by J. D. Robb
So he found her.
Most people would have said she was relaxed. But then, Roarke thought, most people didn’t really know and certainly didn’t understand Eve Dallas. He was more intimate with her, closer to her mind and heart than he had ever been with another. Yet there were still pockets of her he had yet to plumb.
She was, always, a fascinating learning experience.
She was naked, dipped to her chin in steamy water and perfumed bubbles. Her face was flushed from the heat, her eyes closed, but she wasn’t relaxed. He could see the tension in the hand that was fisted on the wide ledge of the tub, in the faint frown between her eyes.
No, Eve was thinking, he mused. And worrying. And planning. He moved quietly, as he had grown up doing in the alleyways of Dublin, along wharves and the stinking streets of cities everywhere. When he sat on the ledge to watch her, she didn’t stir for several minutes. He knew the instant she sensed him beside her.
Her eyes opened, the golden brown clear and alert as they latched onto his amused blue. As always, just the sight of him gave her a quick inner jolt. His face was like a painting, a depiction in perfect oils of some fallen angel. The sheer beauty of it, framed by all that rich black hair, was forever a surprise to her.
She cocked a brow, tilted her head. “Pervert.”
“It’s my tub.” Watching her still, he slid an elegant hand through the bubbles into the water and along the side of her breast. “You’ll boil in there.”
“I like it hot. I needed it hot.”
“You’ve had a difficult day.”
He would know, she thought, struggling not to resent it. He knew everything. She only moved her shoulder as he rose and went to the automated bar built into the tiles. It hummed briefly as it served up two glasses of wine in faceted crystal.
He came back, sat on the ledge again, and handed her a glass. “You haven’t slept; you haven’t eaten.”
“It goes with the territory.” The wine tasted like liquid gold.
“Nonetheless, you worry me, Lieutenant.”
“You worry too easily.”
“I love you.”
It flustered her to hear him say it in that lovely voice that hinted of Irish mists, to know that somehow, incredibly, it was true. Since she had no answer to give him, she frowned into her wine.
He said nothing until he’d managed to tuck away irritation at her lack of response. “Can you tell me what happened to Cicely Towers?”
“You knew her,” Eve countered.
“Not well. A light social acquaintance, some business dealings, mostly through her former husband.” He sipped his wine, watched the steam rise from her bath. “I found her admirable, wise, and dangerous.”
Eve scooted up until the water lapped at the tops of her breasts. “Dangerous? To you?”
“Not directly.” His lips curved slightly before he brought the wine to them. “To nefarious practices, to illegalities, small and large, to the criminal mind. She was very like you in that respect. It’s fortunate I’ve mended my ways.”
Eve wasn’t entirely sure of that, but she let it slide. “Through your business dealings and your light social acquaintance, are you aware of anyone who would have wanted her dead?”
He sipped again, more deeply. “Is this an interrogation, Lieutenant?”
It was the smile in his voice that rubbed her wrong. “It can be,” she said shortly.
“As you like.” He rose, set his glass aside, and began to unbutton his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting into the swim, so to speak.” He tossed the shirt aside, unhooked his trousers. “If I’m going to be questioned by a naked cop, in my own tub, the least I can do is join her.”
“Damn it, Roarke, this is murder.”
He winced as the hot water all but scalded him. “You’re telling me.” He faced her across the sea of froth. “What is it in me that is so perverse it thrives on ruffling you? And,” he continued before she could give him her short, pithy opinion, “what is it about you that pulls at me, even when you’re sitting there with an invisible badge pinned to your lovely breast?”
He skimmed a hand under, along her ankle, her calf, and to the spot on the back of her knee he knew weakened her. “I want you,” he murmured. “Right now.”
Her hand had gone limp on the stem of her glass before she managed to shift away. “Talk to me about Cicely Towers.”
Philosophically, Roarke settled back. He had no intention of letting her out of the tub until he was finished, so he could afford patience. “She, her former husband, and George Hammett, were on the board of one of my divisions. Mercury, named after the god of speed. Import-export for the most part. Shipping, deliveries, rapid transports.”
“I know what Mercury is,” she said testily, dealing with the annoyance of not knowing that, too, was one of his companies.
“It was a poorly organized and failing business when I acquired it about ten years ago. Marco Angelini, Cicely’s ex, invested, as did she. They were still married at the time, I believe, or just divorced. The termination of their marriage, apparently, was as amicable as such things can be. Hammett was also an investor. I don’t believe he became personally involved with Cicely until some years later.”
“And this triangle, Angelini, Towers, Hammett, was that amicable, too?”
“It seemed so.” Idly he tapped a tile. When it flipped open to reveal the hidden panel, he programmed in music. Something low and weepy. “If you’re worried about my end of it, it was business, and successful business at that.”
“How much smuggling does Mercury do?”
His grin flashed. “Really, Lieutenant.”
Water lapped as she sat forward. “Don’t play games with me, Roarke.”
“Eve, it’s my fondest wish to do just that.”
