Seduction In Death

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The sky was still blue, a deep, dreamy evening blue, when she walked up the steps to her own front door. For the first time in days her mind was clear enough to let the sound of birdsong and the soft drift of flowers register.

She considered just sitting down on the steps and drawing it in, all those sweet and simple pleasures the world could offer. Remembering, taking the time to remember there was more than death, more than blood and those who spilled it with the selfishness of spoiled children made the difference between living and sinking.

Instead she pinched off a sprig of the purple flower spilling out of an urn and went inside. There was something she wanted more than fresh air.

Summerset took one look at the blossom in her hand and scowled. "Lieutenant, the arrangements in the urns are not cutting flowers."

"I didn't cut it. I snapped it off. Is he home?"

"In his office. If you want a display of verbena, you can order one from one of the greenhouses."

"Blah, blah, blah," she said as she walked up the stairs. "Yak, yak, yak."

Summerset nodded with approval. It seemed the medications had put her back to normal.

Roarke was at the window, holding a conversation on his headset. It seemed to be something about a revision to the prototype of some new communication/data system, but there was too much e-jargon for her to decipher. So she tuned out the words themselves, and just listened to the flow of his voice.

The Irish in it occasionally gave her a strange thrill, along with misty images of warriors and fragrant fires. And poetry, she supposed. Maybe the female of the species was just hardwired to react to certain stimuli.

Maybe in ten or twenty years, she'd actually get used to it. To him.

The sun, sinking in the sky, spilled in the window and drenched him in shimmering gold. He'd tied back his hair, which made her think he'd been at something that had required his hands and no distractions.

The light made a halo around him they both knew he didn't deserve, but that looked incredibly right.

He had the screen on, and a news report was humming. His desk 'link beeped and was ignored.

There was a scent to the room that was money, that was power. That was Roarke. Inside her rose a need basic as breath.

And he turned to her.

With her eyes locked on his she crossed the room, jerked him to her by his shirtfront, and captured his mouth with hers.

In the headset a voice continued to buzz in his ear, dim under the stirring of his own blood. He caught her hips, pressed heat against heat.

"Later," he muttered into the headset, then pulled it off, tossed it aside. "Welcome home, Lieutenant, and congratulations." He lifted a hand to brush it over her hair. "I caught your press conference on Seventy-five."

"Then you know it's over." She offered the verbena. "Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome." He sniffed the flower. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact." She tugged the band out of his hair. "I've got another assignment for you."

"Really? My schedule's a bit tight right now, but I want to do my civic duty." He tucked the little flower behind her ear. "What sort of assignment is it? And be specific."

"You want me to be specific?"

"I do, yes. Very… very specific."

With a laugh, she boosted herself up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. "I want you to get naked."

"Ah, an undercover assignment." Bracing her hips, he started toward his office elevator. "Is it dangerous?"

"It's deadly. Neither of us may make it out alive."

Inside the elevator, he pressed her back against the wall. Felt the strength of her – and the yielding. "Master bedroom," he ordered, then ravaged her mouth. "I live for danger. Tell me more."

"It involves a lot of physical exertion. Timing…" Her breath clogged when his teeth found her throat. "Rhythm, coordination has to be perfect."

"Working on it," he managed and swung her out of the elevator into the bedroom.

The cat, stretched across the bed like a fat, furry rag, leaped up with a hissing complaint when they dropped onto the mattress beside him. Roarke reached out, gave him a light shove that sent him jumping down with a thud.

"This is no place for civilians."

With a snort of laughter, Eve locked her arms tight around him. "Naked." She raced kisses over his face. "Get naked. I want to sink my teeth into you."

Tugging at clothes, they rolled over the bed. Her shirt tangled in her weapon harness, making her curse breathlessly as she fought free of both. Their mouths met again, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues that had the blood rushing hot through her veins and her body plunging under his.

She tugged at his shirt, yanking it down from his shoulders so she could dig her fingers into that hard ripple of muscle and test strength to strength.

But he caught her hands in his, drew her arms over her head. Stared down at her with those depthless blue eyes until her own muscles began to quake.

"I love you. Darling Eve. Mine." He lowered his mouth to hers in a soft, soft kiss that turned those trembling muscles to water.

His mouth left hers to skim along her jaw, down the column of her throat. He would know, she thought as her heart shuddered. He would know she needed more than the flash and the fire. She needed the sweet and the simple.

She relaxed and drew it in.

