Brotherhood in Death (15 page)

“And the way you've gone through the steps, it's what I see. There will be more of them. If you're right, and he forced or coerced these three, there will be more.”

“Yeah, there will be more. Yale students, or women who he encountered somehow through that connection when they were college age. There's a three-year span between when MacKensie was at Yale, and when Downing was at NYU. Five between MacKensie and Su at Yale. So there will be others. But I'm not seeing those others—not yet anyway—on my list. His daughter . . .”

“I don't believe so.” At least, Roarke thought, he could give her that peace of mind. “I don't think you need to go there. I looked into her, and her brother, and there's no sign of that.”

“I got all the way to lieutenant of the NYPSD, and nobody saw any signs.”

Now he brushed a hand over her short cap of hair. “Do you really believe Mira saw nothing, saw no signs?”

She needed to move, so she stuffed her hands in her pockets while she prowled the office. “No, you're right. She probably saw plenty way before I got to the point I could talk to her about it. Still—”

“You didn't have her when it was happening to you. You had no one. Gwendolyn Sykes did. She had her brother, she had the Miras. Everything I turned up on them reads they had a rigid, unloving childhood, leaned on and were embraced by Charlotte and Dennis as often as possible. And they've made strong and happy lives. Mira would have seen the signs, Eve.”

“You're right. You're right.” Though she'd have to ask, directly at some point. “That's something anyway. It's going to be rough enough on the Miras.”

“We'll be there for them. Whatever they need from us. Now it's late, and you'll need to reinterview with all this in mind tomorrow. And considering how this may go, we could both use the sleep while we can get it.”

“You hardly sleep anyway.” She continued to prowl. “I don't want you worrying about me before there's even anything to worry about. I can deal with what was, Roarke, just like I can deal with . . .” She stopped at the desk, ran her hand over it. “What was.”

She
had
dealt with it, she reminded herself. And didn't need replications of what she'd once had, not when she knew and cherished what she had now.

She sent him a speculative look. “Do you really want to get rid of this desk?”

“That will be up to you.”

She shook her head, waved that off. “No, I'm asking you. Do you want to get rid of it?”

“For reasons of aesthetics, efficiency—Christ, yes. It's a bloody, miserable excuse for a workstation.”

“Huh. You're seriously soft on me to leave it sitting here for nearly three years, offending your aesthetics and efficiency levels. Its days are probably numbered, so . . . we should send it off with a bang.”

She boosted up to sit on it, sent him a slow smile. “Come on over here, pal, and bang the hell out of me on my bloody, miserable excuse of a workstation.”

He let out a half laugh. “I never know what odd path that mind of yours might take. But it never disappoints.”

It wasn't about the ridiculous desk, he thought—though knowing her, that could be part of it. But it was to show both of them she could take whatever ugliness would come her way. She'd face the nightmares, the fears, the brutal memories to do the job she'd sworn to do.

So he went to her. Though the glint in her eyes dared and demanded, he cupped her face again. And thinking of the nightmares, the fears, the memories, laid his lips gently on hers.

To cherish.

In response she took two fistfuls of his hair, yanked him to her, hard. “Uh-uh. This is desk sex. That means it might hurt a little.” So saying, she bit him.

Then she shoved him back, deliberately rough, so she could pull off her sweatshirt. “Give me what you have.”

“What I have?”

“Yeah. And more.”

“And when you say you can't take it, remember what you asked for.”

“Oh, I can take it. Let's see if you can when—”

He slid a hand between her legs, pressed, and the rest of the words died in a gasp. Before she could draw the next breath, his free hand
clamped on the back of her neck, holding her in place while his mouth ravaged hers.

Now he used his teeth, left her breathless and churning on that erotic edge just this side of pain. She wrapped her legs around him, holding him hard and tight against her, rocking, rocking against the hand driving her mad.

“Inside me. You should be inside me.”

“Not yet, no. I've more than that,” he reminded her and caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Light pinches, relentless friction drove her straight over the edge.