She gritted her teeth, kicked at the hand that was sneaking up her leg. “Cicely Towers had a rep for being a no-nonsense prosecutor, dedicated, clean as they come. If she’d discovered any of Mercury’s dealings skirted the law, she’d have gone after you with a vengeance.”
“So, she discovered my perfidy, and I had her lured to a dangerous neighborhood and ordered her throat cut.” His eyes were level and entirely too bland. “Is that what you think, Lieutenant?”
“No, damn it, you know it’s not, but—”
“Others might,” he finished. “Which would put you in a delicate position.”
“I’m not worried about that.” At the moment, she was worried only about him. “Roarke, I need to know. I need you to tell me if there’s anything, anything at all, that might involve you in the investigation.”
“And if there is?”
She went cold inside. “I’ll have to turn it over to someone else.”
“Haven’t we been through this before?”
“It’s not like the DeBlass case. Not anything like that. You’re not a suspect.” When he cocked a brow, she struggled to put reason rather than irritation in her voice. Why was everything so complicated when it touched on Roarke? “I don’t think you had anything to do with Cicely Towers’s murder. Is that simple enough?”
“You haven’t finished the thought.”
“All right. I’m a cop. There are questions I have to ask. I have to ask them of you, of anyone who’s even remotely connected to the victim. I can’t change that.”
“How much do you trust me?”
“It has nothing to do with trusting you.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.” His eyes went cool, remote, and she knew she’d taken the wrong step. “If you don’t trust me by now, believe in me, then we have nothing but some rather intriguing sex.”
“You’re twisting this around.” She was fighting to stay calm because he was scaring her. “I’m not accusing you of anything. If I had come into this case without knowing you or caring about you, I would have put you on the list on principle. But I do know you, and that’s not what this is about. Hell.”
She closed her
eyes and rubbed wet hands over her face. It was miserable for her to try to explain her feelings. “I’m trying get answers that will help to keep you as far out of it as I can because I do care. And I can’t stop trying to think of ways I can use you because of your connection with Towers. And your connections, period. It’s hard for me to do both.”
“It shouldn’t have been so hard to simply say it,” he murmured, then shook his head. “Mercury is completely legitimate—now—because there’s no need for it to be otherwise. It runs well, makes an acceptable profit. And though you might think I’m arrogant enough to engage in criminal acts with a prosecuting attorney on my board of directors, you should know I’m not stupid enough to do so.”
Because she believed him, the tightness that she’d carried in her chest for hours broke apart. “All right. There’ll still be questions,” she told him. “And the media has already made the connection.”
“I know. I’m sorry for it. How difficult are they making it for you?”
“They haven’t even started.” In one of her rare shows of easy affection, she reached for his hand, squeezed it. “I’m sorry, too. Looks like we’re in another one.”
“I can help.” He slid forward so that he could bring their joined hands to his lips. When she smiled, he knew she was, finally, ready to relax. “It isn’t necessary for you to keep me out of anything. I can handle that myself. And there’s no need to feel guilty or uncomfortable for considering that I could be useful to you in the investigation.”
“I’ll let you know when I figure out how you might be.” This time she only arched her brows when his free hand snaked up her thigh. “If you try to pull that off in here, we’re going to need diving equipment.”
He levered himself to her, over her, so that water sloshed dangerously at the lip of the ledge. “Oh, I think we can manage just fine on our own.”
And he covered her grinning mouth with his to prove it.
Late in the night when she slept beside him, Roarke lay awake watching the stars whirl through the sky window over the bed. Worry he hadn’t let her see was in his eyes now. Their fates had intertwined, personally, professionally. It was murder that had brought them together, and murder that would continue to poke fingers into their lives. The woman beside him defended the dead.
As Cicely Towers had often done, he thought, and wondered if that representation is what had cost her her own life.
He made it a point not to worry too much or too often about how Eve made her living. Her career defined her. He was very much aware of that.
Both of them had made themselves—remade themselves—from the little or nothing they had been. He was a man who bought and sold, who controlled, and who enjoyed the power of it. And the profit.
But it occurred to him that there were pockets of his business that would cause her trouble, if the shadows came to light. It was perfectly true that Mercury was clean, but it hadn’t always been true. He had other holdings, other interests that dealt in the gray areas. He had grown up in the darker portions of those gray areas, after all. He had a knack for them.
Smuggling, both terrestrial and interstellar, was a profitable and entertaining business. The truly excellent wines of Taurus Five, the stunning blue diamonds mined in the caves of Refini, the precious transparent porcelain manufactured in the Arts Colony of Mars.
True, he no longer had to bypass the law to live, and live well. But old habits die hard.
The problem remained: What if he hadn’t yet converted Mercury into a legitimate operation? What he saw as a harmless business diversion would have weighed on Eve like a stone.
Added to that was the humbling fact that despite what they had begun to build together, she was far from sure of him.
She murmured something, shifted. Even in sleep, he mused, she hesitated before turning to him. He was having a very difficult time with that. Changes were going to be necessary, soon, for both of them.
For the moment, he would deal with what he could control. It would be very simple for him to make a few calls and ask a few questions relating to Cicely Towers. It would be less simple and take a bit more time to convert all of those gray areas of his concerns into the light.