He felt her open, surrender herself. There was, for him, no more powerful seduction than the yielding of her to him, and to herself. When she accepted the tenderness inside him, he found himself filled with bottomless wells of it.

Gently, his lips slid over her skin, savoring the flavor. Gently, his hands played over her body, cherishing the shape. Her heart beat thick under the glide of his tongue. And she reached down to cradle his head against her when he nuzzled lazily at her breast.

She smelled of her shower at Central, of the practical soap available to her there. It made him want to pamper her, to smooth away the harshness she was too accustomed to. So his lips were like a balm over her flesh, teasing out the warmth before the heat.

She drifted on a cushion of sensation, sliding into pleasure so subtle, so soft, it wrapped around her like mists. Her fingers threaded through his hair as the mists became a river, and the river a quiet sea of bliss. With a sigh, she let herself sink into it.

She heard him murmur as he moved down her body, the Gaelic he used when he was most stirred. It sounded like music, both exotic and romantic.

"What does it mean?" Her voice was sleepy.

"My heart. You're my heart."

He traced a line of kisses down her torso fascinated, always fascinated by the long, lean line of her. So much strength and courage lived inside that whip-tight body. In the heart, he thought as his hands whispered over her breasts. In the gut. He rubbed his lips over her belly.

The muscles quivered, and he heard the first unsteady catch of her breath.

Still he took his time, his slow and torturous time until that catch of breath became a moan, until that tough, toned body trembled.

When he took her over, he felt her release spill through her, and into him.

And the sea where she was drifting turned restless. Bliss became a craving and pleasure, a deep and throbbing ache that pulsed through her like a hunger. She arched against his busy mouth, crying out as her system erupted.

Desperate now, he worked his way up her body, inciting a dozen fires, a riot of the pulses. Maddening himself even as he maddened her. "Go up. Go up." Breath heaving, he drove his fingers into her, into the drenched heat. "I want to watch you. Again."

"God!" Her eyes went wide and blind as the orgasm ripped through her.

As she shuddered over the crest, he closed his mouth over hers, danced his tongue over hers until her breath, his breath slowed. Thickened. Slid slowly, slowly inside her.

Her eyes cleared, deepened, held his. Love, like silvered velvet, shimmered over the red haze of passion. She lifted a hand to his cheek as they moved together. The rise and fall of lovers who loved. The sweet and the simple.

When her pleasure peaked this time, it was like grace. He lowered his head, kissed away the tear that spilled down her cheek.

"My heart," he said again, then pressed his face into her hair and poured himself into her.

She lay with her body curled against his side. The light was going. The end of a long day. "Roarke."

"Hmm? You should sleep for a bit."

"I don't have the words the way you do. I can never seem to find them when they matter most."

"I know what they are." He toyed with the ends of her hair. "Turn your mind off, Eve, and rest a while."

She shook her head, pushed up so she could look down at him. How could he be so perfect, she thought, and still be hers?

"Say what you said before again. The Irish thing. I want to say it back to you."

He smiled. Took her hand. "You'll never pronounce it."

"Yes, I will."

Still smiling, he said it slowly, waited for her to fumble through. But her eyes stayed steady and serious as she brought his hand to her heart, laid hers on his, and repeated the words.

She saw emotion move over his face. His heart leaped hard against her hand. "You undo me, Eve."

He sat up, dropped his brow against hers. "Thank God for you," he murmured in a voice gone raw. "Thank God for you."

She refused to sleep, so he talked her into sharing a meal in bed. She sat cross-legged on the sheets, plowing her way through a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

The combination of sex, food, and a blistering shower had done the job.

"Morano broke down in interview," she began.

"I'd put it that you broke him down," Roarke corrected. "I watched you." And had seen the way she'd stared into the glass. Into herself. "He wouldn't have known how difficult it was for you."

"Not so difficult, because I knew I'd break him. I didn't know you were there."

"I was part of the operational team." He twirled a bit of her pasta onto his fork. "And I enjoy watching you work."

"It was a contest to them, and the women game pieces. All I had to do was box Morano into a corner, and game over. The way he sees it, it was Dunwood's fault, and he was just trying to keep up. Bankhead was an accident, Cline didn't die, and McNamara, well that was, in his view, a kind of self-defense. I looked at him, and I didn't see anything calculating or particularly vicious. He's just empty, weak and empty. A kind of – it sounds hokey – void of evil."

"It sounds accurate. Dunwood's a different kettle, isn't he?"

