J. Robb: Vengeance in Death

Lives changed, she mused. And so did reality.

At mile four when her muscles were just beginning to sing, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Roarke, his hair still damp from his swim, moved into place beside her, matching his pace to hers.

"Running to or away?" he asked.

"Just running."

"You're up early, Lieutenant."

"I've got a full day."

He lifted a brow when she increased her pace. His wife had a healthy competitive streak, he mused, and easily matched her stride. "I thought you were off."

"I was." She slowed, stopped, then bent at the waist to stretch out. "Now I'm not." She lifted her head until her eyes met his. It wasn't only her life now, she remembered, or her reality. It was theirs. "I guess you had plans."

"Nothing that can't be adjusted." The weekend in Martinique he'd hoped to surprise her with could wait. "My calendar's clear for the next forty-eight hours, if you want to bounce anything off me."

She heaved out a breath. This was another change in her life, this sharing of her work. "Maybe. I want to take a swim."

"I'll join you."

"I thought you just had one."

"I can have two." He skimmed a thumb over the dent in her chin. The exercise had brought color to her cheeks and a light sheen to her skin. "It's not illegal." He took her hand to lead her out of the gym and into the flower-scented air of the pool room.

Palms and flowing vines grew lushly, surrounding a lagoon-styled pool sided with smooth stones and tumbling waterfalls.

"I've got to get a suit."

He only smiled and tugged the straps from her arms. "Why?" His graceful hands skimmed her breasts as he freed them and made her brows raise.

"What kind of water sport did you have in mind?''

"Whatever works." He cupped her face in his hands, bent to kiss her. "I love you, Eve."

"I know." She closed her eyes and rested her brow against his. "It's so weird."

Naked, she turned and dove into the dark water. She stayed under, skimming along the bottom. Her lips curved when the water turned a pale blue. The man knew her moods before she did, she thought. She did twenty laps before rolling lazily to her back. When she reached out, his fingers linked with hers.

"I'm pretty relaxed."

"Are you?"

"Yeah, so relaxed I probably couldn't fight off some pervert who wanted to take advantage of me."

"Well then." He snagged her waist, turning her until they were face to face.

"Well then." She wrapped her legs around him and let him keep her afloat.

When their mouths met, even the whisper of tension fled. She felt loose and fluid and quietly needy. Sliding her fingers up, she combed them through his hair – thick, wet silk. His body was firm and cool against hers and fit in a way she'd nearly stopped questioning. She all but purred as his hands skimmed over her, just hinting of possession.

Then she was underwater, tangled with him in that pale blue world. When his mouth closed over her breast, she shivered with the thrill of sensation, from the shock of being unable to gasp in air. And his fingers were on her, in her, shooting her to a staggering climax that had her clawing toward the surface.

She gulped in air, disoriented, delirious, then felt it whoosh out of her lungs again when his clever mouth replaced his fingers.

The assault on her system was precisely what she'd wanted. Her helplessness. His greed. That he would know it, understand it, and give was a mystery she would never solve.

Her head dipped back to lay limply on the smooth side of the pool as she simply wallowed in the pleasure he offered her.

Slowly, slyly, his mouth roamed up, over her belly, her torso, her breasts, to linger at her throat where her pulse beat thick and fast.

"You've got amazing breath control," she managed, then trembled as gradually, inch by inch, he slipped inside her. "Oh God."

He watched her face, saw the heat flush her cheeks, the flickers of pleasure move over it. Her hair was slicked back, leaving it unframed. And that stubborn, often too serious mouth, trembled for him. Cupping her hips, he lifted her, moved in deep, deeper to make her moan.

He rubbed his lips over hers, nibbled at them while he began to move with an exquisite control that tortured them both. "Go over, Eve."

He watched those shrewd cop's eyes go blind and blurry, heard her breath catch then release on something like a sob. Even as his blood burned, he kept his movements achingly slow. Drawing it out, every instant, every inch until that sob became his name.

His own release was long and deep and perfect.

She managed to drag her hands out of the water and grip his shoulders. "Don't let go of me yet. I'll sink like a stone."

He chuckled weakly, pressed his lips to the side of her throat where her pulse still danced. "Same goes. You should get up early more often."

"We'd kill each other. Miracle we didn't drown."

He drew in the scent of her skin and water. "We may yet."

"Do you think we can make it over to the steps?"

"If you're not in a hurry."

They inched their way along, staggered up the stone steps to the apron. "Coffee," Eve said weakly, then stumbled off to fetch two thick terry robes.

When she came back, carrying one and bundled into the other, Roarke had already programmed the AutoChef for two cups, black. The sun was staining the curved glass at the end of the enclosure a pale gold.

"Hungry?"

She sipped the coffee, hummed as the rich caffeine kicked. "Starving. But I want a shower."

"Upstairs then."

Back in the master suite, Eve carried her coffee into the shower. When Roarke stepped into the criss-crossing sprays with her, she narrowed her eyes. "Lower the water temp and die," she warned.

"Cold water opens the pores, gets the juices flowing."

"You've already taken care of that." She set the coffee on a ledge and soaped up in the steam.

She got out first, and as she stepped into the drying tube, shook her head as Roarke ordered the water to drop by ten degrees. Even the thought of it made her shiver.

She knew he was waiting for her to tell him about the case that had kept her out the night before and was taking her back on her day off. She appreciated that he waited for her to settle in the sitting area of the suite, a second cup of coffee in her hand and a plate loaded with a ham and cheese omelette waiting to be devoured.

"I really am sorry about not showing up for the deal last night."

Roarke sampled his own buttermilk pancakes. "Am I going to have to apologize every time I'm called away on business that affects our personal plans?"

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and shook her head. "No. The thing is I was headed out the door – I hadn't forgotten – and this call came in. Jammed transmission. We couldn't track."

"The NYPSD has pitiful equipment."

"Not that pitiful," she muttered. "This guy's a real pro. You might have had a tough time with it."

"Now, that's insulting."

She had to smirk. "Well, you might get a chance at him. Since he tagged me personally, I wouldn't put it past him to contact me here."

Roarke set his fork aside, picked up his coffee, both gestures casual though his entire body had gone to alert. "Personally?"

"Yeah, he wanted me. Hit me with some religious mission crap first. Basically, he's doing the Lord's work and the Big Guy wants to play with riddles." She ran the transmission through for him, watching his eyes narrow, sharpen. Roarke was quick, she reflected as she saw his mouth go grim.

"You checked the Luxury Towers."

"That's right, penthouse floor. He'd left part of the victim in the living area. The rest of him was in the bedroom."

She pushed her plate aside and rose, raking a hand through her hair as she paced. "It was as bad as I've ever seen, Roarke, vicious. Because it was calculated to be ugly, not because it was uncontrolled. Most of the work was precise, like surgery. Prelim from the ME indicates the victim was kept alive and aware during most of the mutilation. He'd been pumped up with illegals – enough to keep him conscious without taking the edge off the pain. And believe me, the pain must have been unspeakable. He'd been disemboweled."