Memory in Death (5 page)

*  *  *

The snatcher was about six foot, Eve judged, and looked a solid one-ninety. Most of his height was legs, and he was using them. He bowled people over like pins, leaving her to leap over the piles.

Her coat streamed back, leather snapping in the wind.

She didn't waste her breath shouting for him to stop, identifying herself as the police. His eyes had met hers—as Celina's had—and they'd recognized the hunt.

He grabbed a glide-cart on the corner—operator and all—and shoved it. Soy dogs skidded onto the ground, drink tubes splatted and burst.

She jigged away from a pedestrian he all but threw at her, then jagged from another. Judging the distance, she pumped her legs, shoved off. Her tackle took him down, sheered them both across the wet sidewalk an inch from the curb, where the brakes of a maxibus screamed like a woman.

Her healing hip cried like a baby at the jolt.

He managed to get one in while she was avoiding being crunched under skidding wheels. She tasted blood when the elbow jammed her jaw.

"Now that was stupid." She yanked his arms back, slapped on restraints. "That was bone stupid. Now you've got assaulting an officer on your tab."

"Never said cop. How'm I supposed to know? 'Sides, you were chasing me, you nearly threw me in front of a bus. Police brutality!" He shouted it, humping his body as he struggled to look for some sympathetic bystander. "I'm minding my own and you try to kill me."

"Minding your own." Eve turned her head, spat out blood. At least her throbbing jaw took her mind off her hip.

She tugged, pulled out the purse—and another three, along with assorted wallets. "Pretty good haul," she commented.

He sat up, shrugged, philosophical now. "Holidays. People come out, whatever the hell. Don't slap the assault on, okay? Come on, cut me one, will ya? It was reflex."

Eve wiggled her jaw. "You've got good ones."

"You're fucking fast, gotta admire it."

She shoved at her wet hair as Peabody and McNab ran up. "Disperse this crowd, will you? And get a black-and-white down here to haul this guy in. Multiple counts, robbery. Seeing as it's this close to Christmas, I'll give you a pass on the assault."

"Appreciate it."

"Let's get—get that camera out of my face," Eve snapped.

McNab busied himself gathering the bags and wallets. "Your lip's bleeding, Lieutenant."

"Nah." She swiped a hand over it. "Bit my own damn tongue."

"Car's on its way, sir," Peabody reported. "Nice pedestrian-hurdling, by the way."

Eve crouched down to have another word with the snatcher. "If you'd run the other way, we'd be at Central, out of this damn cold drizzle."

"Yeah, like I'd be that stupid."

"Stupid enough to do the grab right in front of the courthouse."

He gave her a sorrowful look. "I couldn't stop myself. The woman's swinging the damn purse around, gabbing to the woman walking with her. She practically gave it to me."

"Right. Tell it to your PD."

"Lieutenant Dallas?" Nadine, huffing a little, stepped up. She had a hand clamped over the arm of a woman with huge brown eyes. "This is Leeanne Petrie, whose property you've just recovered."

"Ma'am. I just don't know how to thank you."

"Start by not calling me ma'am. We'll need you to come down to Central, Ms. Petrie, to make a statement and sign for your property."

"I've never had so much excitement. Why, that man just shoved me right down on the ground! I'm from a little place called White Springs—just south of Wichita, Kansas. I've never had so much excitement."

It had to be said. "You're not in Kansas anymore."

*  *  *

Because she pulled rank and ordered Peabody home, straightening out the mugging mess kept her at Central until after shift. Dark had the temperatures dropping, and the incessant drizzle turned into sleet. The now tricky streets turned the dflve home into a marathon of annoyance.

Stuck in it, she sipped on ice water to soothe her sore tongue, and let her mind drift. She was a handful of blocks from home when it drifted to Trudy Lombard, and the light went off.

"Not me. Jesus, it's not about me. Why would it be? Damn it, damn it, damn it."

She flicked on sirens, shot into vertical. Cursing herself and the snarls that made the maneuver all but suicidal, she engaged her dash link.

"Roarke," she snapped when Summerset came on. "Is he there yet? Put him on."

"He's just come through the gates, hasn't yet reached the house. If there's an emergency—"

"Tell him I'll be there in ten. I need to talk to him. If anyone named Lombard contacts the house, don't put her through to him. You got that? Don't put her through."

She flicked off, whipped her wheel, and nipped back down to the street to narrowly miss a trio offenders.

Son of a bitch! What else would she be after but money? Big, shiny piles of it. And who in the known universe had the biggest piles?