"And then some." She picked up her wineglass, sipped, then leaned over to sample some of Roarke's linguini with clam sauce. "Mine's better," she decided, pleased. "After the session with Renfrew in Whitney's office – "

"What session?" *

"Forgot. I didn't tell you."

So, between mouthfuls of spaghetti and the herbed bread he offered, she did. "I can't believe I practically told Whitney to shut up. He should've slapped me down for it."

"He's a smart man. And a good cop. Renfrew now, he's just the type of cop who made things relatively easy for me. During a past, and regrettable period of my life," he added soberly when she frowned at him. "More ambitious than clever, narrow of view and focus.Lazy."

He scooped up another forkful of her pasta. She was right; hers was better. "And," he continued, "he epitomizes my previous view of the species. The view I held of badges before I got to know one more intimately."

"His kind pisses me off, but his captain… He's solid. He'll deal with it. Anyway. Anyway." She let out a long breath. She was stuffed, but still wanted more. "I took the team, minus our civilian consultant, to his place to bring him in. He lawyered straight off, and kept his mouth shut. He's not stupid, and he's not weak. His mistake is believing everyone else is. That's what'll take him under."

"No, you're what will take him under."

His absolute confidence in her warmed as much as any words of love. "Really stuck on me, aren't you?"

"Apparently. How about letting me have what's left of that meatball?"

She nudged the plate in his direction. "Dunwood had three lawyers in tow before we finished booking him. He claims to know nothing about nothing, except he did notice his good friend and companion Kevin's been acting a bit strange, coming in at odd hours, dressing up in strange getups to go out."

"Friendship's a beautiful thing."

"You bet. We've got no DNA on him, and he knows it. He's playing the innocent victim, the outraged citizen, and letting his reps do all the talking. He didn't even blink when we brought up the home lab, and the samples we're testing from it. Didn't even get a shrug out of him when I pointed out we'd found the wig and the suit worn in the Lutz security disc in his bedroom closet. That his bathroom vanity contained the brand of face putty and enhancements found on her body and her sheets. His story is Kevin used them, planted them. Same thing with the Carlo account," she added. "The illegals operation. He doesn't know a thing. It must've been Kevin."

"Where do you go from here?"

"Feeney's doing his e-thing with all the 'links and computers we confiscated from the townhouse. He'll find something. Dunwood was meeting someone on the night he killed his grandfather, and my take is she didn't show. We find her, verify the correspondence and the meeting scheduled that night for the club where he bought drinks, and we add more layers. The samples from the lab are going to test out for Whore and Rabbit. His lawyers can try to dance around that experimenting isn't illegal, and we have to prove use and/or distribution for sale. But it adds the next tier. We dig until we connect him to the distribution of those illegals as Carlo, through Charles Monroe's client. Crime Scene's fluoroscoping the house, and they'll find blood. We've got Morano's point-by-point confession. We've got plenty for an indictment. When we add up everything we'll lock in over the next couple days, we'll wrap him up in it."

More due to a need to move around than a sense of tidiness, she cleared the plates off the bed. "I'll sic Mira on him," she added. "But even she's going to have a tough time chipping at that shell. In the end, we'll dump all the evidence – physical, circumstantial, forensic, the psych profiles, the statements – into a box and wrap it up for the lawyers. He won't walk away."

"Will you? Can you?"

"If you'd asked me that twenty-four hours ago, I'd have said no. Unless I lied." She turned around to face him. "But yeah, after I finish putting the case together, take a couple more shots at him in Interview, I'll pass it to the PA. And I'll walk away. There's always another, Roarke, and if I don't walk away, I can't face the next."

"I need time with you, Eve. Alone, away. No ghosts, no obligations, no grief."

"We're going to Mexico, right?"

"To start, anyway. I want two weeks."

She opened her mouth, a dozen reasons why she couldn't take that much time ready to trip off her tongue. And looking at him found the reason, the one that mattered, why she would. "When do you want to leave?"

"As soon as you're able. I've dealt with my schedule."

"Give me a couple days to tie the ends together. Meanwhile, I've got a direct order from my commander I have to follow. I'm ordered to use whatever method guarantees me eight hours' sleep."

"And have you chosen your method, darling Eve?"

"Yeah, and it's foolproof." She dived onto him.

She had his robe off and her hands full when the inter-house 'link beeped.

"What the hell does he want?" she demanded. "Doesn't he know we're busy?"