Her legs tightened around him like a vise as she came, but he didn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

Even as she moaned out her release, he shot her up again.

Her own breath burned her lungs as she stumbled along that edgy, dangerous line of pleasure. She dragged at his suit jacket with hands that trembled with outrageous needs.

“Take it off, take it off.”

Desperate, she tore at his shirt, sent buttons flying. Then at last her hands found skin. Hot, firm, hers. Now her arms wrapped around him, her fingers digging into flesh, her nails scraping, biting.

“Now. God. Now.”

But he said, “More,” and sent her flying.

Something thudded to the floor when he pushed her back on the desk. Her flailing hands sent disc files tumbling.

Then he was feasting on her breasts even as his hands drew the cotton pants over her hips. She struggled to reach his belt, to unhook it, to find him. To take him.

He left her quivering to glide his tongue down her body, to take it over her, into her.

The world was heat and glory, and needs newly incited the moment they were met, hungers keenly sharpened the instant they were sated.

She gripped his hips, said his name, only his name, saw his eyes, a wild and wicked blue with what they made each other.

And at last, at last, he plunged into her. Hard and fast, whipping them both past all borders of control. She met him madness for madness, greed for greed until the world dropped away.

She wondered her heart didn't break through her ribs. Its crazed beat rang in her ears as aftershocks—for that had been an earthquake of sex—shook her body.

They sprawled over the desk like barely conscious survivors of a cataclysm, and she gave a passing thought to the desk.

How bad could it be if it could support all that weight?

“I might be lying on murder files. That's just not right. It's so disrespectful.”

“You're not.” His face was buried between her breasts. “They fell over. Maybe off. We'll sort it out. Christ Jesus, I can't find my breath.”

“If you do, see if mine's with it.”

He lifted his head, looked at her with eyes that managed to be wild and wicked, and a bit sleepy all at once. And she managed to lift her hand and brush the hair back from his face.

“So . . . was that all you've got?”

How, given their position and current state, he got his hand under her to pinch her ass—hard enough to make her yelp—was a wonder.

“Just asking. I may have seen God. She may have been smiling.”

“Well, she made us to fit together, didn't she?”

“We do.”

“So we do.” He laid a kiss between her breasts, winced a little as he eased back to stand. “I believe it did hurt a little.”

She laughed, then hissed as she sat up. “Yeah, maybe. We did knock over murder files,” she noted. “And the coffeepot—but that was empty. Mostly. Can't you wear less clothes? I ripped the shirt—the buttons off anyway. It probably cost more than the damn desk.”

“If I'd known desk sex was on tonight's agenda, I'd have worn less.”

“If I go with the command center, there could be regular command center sex. Dress appropriately.”

Laughing, he picked up his shirt—a soft slate gray with just a hint of blue—examined it. “Well now, it's done for, I suppose, and a small price to pay.”

She took it, put it on. Subtly breathed him in. “We have to pick this stuff up. I can't pick up murder files naked.”

“Apparently I can,” he said, and helped her pick them up, gather up the clothes they'd discarded. “You can organize it all in the morning.”

“I guess. Maybe we should put that desk in some sort of display. With a plaque.”

“‘Dallas and Roarke Banged Here'?”

“No—though we could make a secret plaque for that. Just something like: ‘It Served Us Well.'”

“You're oddly sentimental over a desk.”

“I am now. I need my pants.”

“Why? We're going straight to the bedroom.”

“And Summerset could be lurking somewhere between here and there.”

“I can promise you he's tucked into his own quarters by now.”

“Maybe he's in his coffin, maybe he's not, but I'm not walking to the bedroom in nothing but your torn shirt.”

“We'll take the elevator,” Roarke said, solving the problem by calling for it. “So, what was it you asked for? All I had. And more?”

“You pulled it off.”

“Not yet. That was all I had.” He pulled the bundle of clothes out of her hand, dropped them. “This is more.”

