J. Robb: Ceremony In Death

She'd never tried one of his auto-assault rifles. It might be interesting to experience how a cop took out an enemy during the early days of the Urban Wars.

She stepped into the shower. "Full jets, on pulse," she ordered. "Ninety-eight degrees."

She wished she had a murder to sink her teeth into. Something that would focus her mind and drain her system. And damn it, that was pathetic. She was lonely, she realized. Desperate for a distraction, and he'd only been gone three days.

They both had their own lives, didn't they? They'd lived them before they met and continued to live them after. The demands of both their businesses absorbed much time and attention. Their relationship worked – and that continued to surprise her – because they were both independent people.

Christ, she missed him outrageously. Disgusted with herself, she ducked her head under the spray and let it pound on her brain.

When hands slipped around her waist, then slid up to cup her breasts, she barely jolted. But her heart leaped. She knew his touch, the feel of those long, slim fingers, the texture of those wide palms. She tipped her head back, inviting a mouth to the curve of her shoulder.

"Mmm. Summerset. You wild man."

Teeth nipped into flesh and made her chuckle. Thumbs brushed over her soapy nipples and made her moan.

"I'm not going to fire him." Roarke trailed a hand down the center of her body.

"It was worth a shot. You're back…" His fingers dipped expertly inside her, slick and slippery, so that she arched, moaned, and came simultaneously. "Early," she finished on an explosive breath. "God."

"I'd say I was just on time." He spun her around, and while she was shuddering and blinking water out of her eyes, he covered her mouth in a long, ravenous kiss.

He'd thought about her on the interminable flight home. Thought about this, just this: touching and tasting and hearing that quick catch in her breath as he did. And here she was, naked and wet and already quivering for him.

He braced her in the corner, gripped her hips, and slowly lifted her off her feet. "Miss me?''

Her heart was thundering. He was inches away from driving into her, filling her, destroying her. "Not really."

"Well, in that case…" He kissed her lightly on the chin. "I'll just let you finish your shower in peace."

In a flash, she wrapped her legs around his waist, took a firm hold of his wet mane of hair. "Try it, pal, and you're a dead man."

"In the interest of self-preservation then." To torture them both, he slipped into her slowly, watched her eyes go opaque. He closed his mouth over hers again so that her shallow breaths shuddered through him.

The ride was slow and slippery, and more tender than either had expected. Climax came on a long, quiet sigh. Her lips curved against his. "Welcome home."

She could see him now, those stunning blue eyes, the face that was both saint and sinner, the mouth of a doomed poet. His hair was streaming with water, black and sleek, just touching broad shoulders roped with subtle and surprisingly tough muscle.

Looking at him after these brief, periodic absences always made something unexpected lurch through her. She doubted she would ever get used to the fact that he not only wanted her but loved her.

She was smiling still as she combed her fingers through his thick, black hair. "Everything okay with the Olympus Resort?"

"Adjustments, some delays. Nothing that can't be dealt with." The elaborate space station resort and pleasure center would open on schedule, because he wouldn't accept any less.

He ordered the jets off, then took a towel to wrap around her when she would have used the drying tube. "I began to understand why you stay in here while I'm away. I couldn't sleep in the Presidential Suite." He took another towel, rubbed it over her hair. "It was too lonely without you."

She leaned against him a moment, just to feel the familiar lines of his body against hers. "We're getting so damn sappy."

"I don't mind. We Irish are very sentimental."

It made her smirk as he turned to get robes. He might have had the music of Ireland in his voice, but she seriously doubted if any of his business friends or foes would consider Roarke a sentimental man.

"No fresh bruises," he observed, helping her into her robe before she could do it for herself. "I take that to mean you've had a quiet few days."

"Mostly. We had a john get a bit overenthusiastic with a licensed companion. Choked her to death during sex." She belted the robe, scratched fingers through her hair to scatter more water. "He got spooked and ran." She moved her shoulders as she stepped into the office. "But he lawyered up and turned himself in a few hours later. PA took it down to manslaughter. I let Peabody handle the interview and booking."

"Hmm." Roarke went to a recessed cabinet for wine, poured them both a glass. "It's been quiet then."

"Yeah. I had that viewing tonight."

His brow furrowed, then cleared. "Ah, yes, you told me. I'm sorry I couldn't make it home in time to go with you."

"Feeney's taking it really hard. It would be easier if Frank had gone down in the line of duty."

This time Roarke's brow quirked. "You'd prefer that your associate had been killed rather than, say, go gently into that good night?"

"I'd just understand it better, that's all." She frowned into her wine. She didn't think it wise to tell Roarke she'd prefer a fast and violent death herself. "There is something odd, though. I met Frank's family. The oldest granddaughter's on the weird side."

"How?"

"The way she talked, and the data I accessed on her after I got home."

Intrigued, he lifted his wine to sip. "You ran a make on her?"

"Just a quick check. Because she passed me this." Eve walked to the desk, picked up the note.

Roarke scanned it, considered. "Earth labyrinth."

"What?"

"The symbol here. It's Celtic."

Shaking her head, Eve eased closer to look again. "You know the strangest things."

"Not so strange. I spring from the Celts, after all. The ancient labyrinth symbol is magical and sacred."

"Well, it fits. She's into witchcraft or something. Got herself the start of a top-flight education. Harvard. But she drops out to work in some West Village shop that sells crystals and magic herbs."

Roarke traced the symbol with a fingertip. He'd seen it before, and others like it. During his childhood, the cults in Dublin had run the range between vicious gangs and pious pacifists. All, of course, had used religion as the excuse to kill. Or be killed.

"You have no idea why she wants to meet you?"

"None. I'd say she figures she read my aura or something. Mavis ran a mystic grift before I busted her for pinching wallets. She told me people will pay most anything if you tell them what they want to hear. More, if you tell them what they don't want to hear."

"Which is why cons and legitimate businesses are very much the same." He smiled at her. "I take it you're going, anyway."

"Sure, I'll follow through."

Naturally she would. Roarke glanced at the note again, then set it aside. "I'm going with you."

"She wants – "

"It's a pity what she wants." He sipped his wine, a man accustomed to getting precisely what he wanted. One way or another. "I'll stay out of your way, but I'm going. The Aquarian Club is basically harmless, but there are always unsavory elements that leak through."

"Unsavory elements are my life," she said soberly, then cocked her head. "You don't, like, own the Aquarian, do you?"

"No." He smiled. "Would you like to?"

She laughed and took his hand. "Come on. Let's drink this in bed."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Relaxed by sex and wine, she fell peacefully asleep, draped around Roarke. That's why she was baffled to find herself suddenly and fully awake only two hours later. It hadn't been one of her nightmares. There was no terror, no pain, no cold, clammy sweat.