Authors: J. D. Robb

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

New York to Dallas (21 page)

BOOK: New York to Dallas

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“You don’t.”

“I don’t have to buy the sexy underwear when you buy enough for an entire gaggle of high-class LCs.”

“It’s a weakness. A gaggle is it? Darling Eve, you’re very tired.”

Frustration flickered over the tension in her face. “Look, if we can just set up and run a face-and-body-recognition program, something that will give us some probables, we—”

“No, you said you wanted me to do it, and I will.” He rose, barefoot now and in shirtsleeves as she was, and pulled a thin leather tie from his pocket. “In exchange you’ll go to bed, the bed neither one of us has so much as seen yet. That’s the master,” he added, gesturing.

“I want to get this started.”

“I’ll get it started, and we’ll both take a couple hours down while it runs. I’m pretty fucking fagged myself, but if you push it, I promise I’ll put you down.”

“You’re going to stand here and threaten me?”

“You know it’s not a threat.” In a smooth, unhurried move, he tied back his hair. “It’s a simple fact, and one I’m not going to waste time arguing over. Go lie down, now, or it’ll get ugly.”

He watched anger flood temporary color into her face, lifted his brows when her hand balled into a fist. She wasn’t above throwing a punch under the circumstances, and he knew from experience she had a damn good right cross.

He almost hoped she would follow through on it, give him an excuse to manhandle her into bed, pour a tranq down her throat, and relieve some of his own temper in the process.

Apparently she thought better of it as she spun around and stomped off toward the bedroom.

“You’re fucking welcome,” he called after her.

She answered by stabbing her middle finger into the air before she slammed the bedroom door.

“Oh aye, back at you, darling.”

She’d wanted to give him a shot,
one good shot. The problem was, she thought as she yanked off her weapon harness, she wasn’t at her absolute best—which meant he’d have more than likely followed through on his threat.

“Oh, excuse me,” she muttered to the empty room, “his
simple fact
.”

God, she hated when he ordered her around like she was an idiot infant at nap time.

She just needed coffee. Just some coffee to break through the fog. So she was tired, she admitted, dropping her clothes where she stripped. Cops worked tired.
That
was a simple fact.

One of his minions in his fancy, high-priced (no doubt) hotel had unpacked and put away the things Summerset had packed. She didn’t even have control over her own damn clothes.

She yanked open drawers. Damned if she’d sleep naked and give that bossy bastard any ideas. She sniffed at the soft, pretty nightclothes, shoved through them until she found a practical, definitely unsexy nightshirt and dragged it on.

But she wasn’t going to bed. Not to sleep, that is. She’d stretch out for ten minutes, and consider her part of the bargain met.

Then he could shove it.

She snatched the gold-foiled chocolates off the pillows, tossed them on the night table. She’d have that with her coffee after her ten down. It ought to be enough caffeine to keep her revved for another few hours.

She dropped down flat on her face on the neatly turned-down sheets, thought fleetingly that she missed the cat.

She thought of Darlie Morgansten. The pang as her belly twisted was the last thing she felt before going under. She never heard Roarke come in twenty minutes later.

The chill of the room kept her awake.
She wanted to sleep, wanted to go away, but the cold and the gnawing hunger in her belly wouldn’t let her.

She wasn’t supposed to get food. She ate when he told her to eat, and ate what he gave her or there would be hell to pay.

She knew hell to pay meant a beating—or worse. She knew what hell was because she lived there.

She was eight.

She shivered in the cold, squeezed her eyes shut because he’d left the lights on when he went out. She couldn’t make them go off. Bright, bright and cold with the dirty red flash from the sign coming through the window.

LIVE SEX. LIVE SEX. LIVE SEX.

He’d forgotten to feed her before he went out. Business. Places to go, people to see.

She never had places to go, and never saw anyone but him.

Maybe he’d forget to come back. Sometimes he did, and she was a long time alone. It was better alone, mostly better alone. She could look out the window at the people, the cars, the buildings.

She had to stay in the room. Little girls who tried to go out or talk to anybody got taken by the police and tossed in a dark pit or sometimes a cage with snakes and spiders that ate through their skin to their bones.