“You couldn't possibly—”

He just pushed her back against the elevator wall, and took her there. Fast and fierce.

When he was done, and very satisfied with himself, she started to slide bonelessly down the wall.

He plucked her up, restarted the elevator. Then carried her to the bed when the doors opened.

“You know what they say.” He wrapped an arm around her. “Mind what you wish for.”

“I didn't mind.” But her voice was blurry as she slid toward blissful, exhausted, thoroughly used-up sleep.

Then she popped right up again. “Jesus cross-eyed Christ, the clothes! They're still in the elevator.”

“They can be sorted out in the morning.”

“He'll
see!
All those sex-tangled clothes. Get them back!”

“The elevator's still there if it worries you.”

She leaped up, all but dived in to grab the clothes when the doors opened. Near to shuddering with relief, she dropped them in a heap on a chair.

She crawled back into bed, sighed, and slept in seconds.

Apparently, Roarke thought, sex-tangled clothes were acceptable when sorted out from a bedroom chair.

What a marvel her mind was, he decided, and slipped into sleep after her.

—

T
he dream gripped her with sharp, digging claws. Even knowing it for what it was, she couldn't break free of it. It held fast, dragged her down.

Into the study in the Spring Street brownstone.

Edward Mira sat in the desk chair dressed in one of his senatorial suits, his glossy black hair swept back from his stony face.

“I'm dead.”

“I'm aware.”

“Yet you make my murderers my victims.”

“The way I see it, you did that. Did you rape them, Senator Mira?”

Leaning forward, he banged his fist on the desk. “I'm
dead
. Your responsibility is to me. But you'd smear my reputation, destroy my legacy? This is how you stand for the dead?”

“I'll do my job. I'll do my best to identify and apprehend the person or persons who killed you, even if doing that smears your rep.”

“Your best?” He sneered at her. “Your best to paint me as a monster so those who took my life are coddled and stroked.”

“My best to uncover the truth, whatever that means.”

“The truth?” He banged the desk again, but this time with the gavel he held. “I know the truth. I know what you are, what you did. You're just like them.”

He struck the desk again, and on the explosion of sound they stood in the room in Dallas with the ugly red light flashing.

“No. No.” She backed away as panic coiled up, struck like a snake. “I'm done with this. I don't come here anymore. It's finished for me.”

“It's never finished.” The senator sat, wearing his black robes, at his raised judge's platform. “Murderer!”

At the next bang of his gavel she saw herself, the terrified girl she'd been, struggling with, pleading with Richard Troy. With her father as he raped her.

She heard her own high-pitched scream, felt the pain in her own arm as the bone snapped when he broke her arm.

Felt the horror and the hope when those small fingers closed around the little knife.

“Guilty!” the senator shouted when the desperate girl plunged the knife into flesh. “Guilty, guilty, guilty.”

Stabbing, over and over and over. The inhuman sounds growling in her throat, and the blood, all the blood washing warm over her hands.

“Blood on your hands. Guilty. Murderer. Just like them.”

“Kill the bitch.” Richard Troy stared at her with glassy eyes as blood bubbled from his lips. “Give her what she deserves.”

With the next strike of the gavel she was back at the crime scene, the noose around her neck. She dragged at the rope with her blood-smeared hands, but it only tightened, tightened as the mechanism hummed the chandelier higher.

“Now,” the senator said, “justice is served.”

“Wake up! Eve, you bloody well wake up and fucking
breathe
.”

Roarke's words, his rough shakes finally got through. She sucked in air, still dragging at the dream noose around her throat.

“It's a dream. A dream. Do you hear me? Come back now.”

“I'm all right. I'm all right.”

“You're not, but you will be. Look at me.”

She couldn't stop the shaking, but made herself look into his eyes. Anger, yes, some anger in there, and the kind of desperation she understood too well.

“I'm okay. I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize. It'll piss me off.” He grabbed the throw from the foot of the bed, wrapped it around her, rubbed her back, her arms while the cat bumped his head against her hip. “You're cold.”