by J. D. Robb
She thought they smelled like her honeymoon: rich and romantic. She sank into a tub the size of a small lake and sighed greedily. Blank the mind before thinking, she decided and popped open the control panel in the wall. She’d already loaded the demo in the bedroom unit and switched it to play on the recessed screen in the bathroom.
She settled back into hot, frothy water, a second glass of vintage wine in her hand, and shook her head. What the hell was she doing here? Eve Dallas, a cop who’d come up the hard way; a nameless kid found in an alley, abandoned and abused, with a murder on her hands blocked from her memory.
Even a year before, that memory had been patchy and her life had been one of work, survival, and more work. Standing for the dead was her business, and she was good at her job. That had been enough. She’d made it enough.
Until Roarke. The glitter of the ring on her finger continued to puzzle her.
He loved her. He wanted her. He, the competent, successful, and enigmatic Roarke, even needed her. That was the biggest puzzle of all. And maybe, since she couldn’t seem to solve it, she would eventually learn to simply accept it.
She brought the wine to her lips, sank a little lower into the water, and hit the remote.
Instantly, color and sound exploded into the room. In defense, she lowered the volume before her eardrums burst. Then Mavis swirled across the screen, as exotic as a sprite, potent as straight whiskey. Her voice was a screech, but it was appealing, nonetheless, and it suited her as well as the music Jess had designed to showcase the vocals.
It was hot, ruthless, and raw. Very much Mavis. But as Eve soaked it in, she realized that the sound and the show had more polish. Oh, there had always been flash and sparkle when it came to Mavis’s work, but now there was a thin sheen of gloss she had lacked before.
Production values, she supposed. Orchestration. Andsomeone who has the eye to recognize a rough diamond and the talent and willingness to help buff it up.
Eve’s opinion of Jess took a step up. Maybe he’d looked like a cocky boy showing off on his complicated console, but he obviously knew how to make it work. More, he understood Mavis, Eve realized. He appreciated her for what she was and what she wanted to do, and he’d found a way for her to do it well.
Eve chuckled to herself and lifted her glass in toast to her friend. It looked like they were going to have a party at that.
In his studio downtown, Jess reviewed the demo. He sincerely hoped that Eve was watching the disc. If she did, her mind would be open. Wide open to dreams. He wished he knew what they would be, where they would take her. Then he could see what she would see. He could document. Relive. But his research hadn’t yet allowed him to find the path into the dreams. One day, he thought, one day.
Eve’s dreams took her back into the dark, into the dread. They were jumbled, then shockingly clear, then scattered again like leaves in the wind. It was terrifying. She dreamed of Roarke, and that was soothing. Watching an explosive sunset with him in Mexico, making reckless love in the dark, bubbling water of a lagoon. Hearing his voice in her ear when he was inside her, urging her to let go. Just let go.
Then it was her father, holding her down, and she was a child, helpless, hurting, frightened.
Please don’t.
The smell of him was there, candy over liquor. Too sweet, too strong. She was gagging on it and weeping, and his hand was over her mouth to stifle her screams when he raped her.
Our personalities are programmed at conception. Reeanna’s voice floated in, cool and sure. We are what we are made. Our choices are already set at birth.
And she was a child, in a terrible room, a cold room that smelled of garbage and urine and death. And there was blood on her hands.
Someone was holding her, pinning her arms, and she fought like a wild thing, like a terrified, desperate child would fight.
“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”
“Ssh, Eve, it’s a dream.” Roarke gathered her closer, rocked, while the clammy sweat on her skin soaked into his shirt and broke his heart. “You’re safe.”
“I killed you. You’re dead. Stay dead.”
“Wake up now.”
He pressed his lips to her temple, struggling to find the right way to soothe her. If he’d had the power, he would have gone back in time and cheerfully murdered what haunted her.
“Wake up, darling. It’s Roarke. No one’s going to hurt you. He’s gone,” he murmured when she stopped fighting him and began to shudder. “He’s never coming back.”
