Reunion in Death (28 page)

Washed in the heat, she fell against him. And dragged him to the floor.

They went wild together, rolling over the delicate floral pattern of the rug, whipping all the needs to aching then pushing for more.

There was nothing else. Nothing for him now but her. The way her skin sprang damp as passions ruled her. The way her body lifted, writhed, slithered. The taste of her filled his mouth, pumped into his blood like some violent drug that promised the razor's edge of madness.

He savaged her breasts while her heart galloped under his hungry lips. Mine, he thought now as he had then. Mine.

He yanked her to her knees, his breath as ragged as their clothes. His muscles, primed to spring, quivered for her.

She fisted her hands in his hair. "More," she said, and dragged him back against her.

She fell on him, seeking to plunder. Her body was a morass of aches and glory, too battered by sensations to separate pain from pleasure. Clashed together, they equalled greed.

She feasted on him, on the hard, disciplined body, on the poet's mouth, the warrior's shoulders. Her hands streaked over him. Mine, she thought now as she had then. Mine.

He rolled, pinning her. He shoved her hips high and drove in, hard. Hard and deep. And held there, buried in her, while she came.

"There's more." His lungs screamed, and the dark pleasure all but blinded him as she fisted around him. "We'll both have more."

She rose to him, wrapped around him, matching him thrust for desperate thrust. When the need lanced through him, through heart, through head, through loins, he gave himself to it, and to her.

He rested his head between her breasts. The most perfect of pillows for a man, in his current opinion. Her heart was still thundering, or perhaps it was his. He felt a raging thirst and hoped he'd find the energy to quench it in the next year or two.

"I remembered something else," she told him.

"Hmm."

"We didn't make it to the bed the first time back then either."

"Eventually we did. But I think I had you on the dinner table first."

"I had you on the dinner table. Then you had me in the tub."

"I believe you're right about that. Then we managed to find the bed, where we proceeded to have each other. We had some dinner and some champagne before the table was so hastily cleared."

"I could eat." She combed her fingers lazily through his hair. "But maybe we can eat right here on the floor so we don't have to move very much. I think my legs are paralyzed."

He chuckled, nuzzled, then lifted his head. "It's been a fine and remarkable year. Come then, I'll help you up."

"Can we get food in here?"

"Absolutely. It's all arranged for." He got to his feet, hauled her to hers. "Give me a minute."

"Roarke? This is a really nice present."

He smiled at her, then went to the wall and keyed in something on a panel. "Night's young yet."

A droid that looked remarkably French wheeled a cart in as the elevator opened. Instinctively Eve tossed an arm over her breasts, the other below her waist. And made Roarke laugh.

"You have the oddest sense of modesty. I'll fetch you a robe."

"I never see droids around here."

"I assumed you'd object to Summerset bringing in the dinner. Here you are."

He handed her a robe. Or she supposed you could call it a robe-if you didn't define one as actually covering anything. This was long and black and completely transparent. His grin flashed when she frowned at it.

"It's my anniversary, too, you know." He shrugged into a robe of his own, one, she noted, that wasn't so skimpy on the layers.

He poured the champagne the droid had opened, then offered her a glass. "To the first year, and all that follow." He touched his glass to hers.

He dismissed the droid, and she saw he hadn't missed a detail with the meal, either. There was the same succulent lobster, the tender medallions of beef in the delicate sauce, the same glossy hills of caviar they'd shared on their wedding night.

Candlelight shimmered and the music of the rain was joined by something that soared with strings and flutes.

"I really didn't forget."

"I know."

"I'm sorry I tried to push it aside. Roarke." She reached over, closed her hand over his. "I want you to know that I wouldn't change anything, not one thing that's happened since the first time I saw you. No matter how often you've pissed me off."

He shook his head. "You are the most fascinating woman I've ever known."

"Get out."

When she laughed, started to pull back, he tightened his grip on her hand. "Brave, brilliant, irritating, funny, exasperating, driven. Full of complications and compassion. Sexy, surprisingly sweet, mean as a snake. Disarmingly lacking in self-awareness, and stubborn as a mule. I adore every part and parcel of you, Eve. Everything you are is a maddening joy to me."