She didn’t want to get thrown in the pit. Didn’t want to have to pay hell. But she was so hungry.

She knew there was cheese. If she got just a little cheese—like a mouse—he wouldn’t know. Eyes darting around the room, she scuttled over in the flash of red light, got the little knife.

She meant to cut off just a tiny bit, but it was so good.

If he didn’t come back, she could eat all the cheese. And when he did come back, he’d be drunk, probably. Maybe he’d be drunk enough not to notice her, not to hurt her. Not to care that she ate the cheese.

The door opened, a crash of sound that startled her into dropping the knife.

She saw, with a terror that ate the bones like spiders, he wasn’t drunk enough.

She tried to lie, to pretend—and for a moment, just one moment, thought he’d leave her alone.

He hit her so hard. As she fell, the blood she swallowed into her yawning belly roiled there.

Please don’t. Please. I’ll be good.

But he hit, and hit and hit no matter how she cried or begged. Then he was on her, the brutal weight of him. On her, smelling of whiskey and candy—the terrible smell of father.

She knew, knew, knew it was worse when she fought, but she couldn’t stop the screams, the wild struggles as he pushed himself into her.

The pain ripped, tore, and still she begged.

And all around in the cold, bright room with the red light flashing were other little girls. Dozens of eyes watching as he panted and grunted, those terrible sounds mixing with her screams as he raped her.

She clawed his face, felt his skin tear as he tore hers. Over his shocked howl came a sudden harsh snap, and the agony followed like a flood.

No thought, all pain, and the eyes watching, his face twisted over hers. Her fingers found the little knife on the floor.

No thought, all pain. She struck.

The sound of his cry—his pain, his shock—rose through hers, and sounded in her desperate mind like triumph. She brought the knife down again, felt the warm wet on her hand as she crawled out from under him.

She fell on him like an animal, hacking, slicing while the blood splattered on her face, her arms, her body.

Red, like the light. Warm against the cold of her skin.

And the other girls chanted in one feral voice.

Kill him.

Her father’s face, eyes wide. The other face, smeared with blood.

Kill them.

The girls, all the little girls, closed in around her as she plunged the knife into him. Into them. Hands stroked at her, arms tried to lift her.

She fought, snarling.

“Stop! Eve, stop!”

Roarke knew he hurt her, but the gentle, then the firm hadn’t pulled her out of the nightmare. Fear clutched at his throat that this time she wouldn’t come back.

“Eve.
My
Eve. Goddamn it, wake up.” He pinned her arms, held on even when her body arched on a wild, high scream.

“No. No, you come back to me now. Eve. Eve.”

He kept saying her name, a fierce repetition he prayed would get though whatever hell had her. “I love you. Eve. I’m right here. You’re safe. Lieutenant Eve Dallas.” He pressed his lips to her hair, her temple. “My love.
A ghra
. Eve.”

When she began to tremble, relief left him weak.

“Shh now, shh. I have you. You’re safe now. You’re back now.”

“Cold. It’s cold.”

“I’ll warm you.” He rubbed her arms, like ice against his palms. “I’ll fetch a blanket. Just—”

“Sick.” She pressed a clammy hand to his chest. “I’m sick.”

He picked her up, carried her quickly to the bathroom. Felt helpless while she was viciously ill. But when he started to soothe her face with a cool cloth she took it from him.

“Give me a minute.” She didn’t meet his eyes, but sat, knees drawn up, her face pressed to them. “Please. Just give me a minute.”

He rose, took the plush hotel robe from its hook. “Put this on.” He laid it over her shoulders, wanted to bundle her into it. Hold her. But she wouldn’t look at him. “You’re shaking with cold. I’ll . . . I’ll get brandy.”

Walking out of the room, leaving her there, tore him to pieces.

His hand shook when he poured brandy into snifters. He wanted to heave the glasses against the wall. Break them, break everything he could reach. Beat it, rend it.

He stared out the window, imagined the city in flames, consumed to ashes.

And still it wasn’t enough.

Later, he promised himself, later he’d find some way to vent at least part of this terrible rage clawing inside him. But now, he only stood staring out the window until he heard her come out.