She wasn't getting away with it. And if he even thought of paying her off to make her go away, Eve vowed she'd personally skin him.

She fishtailed, and roared through the gates of home. Roarke opened the door himself as she braked in front of the house.

"Am I under arrest?" he called out, and circled a ringer in the air. "Sirens, Lieutenant."

She called them off, slammed the door. "I'm so stupid! I'm a goddamn idiot."

"If you're going to talk that way about the woman I love, I'm not going to offer you a drink."

"It's you. It was never me. If I hadn't let her turn me inside out, I'd've known it from the get. Lombard."

"All right. And what's this?" He skimmed a finger gently over the faint bruise on her jaw.

"Nothing." Anger had smothered any lingering pain. "Are you listening to me? I know her. I know the type. She doesn't do anything without a purpose. Maybe the purpose is jollies, but she didn't go to all the trouble and expense to come here just to bust my balls. It's about you."

"You need to calm down. In the parlor." He took her arm. "There's a nice fire. You'll have some wine."

"Will you stop." She slapped his hand off, but he simply shifted and tugged off her wet coat.

"Take a minute, catch your breath," he advised. "You may not be wanting a drink, but I am. Filthy weather."

She did take a breath, pressed her hands to her face to steady herself. "I couldn't think, that was the trouble. Didn't think. Just reacted. And I know better. She must've figured she'd come see me, try to play the reunion card. I was just a kid, and messed up with it. So maybe she banked that I didn't remember what it had been like with her. Then she can be the long-lost mother, angel of mercy, whatever, grease those wheels so when she tapped me for money, I'd ask you to give it to her."

"Underestimated you. Here." He handed her a glass of wine.

"Backup plan." She took the wine, paced to the hearth with its snapping fire, back again. "Someone like her has one. I'm not receptive, she'll have a way to go straight to the source. Right to you. Try for sympathy, some hard-luck story. Move to threats if that doesn't shake the money tree. She'd want a nice fat lump sum, come back for more later, but get a juicy bite right off..."

She took a moment to study his face. "And none of this is news to you."

"As you said, you'd have come to it yourself right away if you hadn't been so twisted up." He lowered his head enough to brush his lips over her jaw. "Come, sit by the fire."

"Wait, wait." She grabbed his sleeve. "You didn't go warn her off. You didn't go see her."

"I had and have no intention of going to her. Unless she continues to harass and upset you. Do you know she had eleven other children put in her care over the years? I wonder how many of them she tormented as she did you."

"You ran her? Of course you ran her." She turned away. "I'm really slow on this one."

"It's taken care of, Eve. Put it out of your mind."

She kept her back to him, took a slow sip of the wine. "How is it taken care of?"

"She came to my office today. I made it clear that it would be best for all concerned if she went back to Texas and didn't attempt to contact you again."

"You spoke to her?" She squeezed her eyes shut against the helpless anger. "You knew who she was, what she was, but you let her in your office."

"I've had worse in there. What did you expect me to do?"

"I expected you'd leave this to me. That you'd understand this is my problem. This is for me to handle."

"It's not your problem, but ours—or was. And it was for us to handle. Now it's done."

"I don't want you dealing with my problems, my business." She whirled around and before either of them knew she intended it, she let the glass fly. Wine and glass splatted and shattered. "This was my personal business."

"You don't have personal business from me any longer, any more than I do from you."

"I don't need to be shielded, I won't be shielded. I won't be tended to."

"Oh, I see." His voice softened, a dangerous sign. "So it's perfectly fine, we'll say, for me to see to those pesky little details. Can this get wrapped, for instance. But the things that matter, I'm to keep my nose out?"

"It's not the same. I'm a lousy wife, I get that." Her throat was clogging up, and her voice thickening as the words fought their way through. "I don't remember to do things—don't know how and don't give a rat's ass about finding out. But—"

"You're not a lousy wife, and I'd be the one to judge that. But you are, Eve, an extremely difficult woman. She came to me, she tried to shake me down, and she won't try it again. I have every right to protect you, and my own interests. So if you want to have one of your snits about it, you'll have to have it alone."

"Don't you walk away from me." Her fingers actually itched to pick up something precious to throw at him as he started for the doorway. But that was too female, and too foolish. "Don't you walk away and flick off my feelings."

He stopped, looked back at her with eyes searing with temper. "Darling Eve, if your feelings weren't so important to me, we wouldn't be having this conversation. If and when I walk away from you, it's to prevent myself from taking the alternative, which at the moment would be to beat your head against some hard object until a little sense rattles into it again."

