by J. D. Robb
“No.” With the violent need met, his mind cleared. And remorse was a hot weight in his belly. He shook off the dizziness and eased himself back. “Good God, Eve. Good God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Okay. It’s okay.” He was sheet white. She’d never seen him look even remotely ill and was terrified. “I should get Summerset, somebody. You’ve got to lie down.”
“Stop it.” He very carefully nudged away her stroking hands and stepped back until they were no longer touching. How could she bear to have him touch her? “For Christ’s sake. I raped you. I just raped you.”
“No.” She said it firmly, hoping the tone of her voice would be as effective as a slap. “You did not. I know what rape is. What you did wasn’t rape, even if it was a little overenthusiastic.”
“I hurt you.” When she reached out, he held up his hands to stop her. “Goddamn it, Eve, you’re bruised from head to foot, and I shoved you against the wall in some fucking closet and used you. Used you like a—”
“Okay.” She stepped forward, but he shook his head. “Don’t back away from me, Roarke. That’s what will hurt. Don’t do that.”
“I need a minute.” He rubbed his hands over his face. He still felt light-headed and queasy, and worse, slightly out of himself. “Christ, I need a drink.”
“Which brings me back to my question. How much have you had?”
“Not enough. I’m not drunk, Eve.” He dropped his hands and looked around. A closet, was all he could think. For God’s pity, a closet. “I don’t know what happened, what came over me. I’m sorry.”
“I can see that.” But she still couldn’t see the whole picture. “You kept saying something. Weird. Like liomsa.”
His eyes darkened. “It’s Gaelic. Mine it means. I haven’t used Gaelic in . . . not since I was a boy. My father used it often when he was . . . on a drunk.”
He hesitated, then he reached out to graze his fingertips over her cheek. “I was so rough with you. So careless.”
“I’m not one of your crystal vases, Roarke. I can take it.”
“Not like that.” He thought of the whimpers and protests of the alley whores that had come through the thin walls and haunted him when his father had bedded them. “Never like that. I never thought of you. I didn’t care, and there’s no excuse.”
She didn’t want him humble. It unnerved her. “Well, you’re too busy beating yourself up for me to bother, so let’s go back.”
He touched her arm before she could open the door. “Eve, I don’t know what happened. Literally. One minute we were standing there, listening to Mavis, and the next . . . it was overpowering, vicious. Like my life depended on having you. Not just sex, but survival. I couldn’t control it. That’s not excusing what—”
“Wait.” She leaned back against the door a moment, struggled to separate woman from cop, wife from detective. “You’re not exaggerating?”
“No. It was like a fist around my throat.” He managed a very weak smile. “Well, perhaps that’s the wrong portion of the anatomy. There’s nothing I can say or do to—”
“Eject the guilt a minute, will you, and think.” Her eyes were cold now, hard as agate. “A sudden and irresistible urge—more a compulsion. One you, a very controlled man, couldn’t control? You just pounded yourself into me with all the finesse of a sweaty celibate breaking fast with a rented sex droid.”
He winced at that, felt the tear of guilt. “I’m all too aware of that.”
“And it’s not your style, Roarke. You’ve got moves, I can’t keep up with all of them, but they’re all slick, practiced. You may get rough, but never mean. And as one who’s made love with you in about every way that’s anatomically possible, I can certify that you’re never selfish.”
“Well.” He wasn’t quite certain how to react. “You humble me.”
“It wasn’t you,” she murmured.
“I beg to differ.”
“It wasn’t what you’ve made yourself into,” she corrected. “And that’s what counts. You snapped off. Something inside you snapped off. Or on. That son of a bitch.” Her breath shuddered out as she met Roarke’s eyes, and in them she saw the dawning of understanding. “That son of a bitch has something. He was telling me while we were dancing. He was fucking bragging, and I didn’t get it. But he just had to give a little demonstration. And that’s what’s going to hang him.”
This time Roarke’s grip on her arm was firm. “You’re talking about Jess Barrow. About brain scans and suggestions. Mind control.”
“Music should affect how people behave, how they think. How they feel. He said that to me minutes before the performance began. Cocky bastard.”
Roarke remembered the shock in her eyes when he’d thrown her against the wall and driven himself into her like a battering ram. “If you’re right,” his voice was cool now, too cool, “I want a moment alone with him.”
“It’s police business,” she began, but he stepped slightly closer, and his eyes were cold and determined.
“You’ll give me a moment alone with him, or I’ll find a way to take it. Either way, I’ll have it.”
“All right.” She laid a hand over his, not to ease his grip but in solidarity. “All right, but you’ll wait your turn. I have to be sure.”
“I’ll wait,” he agreed. But the man would pay, Roarke promised himself, for wedging even one instant of fear and distrust into their relationship.
“I’ll let the performance wind up first,” she decided. “I’ll interview him, unofficially, in my office downstairs, with Peabody as control. Don’t make a move on him, Roarke. I mean that.”
He opened the door, let her slip out. “I said I’d wait.”
The music was still going strong, and it hit them with a high, gritty pitch yards before they reached the doorway. But she had only to step in and through the crowd before Jess’s eyes shifted from his controls and met hers.
