of it told her they were back on steady ground again.
Once they were inside, Eve made a beeline for the stairs and went straight up to her office. She had work, she told herself. It wasn’t that she wanted to avoid whatever conversation Roarke was going to have with Summerset.
Or it wasn’t just that.
She put in a call to the commander first. The reluctance she’d shown about having Roarke on board as consultant had been smoke. She’d already planned to tag him for it, officially.
But there wasn’t any reason to give him a swelled head about it.
“Permission’s already been granted,” Whitney told her. “Feeney requested that Roarke be asked to consult. I’m told Detective McNab’s been released from the hospital and into your care.”
“Not my care—so to speak.”
“I’ve already spoken with his parents. You can expect a transmission from them.”
“Ah . . .” Her mind began plotting how to pass that along to Summerset as well. “He’s young and he’s fit. I expect he’ll be back on his feet in a day or two. I’ll be working primarily out of my home office, Commander. Unless Feeney feels otherwise, I want Cogburn’s unit transferred here.”
“That’s your call. We have a meeting tomorrow with Chief Tibble, Mayor Peachtree, and Chang, the media liaison. Fourteen hundred, in The Tower. Your presence is required.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get me some answers, Lieutenant.”
When he broke transmission, she sat down at her desk. She might not have the answers yet, but she could line up all the questions.
She made notes, checked prior notes. Shuffled them together and made fresh ones.
Cogburn, Louis K.—playground illegals. Possible to trace purchase of data unit? Search data entries to determine how often he used it—per week, hours per day.
Sudden violence displayed in primitive, physical bludgeoning. No prior VT indicated through witness statements.
Physical symptoms evident several days before incident, as indicated through witness statements.
ME reports intercranial pressure, abnormal and massive swelling, damaged tissues. Terminal. Physical symptoms: headache, bleeding from nose and ears, sweating.
Halloway, Detective Kevin. EDD detective assigned to search and scan Cogburn unit. Check how many hours logged on subject unit.
Sudden violence displayed in deployment of police issue. Targets most specifically McNab and Feeney. Associate and direct superior.
Methods of violence suited to personality types? Consult Mira for profile verification.
No prior VT reported.
ME reports same results on prelim as Cogburn. Symptoms displayed match.
Death ensued without outside trauma or force.
Murder weapon=data unit.
It was murder, she thought. Technology was the instrument. But what was the motive?
“Dallas?”
“Huh?” She looked up, scooped her hair back, and stared blankly at Feeney until her mind cleared. “I figured you’d be at home by now.”
“Rode over from the hospital with the boy.”
His face had a few new sags, Eve noticed, and he looked exhausted. “Go home, Feeney. Give yourself a break.”
“You’re one to talk.” He gestured toward her notes. “Just wanted to see McNab settled. It was a good thing you did, having him come here. He seems pretty chipper.” He dropped into a chair. “Shit, Dallas. Shit. He’s half-paralyzed.”
“That’s temporary. You know it can happen if you take a hit wrong.”
“Yeah, yeah. Take it wrong enough, it’s permanent. He’s twenty-fucking-six years old. You know that?”
It curdled in her belly. “No. I guess I didn’t.”
“His parents are in Scotland. Spend most summers there. They were set to head back, but he talked them out of it. I think part of him’s afraid to have them see him like this. Part of him’s afraid he’s not going to come all the way back.”
“We let him think like that—we think like that—we’re not helping him.”
“I know it. I keep seeing Halloway, the way he looked when he went down.” He let out a deep breath. “I had to talk to his family, too. Didn’t know what the hell to say to them. And the goddamn reporters, and my squad—my kids.”
“Feeney. You’ve been through a bad one. It’s different than when it happens in the field. You should talk to the department shrink.” She winced at the look he shot her. “I know how that sounds coming from me, too. But, damn it, you were a hostage, you had a weapon jammed at your throat by one of your own men. You watched him die. If that hasn’t screwed with your head, what would? So you should talk to the shrink or . . . Mira. If it were me, I’d go to Mira. She’d keep it off the record if you asked her.”
“I don’t want to open my head or spill my guts.” His voice went tight, wrapped with bands of insult and temper. “I need to work.”
“Okay.” Recognizing the signs as she’d seen them often enough in her own mirror, she backed off. “We’re going to have plenty. I’d as soon work from here for the time being, if it’s okay with you. But the first order of business is to rig some sort of shield or filter on that unit. Nobody touches it until we have it shielded.”
“From what? How are we supposed to design the right shield when we don’t know what it’s supposed to block?”
“That’s a problem. I expect you and the expert consultant, civilian, you’ve already requested will figure out something.”
He nearly smiled. “Thought that might burn you a little. But you know damn well he’s the best.”
“Then put him to work, and get me a shield.” She got to her feet. It felt awkward, but it also felt right to cross over to his chair, crouch down until their eyes were level.
“Go home, Feeney. Have a beer, be with your wife. She’s a cop’s wife, but she’s not going to feel easy till she sees you. And you’re not going to feel steady until you see her. I need you on this. I need you steady.”
There was a lot more said between them that didn’t take words. “Kids today,” he said at length, “think they know every damn thing.”
His hand closed over hers, squeezed once. Then he got up, walked out. Went home.
She sat where he’d sat for a moment, laid her hands where his had laid. Then she got up, walked to her desk. Went back to work.
She brought up Cogburn’s data, then Halloway’s personal file. She was halfway through a search for any connections when her ’link beeped.
“Dallas.”
“Got one you’re going to want to see.” Baxter’s face filled most of the screen, but she could see the movements, hear the sounds of a crime scene behind him.
“I’m on a priority, Baxter. I can’t take another case. Handle it.”
“You’re going to want this. Vic’s a fifty-three-year-old male. First glance it looks like somebody got in, attacked him. But you look closer, he did all the damage in here himself. Including slitting his own throat.”
“I don’t have time for—”
“A lot of premortem bleeding. Ears and nose. And take a look at this.”
He turned. She caught glimpses of a spacious room, thoroughly trashed. Then the desk unit that lay screen-up on the floor.
ABSOLUTE PURITY ACHIEVED
“Don’t let anyone touch that unit. I’m on my way.”
She was halfway out the door when she swore, strode back to the desk to hunt up a memo.
“Listen,” she spoke into it as she crossed into Roarke’s office. “I got tagged. Related death. I’ll be back . . . when I get back. Sorry.”
She tossed the memo on his console, then bolted.
Chadwick Fitzhugh had lived, and lived well, in a two-level condominium on the Upper East Side. His profession was, primarily, being the solitary male of the fourth-generation Fitzhughs, which meant he socialized smoothly, looked snappy in a dinner suit, played a mean game of polo, and could, if pressed, discuss stock options.
The family business was money, in all its many forms. And the Fitzhughs had plenty of it.
His hobbies were travel, fashion, gambling, and seducing young boys.