"Were you even going to tell me?"

"I don't know. There were good reasons on both sides of that, and I was still weighing them. She hurt you, and I won't have it. That's simple. For God's sake, Eve, when I found out about my mother, and went into a spin, didn't you knock it out of me? Didn't you tend to me, even stand in front of me?"

"It's not the same." Her stomach burned, and the acid of it spewed into words. "What did you get, Roarke? What did you fall into but people who love and accept you? Good, decent people. And what do they want from you? Not a damn thing. Yeah, you had it rough. Your father killed your mother. But what else did you find out? She loved you. She was a young, innocent girl who loved you. It's not the same for me. Nobody loved me. Nobody and nothing I came from was decent or innocent or good."

Her voice hitched, but she bore down, let the rest spew out. "So yeah, you took a hard and nasty slap, and it sent you reeling. But what did you fall into? Right into gold. What else is new?"

He didn't stop her when she strode from the room. Didn't go after her when she charged up the steps.

At that moment, he couldn't think of a single reason why he should.

5

THE GYM SEEMED THE OBVIOUS PLACE FOR HIM to work off steam, and he had plenty of it. His shoulder was still weak from wounds he'd incurred a few weeks before, helping his infuriating wife on the job.

It was all right, apparently, for him to risk his bloody life, but not— according to the Book of Eve—to get rid of a fucking blackmailer.

Bollocks to that, he thought. He wasn't going to stew about it.

It was time, he decided, to punish his body back into shape.

He went for weights rather than one of the holomachines, and programmed a brutal session of reps and sets.

Her solution, he knew, had she headed downstairs rather than up, would have been to activate one of the sparring droids. Then beat the bleeding hell out of it.

To each his own.

Knowing her, she'd be pacing her office, kicking whatever was handy, and cursing his name. She'd have to get over it. Never in his life, he thought as he pumped his way through bench presses, had he known such a rational woman who could flip so quickly and so stupidly into irrational behavior.

What the bloody, buggering hell had she expected him to do? Give her a shout and ask her to pinch that ridiculous Texas fly off his neck for him?

Well, she'd married the wrong man for that, hadn't she? Too bad for her.

She didn't want to be protected when she damn well needed protection, didn't want to be looked after when she was blind with grief and stress? That was too fucking bad for her as well, wasn't it?

He ripped through the session, taking dark satisfaction in the burn of his muscles, the ache of the healing wounds, and the drip of his own sweat.

*  *  *

She was exactly where he'd assumed she'd be, doing precisely what he'd assumed she'd be doing. She stopped pacing long enough to give her desk three hard kicks.

And the hip she'd injured battling beside Roarke protested.

"Damn him. Damn him! Can't he stay out of anything?"

The fat cat, Galahad, padded in, plopped down in the doorway of the kitchen as if prepared to enjoy the show.

"Do you see this?" she demanded of the cat, and slapped a hand on her sidearm. "You know why they gave me this? Because I can handle myself. I don't need some—some man charging in to tidy up my mess."

The cat angled his head, blinked his dual-colored eyes, then shot a leg in the air to wash it.

"Yeah, you're probably on his side." Absently, she rubbed her sore hip. "Male of the fricking species.

Do I look like some wilting, helpless female?"

Okay, maybe she had, she admitted as she resumed pacing. For a couple of minutes. But he knew her, didn't he? He knew she'd pull it together.

Just like he'd known Lombard would come sniffing around him.

"But did he say anything?" She threw her hands up. "Did he say: 'Well now, Eve, I think perhaps the sadistic bitch from your past will likely be paying me a visit?' No, no, he did not. It's all that damn money, that's what it is. It's what I get for getting hooked up with a guy who owns most of the world, and a good chunk of its satellites. What the hell was I thinking?"

Since she'd exhausted a good portion of her energy with her anger, she flopped into her sleep chair. Scowled at nothing in particular.

Hadn't been thinking, she admitted as the worst of the blind, red rage faded. But she was thinking now.

It was his money. He had a right to protect himself from poachers. She sure as hell hadn't stepped up to do it.

She sat up, dropped her head in her hands. No, she'd been too busy wallowing and whining and, screw it, wilting.

And she'd attacked the one person who fully understood her, who knew everything she kept bottled inside. Attacked him because of that, she realized. Mira would probably give her a big gold star for reaching that unhappy conclusion.