“I’m all right.” It humiliated her, always, to be caught in the grip of a nightmare. “I’m okay now.”
“I’m not.” He continued to hold her, stroking until her tremors eased. “It was a bad one.”
She kept her eyes shut, tried to concentrate on the scent of him: clean and male. “Remind me not to go to bed after gorging on spiced spaghetti.” She realized he was fully dressed and the bedroom lights were on low. “You haven’t been to bed.”
“I just got in.” He eased her back to study her face and brushed a drying tear from her cheek. “You’re still pale.” It tore at him, and his voice was edgy. “Why the hell won’t you take a soother at least?”
“I don’t like them.” As usual, the nightmare had left her with the dull throb of a headache. Knowing he would see it if he looked too closely, she shifted away. “I haven’t had one in a while. Weeks really.” Calmer now, she rubbed her tired eyes. “That one was all jumbled up. Strange. Maybe it was the wine.”
“And maybe it’s stress. You will work until you collapse.”
She angled her head, glanced at the watch on his wrist. “And who’s just coming in from the office at two A.M.?” She smiled, wanting to erase the worry from his eyes. “Buy any small planets lately?”
“No, just a few minor satellites.” He rose, stripped off his shirt, then lifted a brow when he caught the considering look she gave his bare chest. “You’re too tired.”
“I don’t have to be. You could do all the work.”
Laughing, he sat to take off his shoes. “Thank you very much, but why don’t we wait until you have the energy to participate?”
“Christ, that’s so married.” But she slid down in the bed, exhausted. The headache was just on the edge of her brain, cannily waiting to strike. When he slipped into bed beside her, she rested her tender head on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“So am I.” He brushed his lips over her hair. “You’ll sleep now.”
“Yeah.” It soothed her to feel the rhythm of his heart under the palm of her hand. She only felt slightly ashamed of needing it there, needing him there. “Do you think we’re programmed at conception?”
“What?”
“I wonder.” She was drifting into that twilight sleep already, and her voice was thick and slow. “Is it just the luck of the draw, the gene pool, what slips in with egg and sperm? Is that it? What does that make us, Roarke, you and me?”
“Survivors,” he said, but he knew she was asleep. “We survived.”
He lay awake a long time, listening to her breathe, watching the stars. When he was certain she slept without scars, he let himself follow.
* * *
She was awakened at seven by a communiqué from Commander Whitney’s office. She’d been expecting the summons. She had two hours to prep for the face-to-face report.
It didn’t surprise her that Roarke was already up, dressed, and sipping coffee while he scanned the stock reports on his monitor. She grunted at him, her usual morning greeting, and took coffee into the shower with her.
He was on the ’link when she came back. His broker, she imagined from the bits and pieces of conversation she caught. She snagged a muffin, intending to stuff it into her mouth as she dressed, but Roarke grabbed her hand, pulled her down on the sofa.
“I’ll get back to you by noon,” he told his broker, then ended transmission. “What’s your hurry?” he asked Eve.
“I’ve got to meet Whitney in an hour and a half
and convince him there’s a link between three unrelated victims, talk him into letting me pursue the matter, and to accept data I accessed illegally. Then I’m due in court, again, to testify so that a lowlife pimp, who ran an unlicensed stable of minors and beat one of them to death with his hands, goes into a cage and stays there.”
He kissed her lightly. “Just another day at the office. Have some strawberries.”
She had a weakness for them and plucked one out of the bowl. “We don’t have any—you know—thing scheduled for tonight, do we?”
“No. What did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking we could just hang.” She moved her shoulders. “Unless I’m in Interview being kicked because of breaching government security.”
“You should have let me do it for you.” He grinned at her. “A little time, and I could have accessed the data from here.”
She closed her eyes. “Don’t tell me that. I really don’t want to know that.”
“What do you say to watching some old videos, eating popcorn, and necking on the sofa?”
“I say, thank you, God.”