Pale as the white robe, he thought, and her eyes so big, so tired.

“I’m okay.”

He turned to bring her one of the brandies.

“Oh God.” First shock, then tears filled her eyes. She lifted her hand, fingers brushing the livid scratches on his chest, his shoulders. “I did that.”

“It’s nothing.”

She shook her head, eyes flooded, touched an ugly bite mark. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated, taking her hand, bringing it to his lips. “You thought I was . . . You thought I was hurting you. I did hurt you. Drink some brandy now.” When she only stood, staring down at the glass, he touched her cheek. And still, she didn’t look at him. “I didn’t doctor it. I promise you.”

She nodded, turned away, sipped a little.

“Why won’t you look at me? I know I hurt you. I’m sick for it. Sick I reminded you, even for a moment, of him. Forgive me.”

“No, no, not you.” She turned back, met his eyes now. She hadn’t let the tears fall so they swam there, pools of sorrow. “Not you,” she said again, and pressed a hand to her heart.

She set the brandy aside. “I can’t drink it. I’m sorry.”

“Do you want water? Coffee? Anything? Tell me what to do for you. I don’t know what to do.”

She sat on the side of the bed. He always knew, she thought. Somehow he always knew what to do. Now, it seemed he was as lost as she. “I thought it was over. I haven’t gone back there in a while. I thought I was past it, that I’d resolved it, and it was done.”

Careful not to touch her, he sat beside her. “Being here, dealing with what’s happening here. It’s no wonder it triggered this.”

“It was more. It was worse.”

“I know.” He started to reach for her hand, then dropped his. “I know it was. Can you tell me?”

“At first, it was the same. The room, the cold, the light. So hungry. The same, getting the knife, eating the cheese. And he came in, drunk but not enough. And it starts. He hits me, so hard. So hard, and he’s on me. It hurts.”

He rose, had to, walked back to the window, stared out blindly. “You were screaming.”

“I couldn’t stop, and he wouldn’t. But . . . they were there, all around us. All the girls. The girls like me, all those eyes watching him rape me. So sad, so empty. All those eyes.

“And my arm.” Instinctively she wrapped it close to her body. “The snap and the pain when he broke it. And I’m crazy with pain and fear. The same, that’s the same. And the knife in my hand. And the blade’s in him. The blood runs over my hand. It’s so warm. So warm, a comfort. No, no, not a comfort. A thrill.”

When he turned, she’d gripped her hands together in her lap. “Not like it was, not like I remember. Not that mindless defense, not just survival. I wanted the blood. And so did they. The girls, all the girls telling me to kill him. To kill him. And his face—then McQueen’s—his then his then his. Kill them.

“I wanted . . . I felt . . . horrible, ugly pleasure. I don’t think I put those marks on you because you hurt me. I think, oh God, I think I fought you because you tried to stop me.”

She pressed a hand to her face, wrapped her arm around her body, and broke with a shuddering, wrenching sob.

She tried to turn away when he came to her, but now he knew what to do.

He held her, stroked her hair, her back, and when she went lax, lifted her into his lap to rock.

“Why do you suffer for that? Baby, why do you make yourself pay for that? A dream, a nightmare of the nightmare you lived. Only a child.”

“I wasn’t a child, not at the end. All the girls, Roarke, bruised and bloody and calling for death. But I wasn’t a child when I gave it to them. I was me.”

“You were a child when he brutalized you. And now you work yourself to breaking for those girls, and for one you saved once already.”

“I can’t be what I need to be if I kill, not that way. Not in defense, but because I want it over. I can’t be if I enjoy it. Then I’m what they are.”

“You could never be.” He swallowed back a fresh spurt of rage, fought to keep his voice, his hands gentle. “They tried to make you nothing, those obscene excuses for a mother and father. And you made yourself everything they weren’t.”

“It scared me. It . . . shamed me. What I felt.”

“You went to bed exhausted, and angry. That part’s on me.”

“I might’ve had a little to do with it.”

He managed a smile as he brushed tears from her cheeks. “Maybe a little at that. Don’t punish yourself for a dream, baby.”

BOOK: New York to Dallas

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