J. Robb - Vengeance in Death

It was nearly six feet in length, with ceiling heads angled down to soak or spray. She went for spray, hot, and struggled to ignore the opening behind her as she soaped and rinsed.

Brian had been little help, she mused, though he had promised to put out the word, discreetly, and try to gather any information on the families of the men who'd killed Marlena. A few of them he knew personally and had laughed off the idea of any of them having the skill, the brains, or the nerve to choreograph a series of murders in New York.

Eve preferred to look at police records and solicit the opinion of a professional colleague. All she had to do was nudge Roarke in a different direction so that she would have the morning free to brainstorm with Inspector Farrell.

Confident that would only take a bit of maneuvering, she ordered the spray off, turned to step out of the shower, then yelped as if scalded.

Roarke was standing behind her, leaning back against the wall, hands dipped casually in his pockets.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting you a towel." Smiling, he reached for one on the warming rack. Then held it out of reach. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, well enough."

"I ordered breakfast when I heard the shower running. Full Irish. You'll like it."

She dragged her dripping hair out of her eyes. "Okay. Are you going to give me that towel?"

"I'm thinking about it. What time is your appointment with the guarda?"

She'd started to make a grab for the towel, then pulled back, wary. "Who?"

"The police, darling Eve. The Dublin cops. This morning, I imagine. Early. By, what, nine?"

She shifted, crossed her arms over her breasts, but it didn't help. "I never said I was meeting anyone." When he only lifted a brow, she swore. "Know-it-alls are very irritating to mortals. Give me that damn towel."

"I don't know it all, but I know you. Are you meeting someone in particular?"

"Listen, I can't have this conversation naked."

"I like having conversations when you're naked."

"That's because you're a sick man, Roarke. Give me that towel."

He held it up by two fingers, and his eyes gleamed. "Come and get it."

"You're just going to try to get me back into bed."

Now his smile spread and he moved toward her. "I wasn't thinking of the bed."

"Step back." She held up a hand, feinted to the right. "I'll hurt you."

"God, I love when you threaten me. It excites me."

"I'll give you excitement," she promised. She'd just judged her chances of getting past him and out the door, found them passable, when he tossed the towel in her direction. When she grabbed for it, he caught her around the waist and had her pinned against the wall before she could decide whether to laugh or swear.

"I'm not fighting with you in here." She blew at her wet hair. "Everybody knows the majority of home accidents involving personal injuries happen in the bathroom. It's a death trap."

"We'll have to risk it." Slowly he lifted her hands over her head then scraped his teeth along her throat. "You're wet, and you're warm, and you're tasty."

Her blood fired, her muscles went lax. What the hell, she thought, she had at least two hours to spare. She turned her head and caught his mouth with hers. "You're dressed," she murmured. In a lightning move she tipped her weight, shifted, and reversed their positions. Hers eyes laughed into his. "Just let me fix that for you."

Wild vertical sex was a pretty good way to start the day, Eve decided, and when it was followed by what the Irish called breakfast, it was nirvana.

Eggs creamily scrambled, potatoes fried with onions, sausage and bacon and thick slabs of bread smothered with fresh butter, all topped off with coffee by the gallon.

"Um," she managed, plowing her way through. "Can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't eat like this every day. Whole country'd waddle to their death."

It continually satisfied him to watch her eat, to see her stoke up that slim body that burned off fuel with nerves and energy. "It's a now-and-again sort of thing. A weekend indulgence."

"Good. Mmm. What's in this meat stuff here?"

Roarke eyed the blood pudding she shoveled in and shook his head. "You'll thank me for not telling you. Just enjoy it."

"Okay." She paused for breath, flicked a glance at him. Sighed. "I'm meeting Inspector Farrell at nine. I guess I should have told you."

"You're telling me now," he pointed out and glanced at his wrist unit for the time. "That'll give me enough time to clean up a few details before we go."

"We?" Eve set down her fork before she ate another bite and did permanent damage. "Farrell is meeting with me – as in me – as a professional courtesy. And you know what? I bet she doesn't bring her husband along."

He had his datebook out, checking appointments, and glanced up with an easy smile. "Was that an attempt to put me in my place?"

"Figure it out."

"All right, and you figure this." Taking his time, he topped off both their coffee cups. "You can pursue this investigation your way." His gaze flicked up to hers, glimmered there. "And I can pursue my interests in the matter in my way. Are you willing to risk my finding him first?"

He could be hard, she knew. And ruthless. He was undeniably clever. "You've got twenty minutes to handle your details before we leave."

"I'll be ready."

Inspector Katherine Farrell was a striking woman. Perhaps forty-five, she had hair of blazing red neatly coiled at the nape of a long, slim neck. Her eyes were moss green, her skin the color of Irish cream. She wore a trim and tailored gray suit military in style that showcased lovely legs. She offered both Eve and Roarke her hand and a cup of tea.

"This would be your first trip to Ireland then, Lieutenant Dallas?"

"Yes."

Though her tidy office was equipped with an AutoChef, Farrell poured the tea out of a white china pot. It was one of her small pleasures. And it gave her time to measure and judge the Yank cop and the man known only as Roarke. "I hope you'll have time to see some of the country while you're here."

"Not on this trip."

"Pity." She turned, teacups in hand, a smile on her lips. She found Eve both less and more than she'd expected. Less brittle than she chose to think of American police. And more tough than she expected to find a woman who had married a man with Roarke's reputation. "And you're from Dublin originally," she said to Roarke.

He recognized the speculation in her eyes, and the knowledge. He might not have a criminal record – officially – but he did have a reputation. And memories were long. "I grew up in the shanties in South Dublin."

"A difficult area, even now." She sat, crossed her spectacular legs. "And you have businesses – ah, enterprises so to speak, here still."

"Several."

"It's good for the economy. You've brought the body of Jennie O'Leary back to be waked and buried."

"I have. We'll wake her tonight."

Farrell nodded, sipped delicately at her tea. "I've a cousin who once stayed at the B and B she ran in Wexford. I'm told it was a lovely place. Have you been there?"

"No." He inclined his head, understanding the question between the questions. "I hadn't seen Jennie in over twelve years."

"But you did contact her just before she went to New York and was killed."

Eve set her cup aside with a click of china on wood. "Inspector Farrell, this homicide and the others are under my jurisdiction. You don't have the authority to interview Roarke in this matter."

Tough, Farrell thought again. And territorial. Well, so am I. "All three of your dead were Irish citizens. We have an interest, a keen one, in your investigation."

"It's simple enough to answer," Roarke put in before Eve could fire up again. "I contacted Jenny after Shawn Conroy was murdered. I was concerned for her safety."