"You're just saying that because you want to get laid again."

"Hope does spring. I have something for you." He reached into the pocket of the robe and drew out two silver boxes.

"Two?" Dumb shock covered her face. "There's supposed to be two gifts for this thing? Damn it, marriage should come with an instruction disc."

"Relax." Yes, a maddening joy. "There are two here because I see a kind of connection between them."

She frowned over it. "So, it's really like one? That's okay then."

"I'm relieved to hear it. Have this one first."

She took the box he offered, lifted the lid. The earrings sparkled up at her, deep and rich multicolored hunks of gems in hammered silver.

"I know you're not much on baubles, and you feel I heap them on you." He picked up his wine as she studied them. "But these are a bit different, and I think you'll appreciate why."

"They're great." She lifted one, and because she'd learned enough to know it would please him, began to fumble it into her ear. "Sort of pagan."

"They suit you. I thought they would. Here, let me do that." He rose, came around the table to fasten the earrings himself. "But I think their history will appeal to you more. They once belonged to Grainne Ni Mhaille- that's the proper name for her in Irish. She was a chieftain, head of her tribe in a time when such things were not heard of-or admitted to. She is sometimes called the Sea Queen, as she was a great sailing captain. So..."

He sat again, enjoying the way the earrings gleamed on his wife. His voice fell into a storytelling rhythm, so fluid, so Irish, she doubted he heard it. But she did.

"Tribal chief, warrior, queen, what have you. She lived during the sixteenth century. A violent age, in a country that's seen more than its fair share of violence. And known for her courage was Grainne. In her life she had triumph and tragedy, but she never faltered. On the west island where she was fostered, the castle she built still stands on the cliff-strategically. And there, at sea, or at one of the several strongholds she acquired, she held her own against all comers. She stood for her beliefs. She defended her people."

"She kicked ass," Eve said.

"Aye." He grinned at that. "That she did. And so do you, so I think it would please her for you to have them."

"It pleases me."

"And here's the second part."

She took the other silver box. Inside this was a silver medallion, an oval with the figure of a man carved on it.

"Who's this guy?"

"This is St. Jude, and he is the patron saint of police."

"You're kidding? Cops have their own saint?"

"They have Jude, who also happens to be the patron saint of lost causes."

She laughed as she held it up to the light. "Covering all your bases, aren't you?"

"I like to think so, yes."

"So what we've got here are like... talismans. Good luck pieces." She draped St. Jude over her head. "I like the idea. Adding luck to those brains and grit you mentioned the other day."

This time she got up, skirted the table. She bent down to kiss him. "Thanks. These are really good baubles."

"You're welcome. And now if you want to clear the table..."

"Just hold on, ace. You're not the only one who can give a present. But I have to go get it. Sit tight."

She hurried out in such a way that made him realize she'd forgotten about the sheerness of the robe. Grinning, Roarke poured more champagne and hoped, for the sake of everyone's physical health, she didn't run into Summerset along the way.

Since she came back quickly, and with no rantings, he decided she'd made the round trip without incident. She handed him a package covered with recycled brown paper.

He identified it by shape as some sort of painting or picture. Curious, as Eve was no art critic, he tore the wrappings.

It was a painting, of the two of them as they stood under the blooming arbor where they'd been married. Her hand was in his, their eyes on each other's. He could see the glint of new rings, new vows on her finger and on his.

He remembered the moment, remembered it perfectly. And the one just after when they had leaned into each other and exchanged that first kiss as husband and wife.

"It's wonderful."

"I had it done from the disc of the wedding. I just liked this moment, so I froze, printed and got this artist Mavis knows. He's actually a real artist and not one of the guys she knows who just does body painting. You probably could've got somebody better, but-"

She broke off when he looked up at her, when she saw his raw emotions flash his stunned pleasure. It was tough going to stun the man with anything-including a steel bat. "I guess you like it."

"It's the most precious gift I've ever been given. I liked this moment, too. Very much." He rose, set the painting carefully aside. Then slid his arms around her and drew her in, rubbed his cheek over her with the kind of exquisite tenderness that had her heart spilling out of her chest. "Thank you."

