J. Robb - New York to Dallas

“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.