"Don't forget your place." Roarke blocked video, answered. "Summerset, unless the house is on fire or under massive enemy attack, I don't want to hear from you until morning."

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but the lieutenant's commander is here to see her. Shall I tell him she's unavailable?"

"No. Shit." She was already scrambling up. "I'll be right down."

"Have Commander Whitney wait in the main parlor," Roarke said. "We'll join him in a moment."

"This isn't good, this can't be good." She yanked open a drawer and grabbed the first items that came to hand. "Whitney doesn't drop in for drinks and an after-work chat. Goddamn it."

Without bothering with underwear, she pulled on ancient jeans, dragged a faded NYPSD T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off over her head. Still cursing, she hopped into her boots.

In the same amount of time Roarke had managed to dress in pleated black trousers and a pristine black T-shirt. He slipped into loafers while she caught her breath.

"You know, if I wasn't in a real hurry, that would make me sick."

"What would that be?"

"How you can put yourself together like some fashion plate in under two minutes," she complained and hurried out of the room.

In the main parlor, amid the gleaming wood and glinting glass, Whitney and Galahad studied each other with cautious and mutual respect. When Eve strode in, Whitney looked relieved.

"Lieutenant, Roarke, I'm sorry to intrude on your evening."

"It's not a problem, Commander," Eve said quickly. "Is something wrong?"

"I wanted to tell you personally, and face-to-face rather than have you hear it second-hand. Lucias Dunwood's attorney's asked and received an immediate bond hearing."

Eve read the results of it on his face. "They let him out," she said flatly. "What kind of judge sets bail for a man charged with multiple first-degrees?"

"A judge who, as a friend of the Dunwood and McNamara families, should have excused himself from the hearing. It was argued that there's no physical evidence against Dunwood."

"There will be in a matter of hours," Eve began.

"And further argued," Whitney continued, "that the heaviest weight in the charges stems from the confession of Kevin Morano, which implicates Dunwood. That Dunwood has no priors, is a member of a respected family, a man who only last night was informed of his grandfather's tragic death."

"Murder," Eve snapped out. "One he committed."

"His mother attended the hearing. Made a personal plea that bail be granted so that her only son could assist her in memorializing and burying her father. Bail was set at five million, paid, and Dunwood was released into his mother's custody."

"Think." Roarke laid a hand on Eve's shoulder before she could speak. "Will he run?"

She drew herself in, forced herself to see through the rage. "No. It's still a contest. Just a different game. He intends to win. But he's pissed because I changed the board on him, so he's likely to do something rash. He's spoiled, and he's angry. We need to put a flag on the lab work. We need positive identification of the chemical samples taken from the townhouse."

"Already done," Whitney told her. "I spoke with Dickhead – Berenski," he corrected, "on the way here. You have a positive match for the illegals found in the victims. Using that evidence and the judge's relationship to the accused, the PA has filed for immediate revocation of bond."

"Will he get it?"

"We'll know within the hour. Regretfully, I'm going to have to countermand my order for you to get eight hours' sleep, Lieutenant. Your day isn't finished. Nor is mine," he added. "I'll go back to Central and stand by. With any luck, you'll be picking Dunwood back up tonight. I intend to go with you."

"With me? But…" She caught herself in time, swallowed the words back. "Yes, sir."

"I put my time in on the streets, Lieutenant. I can assure you, desk jockey or not, I'm not dead weight."

"No, sir. No disrespect intended. With your permission, Commander, I'll tag Feeney, have him snatch up McNab so they can put in time tonight on the electronics we have in Evidence."

"It remains your case. Plug the holes. I'll contact you as soon as I have word from the prosecutor."

"Commander." Roarke kept his hand on Eve's shoulder. He could feel her vibrating under it – revving to act, to do. "Have you had dinner?"

"Not as yet. I'll catch something at my desk."

It took two squeezes of Roarke's hand on her shoulder for Eve to clue in. "Um. Why don't you have something here, Commander? Save yourself some travel time."

"I don't want to put you out."

"It's no trouble at all," Roarke assured him. "I'll keep you company while Eve makes her calls." He gestured to the doorway. "Your family's well, I hope."

Eve took a deep breath and watched them leave the room. She wasn't sure which was weirder – her commander settling down to have dinner in her house or him settling down to have that meal in the company of a man who'd spent the majority of his life successfully breaking every law on the books. And some that hadn't even been written.

"All-around weird," she said to Galahad. And leaving the socializing to Roarke, she headed up to her office to get back to work.