Encore in Death, page 18
Even as he let his hands roam over her, he knew he’d fall deeper yet.
She slid his shirt away; he tugged hers up and off. When they were skin to skin, she rolled, a lazy move to change the angle of the kiss, to draw it out and out. Hands gliding over him, kindling already glowing sparks. Fingers kneading into muscle, tongues sliding.
He rolled, unhooking her belt as he did. His teeth grazed her shoulder, her collarbone, her breast. Everything in her went soft. He could melt her, seduce her so she craved the yielding, arouse her so her world contracted down to the two of them, only the two of them, mating in the dark.
Already her heartbeat thickened, her pulse quickened. She could float and float and float on the clouds of pleasure he conjured like a sorcerer. Before she lost herself—so easy, nearly there—she pushed away.
“Gotta get these damn clothes off.” Breathless, she dragged at her boots.
When they thudded to the floor along with his shoes, he pulled her to him again.
“I’ll handle the rest.”
He could, and would, she knew, again like that sorcerer—or the nimble-fingered thief he’d been. She shifted her weight, overbalanced him so her body stretched over his.
“I’ll start,” she said, and unhooked his belt.
She’d float, and she’d fly, but she’d make certain he did the same.
She loved the feel of him under her, the warm skin, the taut muscle. She loved feeling him yield to her, though she found him granite hard, heard the drum of his heart against her mouth before she traveled down.
She destroyed him, stretched his control to a thin, vibrating wire. Slowly, relentlessly, she took that wire to the edge of snapping before easing back just enough, barely enough for him to maintain a slippery grip.
“A ghrá.” He murmured it, and other words in the language of his heart as the air grew so thick he could barely draw it in.
“Tá grá agam duit.” She mangled the Irish, and touched his speeding heart as she slid slowly, so slowly up his body. “Tell me. Say it to me.”
“Tá grá agam duit. I love you.”
She pressed her lips to his as if to taste the words.
He rolled her onto her back, then lowered his forehead to hers. To steady himself for a moment, just a moment.
“I’ll finish.”
She cupped his face. “I want you inside me.”
“I know.” He pressed his lips to her throat. “I know.”
Her pulse beat against his lips, her heart thudded against them as he took her breast. Her hips arched as he stripped away the last barrier.
He pressed his hand to the heat of her, the core of her. “Let go,” he said, then his clever fingers gave her no choice.
When her gasp of pleasure wasn’t enough, he drove her up and over again until she shuddered, until she went to candlewax in the sun.
“Take me now. A ghrá, mo chroí.”
At last, he slipped inside her, full, deep. Again she shuddered, and thought: This. This.
With the world gone and time stopped, she took him. They took each other, rising, falling, falling, rising, until they flew.
When they slept, wrapped close, the cat jumped back on the bed.
* * *
She woke with dawn breaking, shedding pinks through the sky window over the bed. Roarke sat—fully dressed, of course—in the sitting area, tablet in hand, cat across his lap, wall screen muted.
She wondered if she’d wake this way when she hit, oh, maybe a hundred and ten. Would they have slept through the night, sated from sex, or …
A sudden thought struck and shot her straight up in bed.
Roarke glanced over. “Well then, good morning to you.”
“We had all that sex, and while we were having it, clothes got tossed around.”
“Something that happens with happy regularity, thank the gods.”
“Yeah, yeah, but it just hit me. The clothes aren’t all tossed around in the morning. You pick them up, right? Right? Summerset doesn’t come slinking in here while I’m conked and do that.”
“Summerset doesn’t slink.” Roarke reached for his coffee. “Or, I suppose he does, now and then. But no, he doesn’t come in while you’re asleep.”
“Okay. Good, really good. Listen, I help toss them around. I can take turns or whatever scooping them up.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“Well, if you ever have to skip it to go buy Canada, I’ll take care of it.”
“If I ever get a tip Canada’s for sale, I’ll leave the rest to you.”