"That's okay." She sighed against him. "Happy anniversary. I need a minute to settle here, maybe one more drink. Then I'll clear that table."

He stroked a hand over her hair. "That's a deal."

CHAPTER 22

Eve might not have given two credits about fashion, but she'd chosen her outfit carefully for the operation. She was already wired, in more ways than one.

Energy was pumping through her, too fast, too hot. That, she knew, would have to be chilled before she stepped out of the door. Feeney had already fixed the transmitter to her chest, and the receiver in her ear.

Standing naked in her bedroom, she studied herself critically and could barely see the change of skin tones between her breasts where the mike rested.

Not that it would matter. The outfit wasn't designed to show a lot of skin.

Which was a good thing, as some of it was still bruised. Not too bad, she thought as she pushed a finger at the discoloring on her hip. And it only ached a little if she forgot to sit down often enough.

The face? She turned her head, wiggled her jaw. You could hardly notice, and she'd break down and slap on some enhancements to cover what still showed.

That process took her about ten minutes and caused some nominal frustration with the lip dye. Silly stuff never looked right on her, she thought as she went back to the bedroom to dress.

She'd chosen black. The glinting silver threads sparkling through the modified skin suit didn't interest her. The easy give of the fabric was key. Her primary weapon nestled in the small of her back, holstered there by what looked like a decorative silver belt. She'd tagged Leonardo for that little accessory. He'd come through fast and efficiently. And she supposed stylishly but it was tough to prove those things by her.

As she preferred the side to the back draw, she practiced for a few minutes until the movement smoothed out and became more natural.

Satisfied, she shot a clutch piece into an ankle holster, slid a small combat knife into an ankle sheath. Over these she slid soft black boots, then again studied the results. It would do, she decided, then went into a deep crouch and drew both secondaries.

"That's quite a picture you make, Lieutenant." Roarke strolled in, his shirt carelessly unbuttoned. Her vision was sharp enough to see that Feeney had finished wiring him as well. "Sure you have enough hardware there?"

"I'm not finished." She straightened, picked up a pair of restraints from the dresser. She looped them through the belt, secured them behind her left hip.

"Put some heels on those boots, add a whip, and we'd really have something." He walked a measuring circle around her. "As is, you're bound to intimidate the other attendees."

"I got that covered." She picked up a jacket in the same fluid black and silver. It shimmered to her knees.

Angling his head, Roarke circled his finger. Though she was annoyed she did a pair of quick turns. The jacket billowed, giving provocative hints of the body slicked into the skin suit, and draped cleanly over the police gear at her back.

"You'll definitely do," he decided. He feathered his fingers over her cheek, over the fading bruises she'd concealed. "But I wish you weren't quite so worried."

"I'm not worried." She picked up the teardrop diamond he'd once given her, looped the chain over her neck. And added the St. Jude medallion to it. "Got my protection. Anyway, some bitch goes after my man, I'm going to take her down. That's it."

"Darling, that's so sweet."

She met his gaze in the mirror as she fought on the Sea Queen's earrings, made herself grin as he was. "Yeah, that's me. Just a sentimental slob. You gonna suit up, or are you going casual?"

"Oh, I'll find something appropriate, so I don't embarrass my fashionable wife."

She watched him go to the personal department store he called a closet. "Is your transmitter activated yet?"

"No. Tested, then put on hold. Feeney's very strict about EDD eavesdropping in the bedroom."

"Okay. Look I know you're not going in empty. I want you to leave whatever weapon you're planning to take here."

He chose a suit of midnight black. "Is that an order, Lieutenant?"

"Don't get snotty with me, Roarke. You take one of your collection and by any chance have to use it, we've got trouble I don't want to have to deal with."

"I can deal with my own trouble."

"Shut up. Leave your weapon home. I'm giving you one of mine."

He turned, a shirt in his hand. "Are you?"

"I got a temporary carry license for you, one night only. Tibble put it through." She opened a drawer, took out a small stunner. "It's not lethal, but it'll jam up the circuits just fine, and you don't need anymore than that for personal protection."

"This from a woman who currently has more weapons than hands."

