New York to Dallas (39 page)

“It’s running, and will continue to run—as yours will,” he said, leaning over and keying in a command, “without both of us sitting here until blood tears out of our eyes.”

“I need to cross-reference the—”

“Which the machine will do.” He simply lifted her to her feet.

“Look I’m not ready to sleep yet.”

“All right. There are other ways to rest, relax, and take a break.”

“Yeah.” She smirked. “You’d think that.”

“Sex, sex, and more sex. And you wonder why I married you.”

“You’ll just have to put that program on hold,” she said, but he pulled her through the bedroom, bypassing the bed, and into the bathroom.

He’d filled the enormous tub sunk into the floor. She could smell the fragrance of the water, something slightly floral and earthy. Soothing. He’d lit candles so the light shimmered soft, and again soothing.

“A warm bath,” he began. “Or as I know you, hot. Some quiet, and a VR program designed to relax and restore.”

As she’d taken off her jacket and weapon harness in the office, he simply lifted her shirt over her head. “Sit and we’ll deal with the boots.”

“I can undress myself.”

“There you are, denying me my small pleasures.”

So she sat on the padded stool, let him undress her. When she stepped down, then sank into the pale blue perfumed water, her sigh was long and deep.

“Okay, it’s good.”

“Jets on low,” he ordered, and now she moaned as the water pulsed against her aching muscles.

“Okay, even better.”

“Let’s shoot for best. Try the VR.”

She didn’t want virtual reality, and though it made her feel weak and stupid, she didn’t want to be alone. What she wanted was standing there watching her with far too much concern.

“You could stand to rest, relax, and take a break.”

“God, couldn’t I.”

“It’s a really big tub. You could practically do laps.”

“Then I’ll join you. One minute.”

When he left she eased back, looked up. The ceiling wasn’t mirrored—thank Jesus—but some sort of reflective material that caught the candlelight and sparked into little stars.

Nice touch.

He came back with two glasses of wine, which she eyed suspiciously.

“Only wine. My word on it.” He set the glasses on the lip to undress.

If he’d tranq’d it, he wouldn’t lie about it. So she picked one up, tried a small sip.

“Beer and a ball game.”

“What’s that?”

“Beer and a ball game,” she repeated. “That’s how cops wind down from the hard. Not with pool-sized jet tubs and wine.”

“It’s terrible how I make you indulge me.”

“Tell me,” she murmured, watching him.

God, his body was so beautiful. Long, lean, carved with muscle. Disciplined, athletic, primal under the exquisitely tailored business suits.

All hers now. Only hers.

The wince and muffled oath he gave when he stepped into the water got a laugh out of her.

“It’s not that hot.”

“If I had a lobster, we’d boil it and eat it.”

“You set the temp.”

“So I did, and now, with no lobster in sight, we’re boiling my balls.”

He’d set it for her, she thought, so she could soak in the heat and the scent, turn off her mind with some relaxation program. She thought of what she’d overheard him saying to Mira, how he’d looked.

He needed this as much as she did.

“You’ve probably got more than Hong Kong to deal with.”

Eyes closed, he sipped wine. “The advantage of holding the reins is you can choose when to put them down for a bit.”

“Maybe you should try the VR.”

He opened his eyes. “Actual reality suits me fine here and now.”

As they faced each other across the bubbling water, she rubbed her foot along his leg. “One way or another, we’ll be going home within a couple days.”

“Couldn’t be soon enough.”

“Oh, so right there with you. I guess we have to go find cowboy boots for Peabody. She’d get a charge, and Feeney said she was doing good.”

“I’m sorry, perhaps the wine’s going to my head. Are you saying I’m going shopping with my wife?”

“Don’t get used to it, pal.”

“How about a ten-gallon hat for Feeney?”

The image of Feeney in a cowboy hat released a laugh that nearly had her choking on her wine. “You did that on purpose.”

“Spurs and chaps for McNab. Glow-in-the-dark.”

She laughed again, sank to her chin. “And I don’t even know what chaps are.”

But the laugh, he noted with pleasure, put a sparkle in her eyes.

“We’ll take bolo ties back for the bullpen,” he continued.

“Oh, Jesus, the horror.”

“One of those little skirts with the fringe for Mavis.”

“She probably already has a dozen.”

Virtual reality, her ass, she decided as he tossed out more foolish suggestions—some of which he probably intended to follow up on. Soaking here in quietly churning water, candle stars sparking overhead, talking about nothing important, nothing tragic.
That
was restorative.

When she’d finished the wine, when the water began to cool, they stepped out. Before she could reach for a towel he wrapped one, warm and soft, around her.

“Why don’t we watch some screen for a while?”

She turned, opening the towel, wrapping him in with her. “We could do that. Is that the next step of spaghetti and meatballs?”

“That was the plan.”

She looked up at him; everything inside him yearned. “But apparently I missed a step,” he murmured, then laid his lips on hers.

“You never miss a step.”

So he deepened the kiss, let himself fall into the moment with her damp body pressed so eagerly to his, with the dreamy scent of the water clinging to her skin.

When he lifted her, the towel fell away.

No words now; they’d both had enough of them. Enough of storms and soothing. She stayed wrapped around him on the bed, holding on, holding on while her lips roamed his face. Already stirred, already lost, he took his hands over her.

Quick, quick, no time for thinking, he took her up, felt her body arch and shudder. Accept.

Strong mind, strong needs, he thought. He’d fill them, fill her and himself. For a little while the ugly stains of the day would be cleansed.