“Deal. Jesus, that sudden thought was almost like a jolt of coffee. Almost,” she repeated, and got up to get the real thing.
“I had a bunch of dreams. Not bad ones,” she added quickly when those eyes lasered on her. “Just weird ones all jumbled up. Like I have this lineup, but it’s like an audition, and all the suspects are in there singing and dancing around.”
She gulped coffee, shaking her head as she headed to the bathroom. “Just weird.”
“Not especially for her, is it?” Roarke asked the cat.
When she came out, he had two domed plates and a pot of coffee waiting. He’d banished the cat, who sat in front of the fireplace staring at the plates as if the power of his mind could transport them.
“Novak was there.”
“In the lineup audition?”
“Yeah, that. She’s more telling the others what to do. Like ‘Kick! Plié! Jump!’ What the hell is step ball change?”
“A dance step.”
“I know that. I’ve heard it or she wouldn’t have been telling people to do it. What the hell is it? You step while you juggle balls?”
“No, darling. It’s the balls of your feet.” He tapped his fingers on the table to illustrate.
“Okay, that makes more sense. How do you know that?”
He smiled charmingly. “I’ve known a few dancers.”
“As in banged a few dancers.”
“There’s no one I’d rather dance with than you.”
“Decent save.” And when he removed the domes to uncover waffles, she sat beside him. “An even better save.” She immediately soaked them in syrup.
“So, the choreographer’s the one telling everybody to change their balls. And all the rest,” she continued over Roarke’s burst of laughter. “That’s key when you’ve got a musical deal with the singing and dancing. You’ve got a big bunch of people to coordinate. It’s like … artistic crowd control.”
“That’s an interesting take on it.” He poured her more coffee.
“You could have a dozen people onstage during one of those big numbers, and you’ve got to figure out what each one of them does, the steps, the timing, the placement, and how it comes together, how it’s going to look from the audience.”
“And that makes you think?”
“Somebody knows how to plan, how to refine the small details while envisioning the big picture. Plus, you’d have to know the individuals—strengths, weaknesses. You know movement.”
“So you could say the party was a big stage.”
She swallowed a bite of waffle, stabbed another. “Damn right. She’d know the bulk of the people, too—the cast and crew. She can’t control the movements, but she can follow them, anticipate. It’s an angle to push when we talk to her this morning.”
“Your dreams never fail to fascinate.”
“Might as well use them. I want to get her in the box, but we’ll start on her turf, throw her off with the dead sister connection, see how she handles it.”
She snagged some bacon and noticed his tablet.
“You weren’t working on buying Canada.”
“Sadly, no. Actually, I was reviewing some progress on the house project.”
He was into it, she knew. Deeply. She doubted he’d be more into it if it were his own. But then, considering who’d live there, it sort of was his own.
Sort of hers, too, really.
“I gave Peabody a couple minutes to bubble away on her kitchen yesterday on the way to Queens.”
“It’s lovely. Would you like to see?”
“I guess. Sure.”
He picked up the tablet, scrolled, then turned the screen toward Eve.
“Oh.”
She’d known it would be ace work, because Roarke, and Peabody had already practically drawn her a picture. But … nice.
She saw soft, warm colors, what looked like miles of counter space, some glass doors on cabinets, some open shelves, shiny appliances that looked like they meant business.
When he scrolled through from different angles, she saw a breakfast nook deal with bench seating and a view of the gardens, a big sink, a gleaming wood floor.
“It looks good. Just a little girly, but really, really efficient. Bigger than it looked before. What’s that?”
“Her living wall.”
“The wall’s alive?”
“She’s doing herbs and other plants in those pots you see. She worked with one of her grandmothers on the design, and her sister made the pots.”
“Her sister made the pots.”
“They just arrived yesterday. Peabody hasn’t seen them up yet, as Mavis asked one of the crew to put them up last night. Mavis sent that picture.”
