J. Robb - Chaos in Death

“Nearly. Lose the tank and sit down. I’ll finish you up.”

She did as he asked, thinking he needed the tending as much as, maybe more than, she. Then his hands—he had magic hands—smoothed the cream over the ache, and she closed her eyes.

“Feels good. Really good.”

“Mira credits your constitution, and your hard head, for the healing process. A couple more days, you’ll likely be good as new. Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You’re not.”

They hadn’t made love since she’d been hurt—and she realized she should have figured why he’d been so careful with her, hadn’t touched her that way, had avoiding being touched by her.

“You’re not,” she said again and, opening her eyes, turned to him. “You won’t.” And took his hand, laid it on her breast. “Feels good,” she repeated. “Really good.”

“I only want to give you time to heal. In every way.”

“I have it on good authority I have an excellent constitution. Let’s test it out.” Going with the instinct that told her they didn’t just need the physical intimacy, but the fun that could go along with it, she tossed her leg over his lap, straddled him. “Get it up, pal.”

Smoothing those magic hands down her sides, he smiled. “You’re very demanding.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.” She took his mouth, gave it a nice little bite as she ground against him. “There you are,” she murmured.

“Well, you’ve left me no choice.”

“A cock’s always ready to crow.”

He laughed, wrapped his arms around her. “Crowing’s not what mine’s ready for.”

“Show me.” She went to work on his trousers.

Amused, aroused, he watched her. “In a bit of a hurry, are we?”

“I’ve got to use you and get back to work, so no dawdling.” Then she laid her hands on either side of his face. “Okay, maybe a little dawdling,” she said and brought her lips to his again.

“I’m okay.” She unbuttoned his shirt so she could press against him. Skin to skin, heart to heart. “I want you to touch me. I want you to be with me. I want you.”

He could drown in her, he thought, every minute of every day he could lose himself in what she was, what she gave him, what she took. Now, with her warm and eager against him, he could drown himself, lose himself, and set his worry for her aside.

She didn’t want him to be careful, but he would take care, of her injuries at least. He gave her the controls, took his pleasure from the rise of her passion, from the sprint of her heartbeat under his lips.

When she took him in, she laid her hands on his face again. Her eyes looked deep into his. “You’re holding back. Don’t. Don’t hold back.

So he gripped her hips, careful to avoid the healing wound. And drove her as she drove him. Over the edge of that drowning pool.

With her brow resting on his, she fought to get her breath back. If anything twinged or ached, she didn’t feel it. All she felt was peace.

“Did you really have business downtown today?”

“You’re my business.”

She lifted her head, looked at him again. “You have to stop worrying.”

“That’s never going to happen. But I will stop hovering, which I’ve been doing a bit of. I love you beyond the telling of it, Eve, and what you went through—”

“We. We went through it.”

“All right, that’s true enough. What we went through doesn’t heal as quickly as a cut or a bruise.”

“Working on it, though. Okay?”

“Yes.” He pressed his lips to her healing shoulder. “Yes.”

“Okay. Well, now that I’m done with you, I’m going back to work.”

He sat where he was a moment as she got up, pulled the tank back on. “I feel so used. I find I like it.”

She rolled her injured shoulder, nodded in satisfaction. “Always more where that came from, ace.”

In her office she set up a second murder board while the cat sat on her sleep chair and watched her. Through the adjoining door she heard Roarke talking on the ’link. Probably dealing with business he’d postponed during the hovering mode.

Better now, she decided. Both of them were better now. Not just the sex, but the understanding that came with it—or out of it. And the normalcy that went hand in hand.

“Nothing normal about that,” she said as she studied the sketch. “Not a damn thing normal there.”

She circled around to her desk, noticed that her message light was activated. She called up the message, and actually jolted when Trina’s voice spiked into the room.

“Got the ugly bastard and the question. Could do the skin, hair, ears, nose, teeth, no prob. Could do the red eyes, but not so they look like red balloons coming out of the sockets. Couldn’t do the jaw, not that crooked. The answer is I couldn’t make anybody look like that, and I’m the best. You’ve got yourself a freakazoid, Dallas.

“You need a treatment—hair, face, body. The works. Mavis says she and Leonardo and Bella can come to your place for a visit on Saturday afternoon. I’ll be with them, and bring my gear.”

“Why,” Roarke wondered, “do you look more horrified by that than by the face on your board?”

“She’s coming. We have to stop her.”

“Don’t look at me. You could use a treatment.”

“Hey.” Though she was anything but vain, the careless comment gave her another jolt. “Insulting my hair, face, and body won’t get you banged again anytime soon.”

“You know very well I adore your hair, face, and body. You could use a massage, a relaxation treatment, and some downtime with good friends. In fact, so could I. I believe I’ll contact Trina and have her bring another operative. I’ll have a massage along with you.”

“Traitor.” She stomped to the kitchen for coffee, stomped back. “I’m not thinking about it. It’s not Saturday yet. Anything could happen.”

She wiped a hand through the air. “So. Everybody says it can’t be done. Not costuming, not physically. But it has to be one or the other. If it’s physical, maybe it’s long-term. Something he’s learned to live with. Peabody’s circus freak angle. And if that’s it, I eliminate everybody on my list.”

She scowled at her board. “Pisser.”

“Maybe one of your suspects hired the killings.”

“I’m going to run probabilities on that, but it rips up the theory—and it’s more than a theory—that the killer knew the vics. That it was personal.”

“Maybe he just takes pleasure in his work.”

“Crap. Crap. Crap. Somebody’s wrong. Either the medical experts or the cosmetic/costume experts. I like it better if the cosmetics are wrong, but I’ve got to work it both ways. I’ve got to go back to the beginning.”

“You can go back with me over a meal.”

It usually helped to do just that, talk it through with him, bounce theories and angles off him. But this time, she felt she only circled without getting any closer to the center.

“I don’t believe anyone looks like that,” she said. “And if I decided to believe somebody did, I can’t believe he’d stay off the grid. I ran that sketch through every program we’ve got and didn’t get a single hit.”

“Maybe it’s more recent.”

“The hypo-whatever, the multiple organ failure—and why isn’t he dead, if so—and whatever trauma would cause the lower part of his jaw to be so dislocated it’s nearly under his right ear? I don’t think so. If he was a hire, how did anybody know about him—because he’d have popped if he was a pro, even semipro. If he killed them for himself, why doesn’t anyone else know about him? Unless . . . maybe he’s a patient at the Center. Maybe he’s a kind of experiment they’re keeping on the down low.”