J. Robb - Rapture in Death

She held on. It was that or slide to the floor. He was shuddering like a man with a fever and she didn't know whether to soothe him or belt him.

"Goddamn it, Roarke." But when he pressed a hand to the wall to keep balance as he swayed, she lost any sense of insult in worry.

"Hey, what is it? How much have you had to drink, anyway? Come on, lean on me."

"No." With the violent need met, his mind cleared. And remorse was a hot weight in his belly. He shook off the dizziness and eased himself back. "Good God, Eve. Good God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Okay. It's okay." He was sheet white. She'd never seen him look even remotely ill and was terrified. "I should get Summerset, somebody. You've got to lie down."

"Stop it." He very carefully nudged away her stroking hands and stepped back until they were no longer touching. How could she bear to have him touch her? "For Christ's sake. I raped you. I just raped you."

"No." She said it firmly, hoping the tone of her voice would be as effective as a slap. "You did not. I know what rape is. What you did wasn't rape, even if it was a little overenthusiastic."

"I hurt you." When she reached out, he held up his hands to stop her. "Goddamn it, Eve, you're bruised from head to foot, and I shoved you against the wall in some fucking closet and used you. Used you like a – "

"Okay." She stepped forward, but he shook his head. "Don't back away from me, Roarke. That's what will hurt. Don't do that."

"I need a minute." He rubbed his hands over his face. He still felt light-headed and queasy, and worse, slightly out of himself. "Christ, I need a drink."

"Which brings me back to my question. How much have you had?"

"Not enough. I'm not drunk, Eve." He dropped his hands and looked around. A closet, was all he could think. For God's pity, a closet. "I don't know what happened, what came over me. I'm sorry."

"I can see that." But she still couldn't see the whole picture. "You kept saying something. Weird. Like liomsa."

His eyes darkened. "It's Gaelic. Mine it means. I haven't used Gaelic in… not since I was a boy. My father used it often when he was… on a drunk."

He hesitated, then he reached out to graze his fingertips over her cheek. "I was so rough with you. So careless."

"I'm not one of your crystal vases, Roarke. I can take it."

"Not like that." He thought of the whimpers and protests of the alley whores that had come through the thin walls and haunted him when his father had bedded them. "Never like that. I never thought of you. I didn't care, and there's no excuse."

She didn't want him humble. It unnerved her. "Well, you're too busy beating yourself up for me to bother, so let's go back."

He touched her arm before she could open the door. "Eve, I don't know what happened. Literally. One minute we were standing there, listening to Mavis, and the next… it was overpowering, vicious. Like my life depended on having you. Not just sex, but survival. I couldn't control it. That's not excusing what – "

"Wait." She leaned back against the door a moment, struggled to separate woman from cop, wife from detective. "You're not exaggerating?"

"No. It was like a fist around my throat." He managed a very weak smile. "Well, perhaps that's the wrong portion of the anatomy. There's nothing I can say or do to – "

"Eject the guilt a minute, will you, and think." Her eyes were cold now, hard as agate. "A sudden and irresistible urge – more a compulsion. One you, a very controlled man, couldn't control? You just pounded yourself into me with all the finesse of a sweaty celibate breaking fast with a rented sex droid."

He winced at that, felt the tear of guilt. "I'm all too aware of that."

"And it's not your style, Roarke. You've got moves, I can't keep up with all of them, but they're all slick, practiced. You may get rough, but never mean. And as one who's made love with you in about every way that's anatomically possible, I can certify that you're never selfish."

"Well." He wasn't quite certain how to react. "You humble me."

"It wasn't you," she murmured.

"I beg to differ."

"It wasn't what you've made yourself into," she corrected. "And that's what counts. You snapped off. Something inside you snapped off. Or on. That son of a bitch." Her breath shuddered out as she met Roarke's eyes, and in them she saw the dawning of understanding. "That son of a bitch has something. He was telling me while we were dancing. He was fucking bragging, and I didn't get it. But he just had to give a little demonstration. And that's what's going to hang him."

This time Roarke's grip on her arm was firm. "You're talking about Jess Barrow. About brain scans and suggestions. Mind control."

"Music should affect how people behave, how they think. How they feel. He said that to me minutes before the performance began. Cocky bastard."

Roarke remembered the shock in her eyes when he'd thrown her against the wall and driven himself into her like a battering ram. "If you're right," his voice was cool now, too cool, "I want a moment alone with him."

"It's police business," she began, but he stepped slightly closer, and his eyes were cold and determined.

"You'll give me a moment alone with him, or I'll find a way to take it. Either way, I'll have it."

"All right." She laid a hand over his, not to ease his grip but in solidarity. "All right, but you'll wait your turn. I have to be sure."

"I'll wait," he agreed. But the man would pay, Roarke promised himself, for wedging even one instant of fear and distrust into their relationship.

"I'll let the performance wind up first," she decided. "I'll interview him, unofficially, in my office downstairs, with Peabody as control. Don't make a move on him, Roarke. I mean that."

He opened the door, let her slip out. "I said I'd wait."

The music was still going strong, and it hit them with a high, gritty pitch yards before they reached the doorway. But she had only to step in and through the crowd before Jess's eyes shifted from his controls and met hers.

His smile was quick, cocky, amused.

And she was sure.

"Find Peabody and ask her to go down to my office and set up for a prelim interview." She stepped in front of Roarke, willed his gaze to move to hers. "Please. We're not talking about just a personal insult here. We're talking about murder. Let me do my job."

Roarke turned without a word. The moment she lost him in the crowd, she worked her way through to Summerset. "I want you to watch Roarke."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Listen to me." Her fingers dug through his neat jacket and into bone. "It's important. He could be in trouble. I don't want you to let him out of your sight until at least an hour after the performance. If anything happens to him, I'll fry your ass. Understood?"

Not in the least, but he did understand her urgency. "Very well." He spoke with dignity, crossed the room with grace, but his nerves were shattered.

Confident that Summerset would watch Roarke like a mother hawk, she wound her way through the audience again until she stood on the front edge of the group. She applauded with the rest, schooled herself to flash a supportive smile as Mavis wound up for the encore. And when the next round of applause rang out, she slipped toward Jess and skirted the controls.

"Quite a triumph," she murmured.

"I told you, she's a treasure." There was a wicked gleam in his eyes as he smiled up at her. "You and Roarke missed a couple of numbers."

"Some personal business," she said levelly. "I really need to talk to you, Jess. About your music."

"Glad to. Nothing I like better."

"Now, if you don't mind. Let's go someplace a little more private."

"Sure." He shut down his console, locked on the code. "It's your party."

"Damn right it is," she murmured, and led the way.