“So I shouldn’t mention the wall being alive.”
“It’ll be a surprise.”
“She’ll go batshit over it. How come that counter there’s shorter than the others?”
“There’s that sharp eye. It’s for rolling pie dough, kneading bread dough, that sort of thing. It’s custom to her height. McNab’s idea.”
“So he pays attention, doesn’t just stuff his face with the pies.” Major points for him, she decided. Paying attention mattered. “It looks like her. Soft but not bland, girlie but not frilly, efficient but not cold.”
“We’ll make time to go by together before we leave for Europe. It matters to them.”
“I got that. Hell, it matters to me. Just not every detail about doorknobs, but it matters.”
He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I know.”
“You like details like doorknobs.” She kissed him back. “I’ve got to get moving.” She polished off the waffles. “Need to talk to a suspect about ball changes.”
13
In her closet, she steered away from the knee-jerk black only because she figured Roarke would say something about going with it two days running.
She grabbed brown trousers—not Feeney-dung brown but a color that made her think of the candy bar hidden in her office.
Which made her think of the Candy Thief, and that put a scowl on her face as she pulled out a white T-shirt, nearly pulled out a brown jacket before she settled on khaki. She dressed in the closet to avoid comments.
And should’ve known better.
“A navy belt’s a better choice,” he said as she reached for a black one.
In his perfect pin-striped suit, he leaned against the doorjamb. “You look altogether fresh and professional, Lieutenant.”
“Whatever.” She grabbed a navy blue belt.
“I’ll send you the results of the overnight runs. You can access them from your car if you need to.”
“I appreciate it.”
“If you have a minute, let me know if you arrest the choreographer. I’m curious.”
“I can do that.” After she’d looped on the belt, she scooped a hand through her hair and deemed grooming done.
She moved past him to the bedroom, where the cat shoved a paw against the domes Roarke had replaced on the plates.
“You’re just asking for it,” she commented.
“But won’t get it,” Roarke said with a single hard stare.
The cat sat, shot up a leg, and began an intense grooming of his own.
Eve put on her weapon harness, filled her pockets. “Either way, I just know they’re going to drag me in front of a bunch of reporters again.”
“You’ll handle them, as you always do.” After she’d shrugged on her jacket, he laid his hands on her shoulders. “And look fresh and professional while you grind them up.”
He kissed her. “I’ll watch if I can manage it, as it never fails to entertain. Kick the asses you need to kick, and take care of my cop.”
“Doing the first hooks right into the second. I’ll let you know if we dance Novak into a cell. He’s at it again,” she added as over Roarke’s shoulder she watched Galahad stretch up on his hind legs to nudge at a dome.
“I know. I’ll deal with him.”
As she walked out, she heard Roarke.
“It appears you and I have to have another serious conversation.”
She wondered how many of the scores Roarke could intimidate with a flick of the eye knew he talked to his cat.
The car waited, and as she got behind the wheel, Eve considered her route and texted Peabody.
Leaving now. Will pick you up, then head to Novak’s. Read the updates and the auto-runs from overnight.
As she drove through the gates, Peabody’s response came through.
Copy that. Will dig for any comment or statement from Novak re Rose Bernstein’s death.
Good, Eve thought, and pushed her way downtown. The snarling traffic gave her time to review Roarke’s runs.
She had a passing thought about why so many people who lived in New Jersey insisted on commuting to New York, and why so many who lived in New York decided to clog up the tunnels inching their way to New Jersey.
Then the ad blimps came out to play, and she wondered how people who worked the night shifts and were just trying to get some damn sleep felt about that.
People hustled down the sidewalk—too early for shuffling tourists—with their go-cups and earbuds. And most, she noted, made better time on foot than those on wheels.
A few skimmed along in their business suits on airboards, urban surfers bobbing and weaving through human waves.