"I'm the badge, you're not. Don't make this into some manly ego thing. I know you can handle yourself, and you'd rather play it that way. But this has to go down clean. Any screwups and she'll use them in court to muck up the trial. You take something unauthorized, and you're putting a weapon in her hand."

He opened his mouth and she could see the annoyance, the refusal on his face. She shook her head. "Please, do this for me."

The annoyance came out, one long hiss of breath. But he held out a hand for the stunner. "Fighting dirty. Your way then."

"Thanks."

The please, the thanks, instead of anger and orders, told him she was a lot more worried than she wanted him to know. "You've covered every angle, every contingency, every circumstance," he told her.

"No." She opened the evening bag she'd carried. Her badge, backup communicator, and yet another weapon she didn't feel obliged to mention were already inside. "There's always something else. She'll be there. I know it. My gut knows it. We finish this tonight."

...

"All clear. No sign of subject. Beginning next sweep. And these little eggroll deals are aces."

Feeney's voice was bell-clear in Eve's ear, and a welcome relief to the party chatter in the ballroom. "Copy that," she replied. Leaving the weight of small talk to Roarke, she did her own sweep.

The badges she'd selected moved through the crowd, mingling, merging. Even McNab, somewhat conservatively dressed in sapphire blue and canary yellow, wouldn't have caused a second glance. No one would make them as cops, unless they knew where to look.

It was always in the eyes. Flat, watchful, ready, even as they laughed at a joke or made one, even as they nibbled on canapes or sipped mineral water.

Out of the twelve hundred and thirty-eight people attending, twenty who roamed the ballroom were armed and wired. Another ten covered other public areas as staff, and six manned equipment in Control.

The predinner mingling portion of the event was nearly at a close. Julianna had yet to make a move.

"We can't have our most illustrious benefactors standing here without a drink." Louise glided up, glowing in silver. She signalled a server, took two flutes of champagne off his tray, and handed them to Eve and Roarke. "You've already received your official thank-you for your donation, but I'd like to add a personal one."

"It's our pleasure." Roarke bent down to kiss her cheek. "You look stunning, as always. Hello, Charles, it's good to see you."

"Roarke. Lieutenant, you look amazing. The sexy soldier." He slid a proprietary arm around Louise's waist. "If I'm ever called to war, I'd want you leading my troops. We were afraid you wouldn't make it tonight. Delia's told me how jammed up you've been with this hunt for Julianna Dunne."

It was a constant puzzle to Eve. Here was a man, a professional companion, with his arm around the elegant blonde he was obviously gone over, talking about the brunette he'd dated for months, and nobody looked weird about it.

Add that the brunette he'd dated, and the guy she was currently banging like a hammer on a nail, were both hearing every word through Eve's mike, and you had something very strange on your hands.

Relationships were confusing enough, she thought. Mix in police work and it arcs clean out of orbit.

"I make time to pay my debts," Eve said with a glance at Louise.

Louise laughed. "I think the million-dollar contribution already wiped that slate clean."

"That's his deal," Eve returned with a jerk of her head toward Roarke. "Anyway, it's a nice do as these dos go."

"Stupendous praise from you, so thanks. We're going to keep the boring speeches over dinner to a minimum, then liven it up again with dancing. But before we herd this mob to the tables, I need to steal your husband."

Eve inched just a little closer to Roarke. "I'd as soon keep him. I've gotten used to him."

"I'll return him, with hardly any wear. The mayor asked specifically to have a word with you," Louise said to Roarke. "I promised I'd deliver."

"Of course." Roarke set his untouched drink aside, skimmed a hand down Eve's back. "Politics must be played."

"You're telling me. Charles, you'll entertain Dallas for a few minutes, won't you?"

Eve had to fight the instinct to snatch Roarke's arm and yank him back. He could handle himself-nobody better. But he'd been no more than a foot from her side since they'd walked into the Regency. She'd wanted to keep it that way.

She watched his back as he moved across the ballroom with Louise.

"I have a message for you, Dallas."

"Huh? What message?"

"From Maria Sanchez. I'm to tell you you're solid, and for a cop, you're a pretty decent bitch." He sipped his champagne. "I assume those are compliments."

"More to you than me, I'd say. Odds are you gave her the best conjugal she's had since they locked her cage, and the best she'll have until it opens again."