So, she was a bitch. It wasn't as if she hadn't made full disclosure before the I do's. He'd known what he was getting, damn it. She wasn't going to apologize for it.

But she sat, drumming her fingers on her knee, and the scene in the parlor began to play back in her head. She closed her eyes as her stomach sank, and twisted.

"Oh God, what have I done?"

*  *  *

Roarke swiped sweat off his face, reached for a bottle of water. He considered programming another session, maybe a good, strong run. He hadn't quite worked off all the mad, and hadn't so much as started on the resentment.

He took another chug, debated whether to sluice it off in the pool instead. And she walked in.

His back went up, he swore he could feel it rise, one vertebra at a time.

"You want a workout you'll have to wait. I'm not done, and don't care for the company."

She wanted to say he was pushing himself too hard, physically. That his body hadn't healed well enough as yet. But he'd snap her neck like a twig for that one. Deservedly so.

"I just need a minute to say I'm sorry. So sorry. I don't know where it came from, I didn't know that was in me. I'm ashamed that it was." Her voice shook, but she'd finish it out, and she wouldn't finish it with tears. "Your family. I'm glad you found them, I swear I am. Realizing I could be small enough somewhere inside to be jealous of it, or resent it, or whatever the hell I was, it makes me sick. I hope, after a while, you can forgive me for it. That's all."

When she reached for the door, he cursed under his breath. "Wait. Just wait a minute." He grabbed a towel, rubbed it roughly over his face, his hair. "You kick the legs out from under me, I swear, like no one else. Now I have to think, I have to ask myself, what would I feel, should that family situation have been reversed? And I don't know, but it wouldn't surprise me to find some nasty little seed stuck in my belly over it."

"It was ugly and awful that I said it. That I could say it. I wish I hadn't. Oh Jesus, Roarke, I wish I hadn't said it."

"We've both said things at one time or another we wish we hadn't. We can put that aside." He tossed the towel on a bench. "As to the rest..."

"I was wrong."

His brows shot up. "Either Christmas has come early, or this should be made another national holiday."

"I know when I've been an idiot. When I've been stupid enough I wish I could kick my own ass."

"You can always leave that one to me."

She didn't smile. "She came after your money, you slapped her back.  It was just that simple. I made it complicated, I made it about me, and it never was."

"That's not entirely true. I slapped her a good deal harder than was necessary, because for me, it was all about you."

Her eyes stung, her throat burned. "I hate that... I hate that— No, no don't," she said when he took a step toward her. "I have to figure out how to get this out. I hate that I didn't stop this. Wasn't even close to capable of stopping it. Because I didn't, couldn't, and you did, I stomped all over you."

She sucked in a breath as the rest came to her. "Because I knew I could. Because I knew, somewhere in the stupidity, that you'd forgive me for it. You didn't go behind my back or betray any trust, or any of the things I tried to convince myself you had. You just did what needed to be done."

"Don't give me too much credit." Now he sat on the bench. "I'd like to have killed her. I think I'd have enjoyed it. But you wouldn't have cared for that, not at all. So I settled for convincing her that's just what I'd do, and very unpleasantly, should she try to put her sticky fingers on either of us again."

"I sort of wish I could've seen it. How much did she figure I was worth?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'd like to know."

"Two million. A paltry sum considering, but then, she doesn't know us, does she?" His eyes—a bold, impossible blue that saw everything she was—stayed on her face. "She doesn't know we wouldn't give her the first punt. She doesn't know there's no limit on your worth to me. It's only money, Eve. There's no price on what we have."

She went to him then, dropping into his lap, wrapping arms and legs around him.

"There," he murmured. "There we are."

She turned her face, pressed it to his throat. "What's a punt?"

"A what? Oh." He gave a baffled laugh. "It's an old word for an Irish pound."

"How do you say 'I'm sorry' in Gaelic?"

"Ah... ta bron orm," he said. "And so am I," he added when she'd mangled it.

"Roarke. Is she still in New York?" When he said nothing, she leaned back, met his eyes. "You'd know where she is. It's what you do. I made myself feel stupid. Don't make me feel incapable on top of it."

"As of the time I left the office, she hadn't yet checked out of her hotel, nor had her son and his wife."

"Okay, then tomorrow... No, tomorrow's the thing. I'm not forgetting the thing, and I'm going to do... whatever."

And whatever the whatever was that went into preparing for a major party would be her penance for bitchy idiocy.