“It’s a date then.” He topped off their coffee. “Maybe we’ll even manage to have dinner together. This case—or these cases—are troubling you.”
“I can’t get a hook, a focal point. There’s no why, there’s no how. Other than Fitzhugh’s spouse and his associate, no one’s been even one step out of line. And they’re both just idiots.” She moved her shoulders. “It’s not homicide when it’s self-termination, but it feels like homicide.” She huffed out a disgusted breath. “And if that’s all I’ve got to convince Whitney, I’m going to be dragging my ass out of his office after he stomps it.”
“You trust your instincts. He strikes me as a man who’s smart enough to trust them as well.”
“We’ll soon see.”
“If they arrest you, darling, I’ll wait for you.”
“Ha ha.”
“Summerset said you had visitors last night,” Roarke added as she rose to go to the closet.
“Oh, shit, I forgot.” Dumping the robe on the floor, she pawed naked through her clothes. It was a process Roarke never failed to enjoy. She found a shirt of plain blue cotton, shrugged it on. “I had a couple of guys over for a quick orgy after work.”
“Did you take pictures?”
She chuckled and found some jeans, remembered court, and switched to tailored slacks. “It was Leonardo and Jess. They’re looking for a favor. From you.”
Roarke watched as Eve started to pull on the slacks, remembered underwear, and yanked open a drawer. “Oh-oh. Will it hurt?”
“I don’t think so. And actually, I’m kind of for it. They were thinking you could throw a party for Mavis here. Let her perform. The demo disc is done. I watched it myself last night and it’s really good. It would give her a chance to, like, premiere it before they start hawking it.”
“All right. We could probably do it in a week or two. I’ll check my schedule.”
Half dressed, she turned to him. “Just like that?”
“Why not? It’s not a problem.”
She pouted a little. “I figured I’d have to persuade you.”
Anticipation lit wickedly in his eyes. “Would you like to?”
She fastened her slacks, kept her face bland. “Well, I really appreciate it. And since you’re being so accommodating, I guess this is a good time to hit you with part two.”
Idly, he poured more coffee, flicked a glance at the monitor as the off planet agriculture reports began to scroll. He’d recently bought a minifarm on Space Station Delta.
“What’s part two?”
“Well, Jess has worked out this one number. He ran it by me last night.” She looked at Roarke, making it up as she went along. “It’s a duet, really impressive. And we thought, if for the party—the live portion of the performance—you could do it with Mavis.”
He blinked, lost all interest in crops. “Do what with Mavis?”
“Perform it. Actually it was my idea,” she continued, nearly losing it when he paled. “You’ve got a nice voice. In the shower, anyway. The Irish comes out. I mentioned it, and Jess thought it was fabulous.”
He managed to shut his mouth, but it wasn’t easy. Slowly he reached over to disengage the monitor. “Eve—”
“Really, it would be great. Leonardo has a terrific design for your costume.”
“For my—” Thoroughly shaken, Roarke got to his feet. “You want me to wear a costume and sing a duet with Mavis? In public?”
“It would mean so much to her. Just think of the press we could get.”
“Press.” Now he blanched. “Christ Jesus, Eve.”
“It’s really a sexy number.” Testing them both, she walked over, began to toy with the buttons of his shirt as she looked hopefully up into his eyes. “It could put her right over the top.”
“Eve, I’m fond of her, really I am. I just don’t think—”
“You’re so important.” She trailed her finger down the center of his chest. “So influential. And so . . . gorgeous.”
It was just a little too thick. He narrowed his eyes, caught the laughter in hers. “You’re putting me on.”
Her laughter burst out. “You bought it. Oh, you should have seen your face.” She pressed a hand to her belly, yelping when he yanked her ear. “I would have talked you into it.”
“I don’t think so.” Not at all sure of himself, he turned away, started to reach for his coffee again.
“I could have. You’d have done it if I’d played it right.” All but doubled over with laughter, she threw her arms around him, hugged herself to his back. “Oh, I love you.”