"Let's just say that if it should ever be necessary, I'm sure I could use her as a reference. Actually, she was an interesting woman with a very simple outlook on life."

"Which is?"

"The fuckers are all out to get you, so you'd better get them first."

"Somebody ought to sew that on a pillow." When she lost sight of Roarke, her stomach clutched. "Ah, I can't quite see Louise. What was that color she was wearing?"

"I got him, Dallas," Feeney said in her ear. "He's covered on the cam, and Carmichael and Rusk moved in."

"Silver," Charles said with no little surprise. He'd never heard Eve express any interest in clothes. "She looks like she's wearing moonbeams."

"Got it bad, don't you, Charles?"

"A terminal case. I've never been happier in my life. Do you know what it is to find someone who accepts you for what you are, and is willing to love you anyway?"

She searched the crowd for Roarke, settled just a little when she found him. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"It makes you a better person. It makes you... whole. And that's enough philosophizing for one night." He shifted, blocking her view of Roarke for a moment. "Those earrings are absolutely fabulous." He reached out to touch one, and had her earpiece registering the click of finger on metal like a dull gong. "Antique?"

"Yeah." She re-angled her body, tried to zero in on Roarke again. "They belonged to a soldier."

"They're perfect for you. Anything wrong?" He touched her cheek now, drew her attention back to his. "You seem a little on edge."

"Gigs like this make me itchy. People are starting to drift toward the tables. We'd better snag our dates."

"We're sitting together. We'll catch up with them at the table." He took her arm, was surprised to feel the muscles tense, almost vibrate. "You really are itchy."

Short of knocking him down, she wasn't going to shake Charles. And shoving her way through the milling crowd wasn't the way to keep a low profile. But there was a buzz in her blood that told her to get to Roarke, and get there now.

"There's something I need to tell Roarke, but I've lost his location."

The underlying tone of urgency in her voice had Charles looking over sharply. "All right, Dallas, what's going on?"

"Roarke's at three o'clock," Feeney told her. "Twenty feet from your position. Crowd's closed in, but Carmichael and Rusk still have him in sight."

"Dallas?"

"Not now," she hissed at Charles and pivoted to the right. It was raw instinct that pushed her forward. No logic, no reason, but a primal knowledge that her mate was threatened. She caught a glimpse of him through the spark and color. Of polite amusement on his face as he was cornered by a stick-thin society butterfly. She saw Carmichael get elbowed back by a tuxedoed couple who'd imbibed a bit too freely during cocktail hour. The annoyance on Carmichael's face as she jockeyed back into position.

She heard the orchestra strike up with a bright, jazzy tune. Heard the trills of laughter, the gossipy tones as people dished dirt, the shuffle and click of feet as more went on the move.

She saw Louise turn away to speak to someone, and block Rusk's easy path to Roarke.

And she saw Julianna.

It went fast as a heartbeat, slow as a century.

Julianna wore the trim white jacket and slacks of the servers. Her hair was a soft, honey brown-a short, curly cap that was fashioned like a halo around her face. That face was carefully enhanced, carefully composed to nondescript.

She could have passed for a droid, and was garnering just as much dismissal, as she walked easily through the polished bodies toward Roarke.

In her hand she carried a single flute of champagne.

Her gaze flashed up, met Roarke's. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, for she smiled, just the slightest curve of unpainted lips.

"Target sighted." Though Eve spoke clearly, there was too much distance, too much noise between them for Julianna to have heard.

And still she turned her head and looked at Eve.

They moved at the same time, Eve forward, Julianna back. Eve had the small twist of satisfaction of seeing startled temper cross Julianna's face before she swung into the thickest part of the crowd.

"Suspect is dressed as server. Brown and brown, moving west through the ballroom."

She sprinted forward as she spoke, ducking, shoving, flinging herself through startled people. Feeney's relay rang in her ears, had her spinning to the right, knocking hard into a startled waiter. She heard the thunderous crash of his tray behind her.

She caught another glimpse, saw Julianna pass the flute to an oblivious older man before she streaked up the curve of the floating staircase to the second level. People tumbled in her wake like tossed dolls.