She saw a couple of funky-junkies in their thick black sunshades, half-blind from their addiction, shambling home to sleep off the night.
It reminded her to grab her own.
A sidewalk sleeper with a harmonica and a pointy-eared dog settled down for a day of musical begging.
A street LC in a skinny top and crotch-skimming skirt that showed off the tattooed snake coiled over her midriff hailed a cab—which told Eve she’d had a successful night.
A couple of street artists chatted away as they set up their easels and canvases. On the next block a sidewalk vendor yawned hugely as she unfolded her table.
Zero-seven-thirty, she thought, and already the city hummed.
She tagged Peabody with a two-minute warning, then braked at a light.
A Black guy, skin shining with sweat, stopped running in place to dash across the intersection. He had legs like a giraffe and wore tiny, red, ball-hugging shorts and bright white running shoes.
By the time Eve made the turn, he’d streaked down the entire crosstown block.
“Fast,” she murmured. “Fast feet.”
As she pulled up in front of her old apartment building, opera poured out of an open window. Peabody came out the main door. Pink cowboy boots and jacket, khakis, white tee, and her red-streaked hair in bouncy waves.
It occurred to Eve that when Peabody had moved into the apartment, she’d worn a uniform, shiny black cop shoes, and a non-streaked bowl cut.
She climbed into the car.
“What the hell,” Eve said, and pointed out and up.
“Oh, that’s Ms. Gambini. She’s visiting from Italy—her son. Do you remember Mr. Gambini?”
“Yeah, little guy, big mustache. A tailor.”
“That’s him. This is his mom, staying with him for the summer. She does this every morning. You could set your wrist unit by it. She’s a hundred and six, so we’re letting it go. Plus, she cooks like a god, and shares. So basically the whole building’s letting it go.
“Thanks for the lift,” she added. “It was a holy shit moment when you sent the connection to Leah Rose. Coffee, please? I held off because I knew you’d have the good stuff.”
“Go. Anything on Novak re Bernstein’s death?”
“No statements. She’d’ve been about eleven, so not surprising.” She programmed black for Eve, coffee regular for herself. “Most articles didn’t list all the sibs, but I found an obit from Chicago that did. And a lot of dirt dished up on Bernstein’s priors, her rehabs, her struggle with addiction. Her mother—Bernstein’s—gave a crapload of interviews, but that mostly dried up after a couple months.”
She inhaled the scent of the coffee, then drank as Eve drove.
“More interviews after Lane’s Tony win, and her dedicating it to Bernstein—well, Leah Rose. They didn’t use her legal name, which she was—I dug up—in the process of changing legally anyway.”
“Novak has connections to a sib who works for a chemist, a sib who’s a photographer, and from the overnights, a sib who’s cohabbing with a metal artist. Cyanide plays into all of those professions. Or can.”
“Yeah, which equals potential means. Hey, there’s Speedo.”
Eve spotted the mostly naked runner eating up the sidewalk.
“You know that guy?”
“He runs most mornings. Word is marathon training. We call him Speedo for the tiny, tiny shorts, and because he’s, you know, speedo.”
“I’ll give him that.”
She continued crosstown—Speedo outpaced her—then zipped around a corner while she hunted for parking.
She found a space she calculated she could just squeeze into, so went vertical, jigged, jogged, then dropped down between an aging Mini and a shiny sedan.
“There can’t be a full inch to spare.”
“I got us in, didn’t I?” And pleased, Eve stepped out to the sidewalk. “Corner building down the block.” Eve pointed when Peabody joined her.
“Nice neighborhood. You can smell the bakery. I wish I couldn’t smell the bakery. Oh, oh! Home decor! Look at that lamp. That lamp would really work in my craft room, by the divan I’m doing.”
“Stop it.”
“They’re not even open, so it’s not like I’m going to…” But she yanked out her ’link, took a quick picture. “It probably costs too much anyway, considering. I’m still walking,” she pointed out.