His smile was quick, cocky, amused.
And she was sure.
“Find Peabody and ask her to go down to my office and set up for a prelim interview.” She stepped in front of Roarke, willed his gaze to move to hers. “Please. We’re not talking about just a personal insult here. We’re talking about murder. Let me do my job.”
Roarke turned without a word. The moment she lost him in the crowd, she worked her way through to Summerset. “I want you to watch Roarke.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Listen to me.” Her fingers dug through his neat jacket and into bone. “It’s important. He could be in trouble. I don’t want you to let him out of your sight until at least an hour after the performance. If anything happens to him, I’ll fry your ass. Understood?”
Not in the least, but he did understand her urgency. “Very well.” He spoke with dignity, crossed the room with grace, but his nerves were shattered.
Confident that Summerset would watch Roarke like a mother hawk, she wound her way through the audience again until she stood on the front edge of the group. She applauded with the rest, schooled herself to flash a supportive smile as Mavis wound up for the encore. And when the next round of applause rang out, she slipped toward Jess and skirted the controls.
“Quite a triumph,” she murmured.
“I told you, she’s a treasure.” There was a wicked gleam in his eyes as he smiled up at her. “You and Roarke missed a couple of numbers.”
“Some personal business,” she said levelly. “I really need to talk to you, Jess. About your music.”
“Glad to. Nothing I like better.”
“Now, if you don’t mind. Let’s go someplace a little more private.”
“Sure.” He shut down his console, locked on the code. “It’s your party.”
“Damn right it is,” she murmured, and led the way.
chapter fifteen
She chose the elevator, wanting to move quickly and privately. She programmed it for the short vertical glide, then the horizontal shift from wing to wing.
“I’ve got
to tell you, you and Roarke have a fantastic place here. Just ultra mag.”
“Oh, it’ll do until we find something bigger.” She said it dryly and refused to let his laughter grate on her nerves. “Tell me, Jess, did you decide to work with Mavis, seriously, before or after you knew the connection with Roarke?”
“I told you, Mavis is one in a million. Only had to see her a couple of times, doing a short gig down at the Down and Dirty to know we’d meld well.” The grin flashed. Charming. A choirboy holding a frog under his robe. “It sure didn’t hurt a thing that she had a contact like Roarke on her side. But she had to have the goods.”
“But you knew about the connection before.”
He moved a shoulder. “I’d heard about it. That’s why I went down to see her. That kind of club isn’t my usual venue. But she flashed for me. If I can move her into some hot gigs, then if Roarke, or someone of his ilk, let’s say, is interested in investing in a coming act, it smooths everybody.”
“You’re smooth, Jess.” She stepped out of the car when the doors slid open. “Real smooth.”
“Like I said, I’ve been shaking gigs since I was a kid. I think I got it down.” He looked around the corridor as she led the way. Old art, the real thing, he noted, pricey wood, carpet some craftsman had worn his fingers weaving a century before.
This was money, he thought. The kind that built empires.
At the doorway of her office, she turned. “I don’t know how much he’s got,” she said, reading him perfectly. “And I don’t really care.”
The smile still in place, he lifted a brow, lowered his gaze to the fat tear-shaped diamond lying against the bodice of soft midnight silk. “But you ain’t wearing paste and rags, sugar.”
“I have, and I might again. And Jess?” She flicked off the coded lock. “Don’t call me sugar.”
Eve glided in, nodded to a puzzled but attentive Peabody. “Have a seat,” she told Jess and moved directly to her desk.
“Nice milieu. Well, hi, sweetie.” He couldn’t for the life of him remember her name, but he beamed at Peabody as if they were old, dear friends. “Did you catch the act?”
“Most of it.”
He dropped into a chair. “So, what do you think?”
“I thought it was great. You and Mavis really put on a show.” She risked a smile, not at all sure what Eve wanted from her. “I’m ready to buy the first disc.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Can a guy get a drink in here?” he asked Eve. “I like to stay dry before a performance, and I’m more than ready to get wet.”
“No problem. What would you like?”
“That champagne looked good.”
“Peabody, there should be a bottle in the kitchen. Pour our guest here a glass of wine, will you? And why don’t you get us some coffee?”
She leaned back and considered. Technically, she should record from this point, but she wanted a lead-in before she went on log. “Someone like you, who designs music and the atmosphere surrounding it, has to be as much technician as artist, right? That’s what you were explaining to me before the performance.”
“That’s the way the business shakes down now, has for a lot of years.” He flicked one of his beautiful hands, braceleted with gold. “I’m lucky I’ve got an aptitude for both and an interest. The days of plucking out a tune on the piano or playing a riff on a guitar have gone the way of fossil fuel. Almost extinct.”
“Where’d you get your tech training? I’d have to say it’s way above run of the mill.”
He shot a fresh smile as Peabody came back with the drinks. He was comfortable, relaxed, and assumed he was in the middle of a kind of job interview. “On the job, mostly, a lot of late-night hacking. But I did a stretch of home ed with MIT.”
She already knew some of the data from Peabody’s make, but she wanted to lull him. “Impressive. You’ve made a name for yourself both in performance and design. Isn’t that right, Peabody?”