"Somebody'll have to tell me whatever it is I should do for the thing." She framed his face with her hands, spoke urgently. "Please don't let it be Summerset."

"There's nothing you have to do, and the thing is called a party."

"You do stuff. Coordinate stuff, and approve it, blather with the caterer and that kind of thing."

"I never blather, not even with the caterer, but if it'll make you feel better you can help supervise the decorating up in the ballroom."

"Am I going to need a list?"

"Several. Will that help with the guilt you're feeling?"

"It's a start. On Sunday, if Lombard's still here, I'm going to see her."

"Why?" Now he framed her face in turn. "Why put yourself through that, or give her any sort of an opening to stab at you again?"

"I need to make it clear to her she can't. I need to do it face-to-face. It's—and this is embarrassing enough that I'll have to hurt you if you repeat it—but it's about self-esteem. I hate being a coward, and I stuck my head in the sand on this."

"That's an ostrich."

"Whatever, I don't like being one. So, we do what we've planned to do tomorrow—because she's not worth putting on the list—and if she's still here on Sunday, I deal with her."

"We deal."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, okay. We deal." She pressed her cheek to his. "You're all sweaty."

"I used my temper constructively, as opposed to kicking my desk."

"Shut up, or I might not still feel guilty enough to offer to wash your back in the shower."

"Lips are sealed," he murmured, and pressed them to her throat.

"After." She gripped his tank, yanked it up and off. "After I screw your brains out of your ears."

"Far be it from me to dictate how you should assuage your guilt. Do you have a lot of it?"

She bit his good shoulder. "You're about to find out."

She toppled them both off the bench and onto the mat. "Well, ouch. I take it guilt doesn't bring out your gentler side."

"What it does is make me edgy." She straddled him, planted her hands on his chest. "And a little mean. And since I've already kicked my desk..."

She lowered down, her breasts skimming his damp chest, her nails raking lightly over his skin on their way to the waistband of his shorts. She tugged again, freed him.

Then her mouth clamped over him like a vise.

"Oh, well then." He dug his fingers into the mat. "Have at it."

His mind switched off, his vision went red, and pulsed. She used her teeth—yes, just a little bit mean—and tore the breath out of him. Muscles he'd tuned and oiled in temper began to quiver, helplessly. And a moment before his world imploded, she released him. Slicked her tongue up his belly.

He started to roll her over, but she scissored her legs, shifted her weight, and pinned him once more.

Her eyes were dark gold and full of arrogance.

"I'm starting to feel a little better."

He caught his breath. "Good. Whatever I can do to help."

"I want your mouth." She crushed it under hers, using her teeth, her tongue, her lips, so his own blood pounded through him, a hundred drums.

"I love your mouth." Hers was wild on his. "I want you to do things to me with it." She dragged and pulled at her own shirt. This time when her breasts skimmed his chest it was flesh to flesh.

She let him flip her to her back, arched up to him so that his mouth, hot and ravenous for her, could take. Her stomach clenched, twisted, a fist of need and pleasure. Her breath was already going ragged when he yanked down her pants.

His hands, she thought on a fresh leap, his hands were as skilled as his mouth. And the fist in her belly tightened, tightened, then flew open in release.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripped all that black silk to guide him down, down to where the need was already blooming again, so full, so ripe, it took only a flick of his tongue to send her flying.

And he was with her, right with her through every breath and beat.

Now she quivered, and the heat poured off her. She was wet and wild and his. When he braced himself over her, looked down at her face, she gripped his hair again.

"Hard," she told him. "Hard and fast. Make me scream." And pulled his mouth to hers even as he drove himself into her.

He plunged, a beast on fire, and she raced with him. Her hips surged up, demanding more even as his lips muffled the scream.

They whipped each other mercilessly to the edge, and over.

*  *  *

She nearly had her breath back, and figured she'd recover the full use of her legs, eventually.

"Just remember, it was my fault."

He stirred. "Hmm?"

"It was my fault, so I'm the reason you just got your rocks off."

"Entirely your fault." He rolled off her, onto his back, breathed. "Bitch."

She snorted out a laugh, then linked fingers with him. "Do I still have my boots on?"

"Yes. It's quite an interesting and provocative look, particularly since your trousers are inside out and hooked on them. I was in a bit of a rush."

She braced on her elbows to take a look. "Huh. I guess I'll get them the rest of the way off, maybe take a swim."

"I believe you're scheduled to wash my back."

She glanced over. "Strangely, I'm no longer feeling guilty."