J. Robb - Conspiracy in Death

But he was taking the damn things, and he had a purpose.

She rubbed her tired eyes, gave in enough to sit down in her sleep chair. A five-minute break, she told herself, to give her brain a chance to play with this new information. Just five minutes, she thought again and closed her eyes.

She dropped into sleep like a stone into a pond.

And dreamed of Chicago.

The flight home from the coast had given Roarke time to deal with the last of his business matters. So he arrived home with his mind clear. He imagined he'd find Eve in her office. She tended to avoid their bed when he wasn't beside her.

He hated knowing nightmares chased her when business kept him from home. Over the last few months, he'd juggled whatever he could to keep his trips to a minimum. For her, he thought as he took off his coat. And for himself.

Now there was someone to come home to, someone who mattered. He hadn't been lonely before she'd come into his life, certainly hadn't felt unfulfilled. He'd been content, focused, and his business – the many arms and branches of it – had satisfied him.

Other women had entertained him.

Love changed a man, he decided as he walked to the in-home scanner. After love, everything else took second place.

"Where is Eve?" he asked.

Lieutenant Dallas is in her office.

"Naturally," Roarke murmured. She'd be working, he thought as he started up the stairs. Unless exhaustion had finally taken over and she'd curled into her sleep chair for one of her catnaps. He knew her so well and found an odd comfort in that. He knew this case would occupy her mind and her heart, all of her time and skills, until it was closed. Until she'd found justice, once again, for the dead.

He could distract her for short bursts of time, ease the tension. And he could – would – work with her. That, too, was a mutual benefit. He'd discovered he enjoyed the stages of police work, the puzzle slowly put together, piece by piece.

Perhaps it was because he'd lived on the other side of the law most of his life that he seemed to have a knack for it. It made him smile, a bit nostalgically, for the old days.

He would change nothing, nothing he had done, for every step of his life had brought him here. And had brought her to him.

He turned down a corridor, one of many in the enormous house that was filled with art and treasures he'd collected – by fair means or foul – over the years. Eve didn't fully understand his delight in material possessions, he decided. How the acquiring and owning of them, even the giving of them, put more distance between him and the boy from the Dublin alleys who'd had nothing but his wits and his guts to call his own.

He stepped to the doorway where the most precious of treasures was curled, fully dressed, weapon still strapped to her side, in the chair.

There were shadows under her eyes and the mark of violence on her cheek. One concerned him nearly as much as the other, and he had to remind himself yet again that each was a sign of who and what she was.

The cat was sprawled over her lap and woke to stare unblinkingly.

"Guarding her, are you? I'll take over now."

The smile that curved his lips as he started forward faded as Eve began to moan. She thrashed once, a sob catching in her throat.

He was across the room in two strides, gathering her up as she struggled and struck out.

"Don't. Don't hurt me again."

Her voice was the thin, helpless voice of a child, and it broke his heart.

"It's all right. No one's going to hurt you. You're home. Eve, you're home. I'm here." It ripped at him that a woman strong enough to face death day after day could be so beaten down by dreams. He managed to shift her until he could sit, draw her onto his lap, and rock. "You're safe. You're safe with me."

She clawed her way out and to the surface. Her skin was clammy and shivering, her breath a harsh burn in her throat. And she smelled him, felt him, heard him. "I'm all right. I'm okay."

The weakness, the fear snuck out of the dream with her, and left her ashamed. But when she tried to draw back, he wouldn't let her. He never did. "Just let me hold you." He spoke quietly, stroking her back. "Hold me back."

She did, curving herself into him, pressing her face to his throat, holding on, holding until the shuddering stopped. "I'm okay," she said again, and nearly meant it this time. "It was nothing. Just a memory flash."

His hand paused, then slid up to soothe the muscles gone to knots at the back of her neck. "A new one?" When she merely jerked a shoulder, he eased her back to look at her face. "Tell me."

"Just another room, another night." She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Chicago. I don't know how I'm so sure it was Chicago. It was so cold in the room, and the window was cracked. I was hiding behind a chair, but when he came home, he found me. And he raped me again. It's nothing I didn't already know."

"Knowing doesn't make it hurt less."

"I guess not. I have to move," she murmured and rose to pace off the shakiness. "We found another body in Chicago – same MO. I guess that put the memory at the top of my brain. I can handle it."

"Yes, you can and have." He rose as well, crossed to her to lay his hands on her shoulders. "But you won't handle it alone, not anymore."

It was another thing he wouldn't allow, and that made her – by turns – grateful and uneasy. "I'm not used to you. Every time I think I am, I'm not." But she laid her hands over his. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're home."

"I bought you a present."

"Roarke."

The knee-jerk exasperation in her voice made him grin. "No, you'll like it." He kissed the shallow dent in her chin, then turned away to pick up the briefcase he'd dropped when he'd come into the room.

"I already need a warehouse for all the stuff you've bought me," she began. "You really need to develop a control button about this."

"Why? It gives me pleasure."

"Yeah, maybe, but it makes me…" She trailed off, baffled, when she saw what he took out of the briefcase. "What the hell is that?"

"I believe it's a cat." With a laugh, he held the doll out to her. "A toy. You don't have nearly enough toys, Lieutenant."

A chuckle tickled her throat. "It looks just like Galahad." She ran a finger down the wide, grinning face. "Right down to the weird eyes."

"I did have to ask them to fix that little detail. But when I happened to see it, I didn't think we could do without it."

She was grinning now, stroking the soft, fat body. It didn't occur to her that she'd never had a doll before – but it had occurred to Roarke. "It's really silly."

"Now, is that any way to talk about our son?" He glanced back at Galahad who'd taken possession of the chair again. His dual-colored eyes narrowed with suspicion before he shifted, lifted his tail in derision, and began to wash. "Sibling rivalry," Roarke murmured.

Eve set the doll in a prominent position on her desk. "Let's see what they make of each other."

"You need sleep," Roarke said when he saw her frown at her computer. "We'll deal with work in the morning."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. All this medical stuff is jumbled in my head. You know anything about NewLife replacement organs?"

His brow lifted, but she was too distracted to notice. "I might. We'll talk about it in the morning. Come to bed."

"I can't contact anyone until tomorrow, anyway." Burying impatience, she saved data, disengaged. "I might have to take some travel, go talk to other primaries in person."

He simply made agreeable noises and led her to the door. If Chicago held bad memories for her, she wouldn't be going alone.

She woke at first light, surprised by how deeply she'd slept and how alert she was. Some time during the night, she'd wrapped herself around Roarke, legs and arms hooked as if binding him to her. It was so rare for her to wake and not find him already up and starting his day that she savored the sensation of warmth against warmth and let herself drift.