“Yeah. I’ve got all your discs, and I’m looking forward to something new. It’s been a while.”
“I heard that somewhere.” Eve picked up the ball Peabody was unaware she’d tossed. “Have a dry spell, Jess?”
“Not at all. I wanted to take my time perfecting the new equipment, putting together just the right elements. When I hit with the new stuff, it’s going to be something no one’s ever seen or heard before.”
“And Mavis is like a springboard.”
“In a manner of speaking. She was a lucky break. She’ll showcase some of the material that wasn’t right for me, and I’ve individualized some pieces to match her. I figure on doing some of my own sessions in a few months.”
“After everything’s in place.”
He toasted her, sipped. “Exactly.”
“You ever design soundtracks for VR?”
“Now and again. It’s not a bad gig, if the program’s interesting.”
“And I bet you know how to lay down subliminals.”
He paused, then sipped again. “Subliminals? That’s straight tech.”
“But you’re a damn good tech, aren’t you, Jess? Good enough to know computers in and out. And brains. A brain’s just a computer, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Sure.” His focus was all for Eve so that he didn’t notice that Peabody had come to attention.
“And you’re into mood enhancements, which lead to mood shifts. Behavioral and emotional patterns. Brain wave patterns.” She took a recorder out of her desk, placed it in plain sight. “Let’s talk about that.”
“What the hell is this?” He set down his glass, scooted to the edge of his seat. “What’s the deal?”
“The deal is, I’m going to advise you of your rights, then we’re going to have a chat. Officer Peabody, engage backup recording and log on, please.”
“I didn’t agree to a fucking interview.” He got to his feet. Eve got to hers.
“That’s all right. We can make it obligatory, and take you to Cop Central. There might be a wait. I haven’t booked an interview room. But you won’t mind spending a few hours in lockup.”
Slowly, he sat again. “You turn cop fast, Dallas.”
“No, I don’t. I stay cop. Always. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve,” she began for the recorder, and fed in time and place before reciting the revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and options, Jess?”
“Yeah, I get it. But I don’t know what the hell this is about.”
“I’m going to make that very clear for you. You are being questioned in the matters of the unresolved deaths of Drew Mathias, S. T. Fitzhugh, Senator George Pearly, and Cerise Devane.”
“Who?” He looked convincingly baffled. “Devane? Isn’t that the woman who jumped off the Tattler Building? What am I supposed to have to do with suicide? I didn’t even know her.”
“You were unaware that Cerise Devane was CEO and majority stockholder of Tattler Enterprises?”
“No, I guess I knew who she was, but—”
“I imagine you found yourself in The Tattler from time to time during your career.”
“Sure, they’re always digging for dirt. They’ve tossed some my way. It’s just part of the business.” Fear had backed off and left him mildly irritated. “Look, the lady jumped. I was downtown, in session, when she took the leap. I’ve got witnesses. Mavis for one.”
“I know you weren’t there, Jess. I was. At least I know you weren’t there in the flesh.”
His sculpted mouth curled into a sneer. “What am I, a goddamn ghost?”
“Do you know or have you ever had contact with an autotronics tech by the name of Drew Mathias?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Mathias also did a pass through MIT.”
“So have thousands. I opted for in-home. I never even set foot on campus.”
“And never had any contact with other students?”
“Sure I did. Over the ’link, E-mail, laser fax, whatever.” He shrugged his shoulders, drummed his fingers
over the top of the hand-tooled boot he’d cocked on his knee. “I don’t remember any autotronics tech by that name.”
She decided to change tacks. “How much work have you done on individualized subliminals?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t understand the term?”
“I know what it means.” This time his shrug was jerky. “And as far as I know, it’s never been done, so I don’t know what you’re asking me.”
Eve took a chance. She looked over at her aide. “Do you know what I’m asking him, Peabody?”
“I think it’s clear enough, Lieutenant.” She was struggling through the mud of confusion. “You’d like to know how much work the interview subject has done on individualized subliminals. Perhaps the interview subject should be reminded that it is not currently illegal to research or have an interest in this area. Only development and implementation are against current state, federal, and international laws.”
“Very good, Peabody. Does that help clear things up for you, Jess?”
The byplay had given him enough time to settle. “Sure, I’m interested in the area. Lots of people are.”
“It’s a little out of your field, isn’t it? You’re just a musician, not a licensed scientist.”
It was exactly the right button. His sat up in his chair, his eyes flashing once. “I’m fully certified in Musicology. Music isn’t just a bunch of notes strung together, sweetheart. It’s life. It’s memory. Songs trigger specific and often predictable emotional reactions. Music’s an expression of emotion, desires.”
“And here I thought it was just a nice way to pass the time.”
“Entertainment is only a slice of the pie. The Celts went to war with bagpipes. They were as much a weapon to them as a broadax. Warring natives in Africa psyched themselves up with drums. Slaves survived on their spirituals, and men have been seducing women to music for centuries. Music plays the mind.”
“Which brings us back to the question. When did you decide to take it a step further and tie in to individual brain patterns? Did you just stumble across it, sort of blind luck, while you were noodling out a tune?”