He went very still as emotion delivered a hard, bruising punch to his heart. Shaken, he turned, gripped her arms.
“What?” The laughter died out of her face. He looked stunned, and his eyes were dark and fierce. “What is it?”
“You never say it.” Swamped, he dragged her close and buried his face in her hair. “You never say it,” he repeated.
She could do nothing but hold on, rocked by the emotions pulsing from him. Where had this come from? she wondered. Where had he hidden it? “Yes, I do. Sure I do.”
“Not like that.” He hadn’t known how much he’d needed to hear her say it, just like that. “Not without prompting. Without thinking about it first.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. It was true, and it was foolish, cowardly. “I’m sorry. It’s hard for me. I do love you,” she said quietly. “Sometimes it scares me because you’re the first. And the only.”
He held her there until he was sure he could speak, then eased her back, looked into her eyes. “You’ve changed my life. Become my life.” He touched his lips to hers, let the kiss deepen slowly, silkily. “I need you.”
She linked her arms around his neck, pressed close. “Show me. Now.”
chapter eleven
Eve started off to work humming. Her body felt soft and strong, her mind rested. She took it as an omen when her vehicle purred to life on the first attempt, and the temperature control hung at a pleasant seventy-two degrees.
She felt ready to face her commander and convince him she had a case to pursue.
Then she got to Fifth and Forty-seventh and hit the jam. Street traffic was stopped, air traffic was circling like vultures, and no one was paying any heed to the noise pollution laws. The horns, shouts, curses, catcalls screamed out and echoed. The minute she stopped, her temperature control gleefully pumped up to ninety-five.
Eve slammed out of her car and joined the melee.
The glide-cart hawkers were taking advantage of the moment, slipping and sliding through the pack and doing a monster business on frozen fruit sticks and coffee. She didn’t bother to flash her badge and remind any of them they weren’t allowed the vend off the curbs. Instead, she snagged a vendor, bought a tube of Pepsi, and asked what the hell was going on.
“Free-Agers.” Eyes shifting for more cus
tomers, he slid her credits into his safe slot. “Protest on conspicuous consumption. Hundreds of ’em, stretched across Fifth like a pretty ribbon. Singing. Want a wheat muffin to go with that? Fresh.”
“No.”
“Gonna be here awhile,” he warned and stepped onto his cart to glide through standing traffic.
“Son of a bitch.” Eve scanned the scene. She was blocked in on all sides by furious commuters. Her ears were ringing and heat was pumping out of her car like a furnace.
She slammed back in, beat on the control panel with her fist, and managed to knock the temperature down to a brisk sixty. Overhead, a tourist blimp trundled by, full of gawkers.
With no faith whatsoever in her vehicle, Eve rammed it into vertical lift and hit her official warning siren. The siren wheezed on, no match for the cacophony of noise, but she managed a shaky lift. Her wheels missed the roof of the car in front of her by at least an inch as her vehicle coughed and choked its way into the air.
“Next stop, recycling heap. I swear it,” she muttered and she punched at her communicator. “Peabody, what the fuck is going on here?”
“Sir.” Peabody popped on screen, eyes bland, mouth sober. “I believe you’ve encountered the jam incited by the protest on Fifth.”
“That wasn’t scheduled. I know damn well it wasn’t on the boards for this morning. They can’t have a permit.”
“Free-Agers don’t believe in permits, sir.” She cleared her throat when Eve snarled. “I believe if you head west, you’ll have better luck on Seventh. Traffic is heavy there, but it’s moving. If you check your dash monitor—”
“Yeah, like that’s going to work in this piece of shit. Call Maintenance and tell them they’re meat. Then contact the commander, explain that I may be a few minutes late for the meeting.” As she spoke, she wrestled with the car, which tended to dip and cause both pedestrians and other drivers to stare up in terror. “If I don’t fall on someone, I should be there in twenty minutes.”