He looked down to study her. She was sleeping well, her hand open and relaxed on the pillow. He knew sometimes she dreamed, badly. But tonight her mind was quiet. Trusting it would remain so, he slipped out of bed to begin.
Eve woke to the fragrance of coffee. Genuine, rich coffee ground from beans cultivated on Roarke’s plantation in South America. The luxury of that was, Eve could admit, one of the first things she’d grown accustomed to, indeed come to depend on, when it came to staying at Roarke’s.
Her lips were curved before her eyes opened.
“Christ, heaven couldn’t be better than this.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Her eyes might have still been bleary, but she managed to focus on him. He was fully dressed in one of the dark suits that made him look both capable and dangerous. In the sitting area below the raised platform where the bed stood, he seemed to be enjoying breakfast and his quick daily scan of the day’s news on his monitor.
The gray cat she’d named Galahad lay like a fat slug on the arm of the chair and studied Roarke’s plate with bicolored, avaricious eyes.
“What time is it?” she demanded, and the bedside clock murmured the answer: oh six hundred. “Jesus, how long have you been up?”
“Awhile. You didn’t say when you had to be in.”
She ran her hands over her face, up through her hair. “I’ve got a couple hours.” A slow starter, she crawled out of bed and looked groggily around for something to wear.
Roarke watched her a moment. It was always a pleasure to watch Eve in the morning, when she was naked and glassy-eyed. He gestured toward the robe the bedroom droid had picked up from the floor and hung neatly over the foot of the bed. Eve groped into it, too sleepy yet to be baffled by the feel of silk against her skin.
Roarke poured her a cup of coffee and waited while she settled into the chair across from him and savored it. The cat, thinking his luck might change, thudded onto her lap with enough weight to make her grunt.
“You slept well.”
“Yeah.” She drew the coffee in like breath, winced only a little as Galahad circled her lap and kneaded her thighs with his needle claws. “I feel close to human again.”
“Hungry?”
She grunted again. Eve already knew his kitchen was staffed with artists. She took a swan-shaped pastry from the silver tray and downed it in three enthusiastic bites. When she reached for the coffeepot herself, her eyes were fully open and clear. Feeling generous, she broke off a swan’s head and gave it to Galahad.
“It’s always a pleasure watching you wake up,” he commented. “But sometimes I wonder if you want me only for my coffee.”
“Well . . .” She grinned at him and sipped again. “I really like the food, too. And the sex isn’t bad.”
“You seemed to tolerate it fairly well last night. I have to be in Australia today. I may not make it back until tomorrow or the day after.”
“Oh.”
“I’d like you to stay here while I’m gone.”
“We’ve been through that. I don’t feel comfortable.”
“Perhaps you would if you’d consider it your home as well as mine. Eve . . .” He laid a hand on hers before she could speak. “When are you going to accept what I feel for you?”
“Look, I’m just more comfortable in my own place when you’re away. And I’ve got a lot of work right now.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” he murmured. “Never mind. I’ll let you know when I’ll be back.” His voice was clipped now, cool, and he turned the monitor toward her. “Speaking of your work, you might like to see what the media is saying.”
Eve read the first headline with a kind of weary resignation. Mouth grim, she scanned from paper to paper. The banners were all similar enough. Renowned New York prosecuto
r murdered. Police baffled. There were images, of course, of Towers. Inside courtrooms, outside courthouses. Images of her children, comments and quotes.
Eve snarled a bit at her own image and the caption that labeled her the top homicide investigator in the city.
“I’m going to get grief on that,” she muttered.
There was more, naturally. Several papers had printed a brief rundown of the case she’d closed the previous winter, involving a prominent U.S. senator and three dead whores. As expected, her relationship with Roarke was mentioned in every edition.
“What the hell does it matter who I am or who I’m with?”
“You’ve leaped into the public arena, Lieutenant. Your name now sells media chips.”
“I’m a cop, not a socialite.” Fuming, she swiveled to the elaborate grillwork along the far wall. “Open viewing screen,” she ordered. “Channel 75.”
The grill slid open, revealing the screen. The sound of the early broadcast filled the room. Eve’s eyes narrowed, her teeth clenched.
“There’s that fang-toothed, dickless weasel.”
Amused, Roarke sipped his coffee and watched C. J. Morse give his six o’clock report. He was well aware that Eve’s disdain for the media had grown into a full-fledged disgust over the last couple of months. A disgust that stemmed from the simple fact that she now had to deal with them at every turn of her professional and personal life. Even without that, he didn’t think he could blame her for despising Morse.
“And so, a great career has been cut off cruelly, violently. A woman of conviction, dedication, and integrity has been murdered on the streets of this great city, left there to bleed in the rain. Cicely Towers will not be forgotten, but will be remembered as a woman who fought for justice in a world where we struggle for it. Even death can’t dim her legacy.
“But will her killer be brought to the justice she lived her entire life upholding? The Police and Security Department of New York as yet offers no hope. Primary investigating officer, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, a jewel of the department, is unable to answer that question.”