For a little while, pleasure and passion would smother pain.

His heart drummed against hers. It brought her a thrill, that hard, frantic beat. But more, it restored. His life, beating there against hers. Their lives.

Nothing could change that, no nightmare, no shame, no poison in the blood. She’d brought herself out of the dark, but she’d come to crave the light he’d flooded into her world.

That light shot through her like a thousand arrows when he pushed her to climax.

She cried out, and he heard the edge of triumph in the sound. And he understood. She could feel and want to reach and take, she could give, no matter what had been done to her. She could live and thrive. She could want him.

That she could, did, would, humbled him. Enraptured him.

She rolled, sliding over him, feeding and feasting until he was mad for her. When he dragged her up, she straddled him, took him deep. And rode, rode, rode him like a stallion under the whip.

He saw, before his vision blurred, the strong curve of her body, and the fierce joy on her face.

She collapsed on him, body limp, breath tearing.

“God,” she managed. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

“I think I rate at least an ‘I appreciate it.’ ”

“I appreciate it.” She kept her face buried against his throat. “I thought I might clutch. You know, it’s been . . . a day. But it was just the way it should be.”

“Darling Eve.” Smiling, he stroked her back. “I was afraid I might clutch.”

“We didn’t. We’re just too damn good at it.” She shifted, tucked her head in the crook of his shoulder. “It was a really excellent step.”

“Quite possibly better than the spaghetti and meatballs.”

“It’s neck-and-neck.” She lay quiet for a moment. “I know you want me to sleep. I’m just not . . . we should watch some screen, finish all the steps.”

“All right, then. How about some porn?”

She laughed as he’d meant her to, then elbowed him. “Perv. Didn’t you just have porn?”

“It shows what you know about fine art and lowly pornography.”

“Then let’s leave that step on the high note. Feeney had the ball game on. The Mets could clinch the division tonight. They’ve got to have a replay, time delay, something.”

“Baseball it is.” He ordered the screen on, drew the throw at the foot of the bed over them.

She went under in the top of the fifth. He wondered how she’d held out that long.

He ordered the lights on low in case she woke, ordered the screen off. And holding her, let himself slip into sleep with her.

Closer than she knew, Isaac McQueen roamed his new spaces. It was, very precisely, what he’d wanted and arranged—the colors, fabrics, materials, layout.

And still he felt caged.

She’d put him in again, that bitch Dallas. Just another run of luck for her. And the total fucking stupidity of Sylvia.

At least she was dead. Her stupidity, her unending
neediness
wouldn’t be a problem anymore. She’d had her uses, but he’d find another when the time was right. One he could be more sure of, one he wouldn’t have to charm and train and instruct from prison.

That had been the problem. He hadn’t made a mistake with his choice. Because of Dallas he simply hadn’t had the opportunity to correctly train that choice.

Next time,
he thought, circling his hand to keep his brandy moving in its snifter.

He was still in control of the situation. He’d planned for the unforeseen, hadn’t he? Of course, without Sylvia’s idiocy, he’d have bad little Darlie to entertain him right now. Nothing kept him more in tune than a bad little girl.

He walked to the window, looked down at the city, sipping his brandy, wondering how many bad little girls walked the streets. He only needed one for now. Just one.

He could find one, of course. He was so very much smarter, better, wilier than the cops. He could take one, just one, and christen his new home.

Better not. No, better not, he reminded himself. He felt too rushed, too upset. Too fucking
angry
to work properly tonight.

He’d have to make do with the pale, bloodless substitute of the recording.

He mulled it over. He’d watch it and imagine how he’d feel when he forced Dallas to watch it with him. That would perk things up.

He decided to make himself a little snack. For a time he simply wandered the kitchen, unable to choose. So many choices, he thought. Too many choices.

Ridiculous. He brushed off the uneasy sensation, the temporary lapse. He knew exactly what he wanted. He
always
knew.

He selected a few cheeses, some berries, carefully sliced rounds from a baguette, calming a little itch of panic at the base of his spine with the homey chore.

He did
love
this kitchen, he thought as he worked, the high sheens, the smooth surfaces. He’d enjoy using it for a week or two.

Really, this was a much better location, better plan. Things had worked out precisely the right way. Precisely.

Then soon enough, with Dallas floating in the river—a real pity he’d been denied that tradition with Sylvia—he’d move on. As much as he wanted New York, for spite if nothing else, he had to consider another venue altogether.

London perhaps, he thought as he carried his tray into the living area. He’d always planned to spend some time in London. He set his tray on the coffee table, unfolded a wide, white linen napkin. Ran his fingers over the spotless and smooth material.

Yes, London. Carnaby Street, Big Ben, Piccadilly Circus.

And all those rosy-cheeked bad girls.

“Screen on,” he ordered, trying out a public school British accent. Pleased with the sound, he laughed, and continued in character. “Play Darlie.”

He swirled brandy, nibbled on cheese and berries. And discovered that the pale substitute worked quite well if he just had the right mind-set.

He decided then and there to make one titled “Eve Dallas.” He imagined the staging, the props, the lighting. He considered writing some dialogue, for both of them.

Wouldn’t it be fun to force her to speak his words?

He could barely wait to produce it, direct it. And view it, over and over after he’d killed her.

21

N
ear dawn she dreamed. Trapped in the dark, whispers and whimpers all around her. Cold, so cold, and the bite of the shackles clamped on her wrists and ankles.

He was out there, and the knowing carved a bleeding gash of fear in her belly.