J. Robb - Conspiracy in Death

"All right. We're going."

She let herself lean against him until she saw Whitney. Then it was instinct as much as pride that had her forcing her aching body to attention. "Sir."

"Dallas. I regret the necessity of this procedure. Dr. Mira needs to keep you under observation until she's satisfied you're well enough to leave."

"With respect, Commander, I'm free to go where the hell I want."

"Jack." Mira linked her fingers together, felt useless. "She took Level Three."

His eyes flashed, shifted back to Eve's face. "Level Three was not necessary. Damn it, it was not necessary."

"You took my badge," Eve said quietly. "It was necessary." She forced herself straight again, praying Roarke would understand she needed to walk out under her own power. She made it to the door before the trembling started again, but she shook her head fiercely when he turned.

"No, don't, don't carry me. God, leave me something here."

"All right, just hold on." He hooked an arm around her waist, took most of her weight. Bypassing the glide, he walked her to the elevator. "What's Level Three?"

"Bad." Her head was pounding brutally. "Really bad. Don't hassle me. It was the only way."

"For you," he murmured, drawing her into the crowded elevator when the doors whisked open.

Her vision grayed at the edges. Voices from the people who jammed in with them drifted, echoed, and fell away like waves in an ocean. She lost her bearings, and herself, only dimly aware of movement, of Roarke's voice close to her ear telling her they were nearly there.

"Okay, okay." The gray spread, closed in as he guided her to the visitor's parking area. "Mira said how this was just one of the side effects. No big deal."

"What's one of the side effects?"

"Shit, Roarke. Sorry. I'm gonna pass out."

She never heard him curse as he swung her into his arms.

She was out, unconscious or asleep, for four hours. She didn't remember getting home, being put to bed. Fortunately for all parties, she didn't remember Roarke calling in Summerset, or the butler using his medical training to examine her and prescribe rest.

When she woke, the headache remained, but the sickness and the shakes had passed.

"You can take a blocker."

Still dim, she blinked her vision clear and stared at the little blue pill Roarke held out. "What?"

"There's been enough time since your treatment for you to take a blocker. Swallow."

"Not more drugs, Roarke, I – "

It was as far as she got before he squeezed her jaw, popped the pill in her mouth. "Swallow."

Scowling, she did so, more out of reflex than obedience. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

"Sure you are. Let's go dancing."

She squirmed into a sitting position and dearly hoped her head would stay in its proper place on her shoulders. "Did anyone see me go down?"

"No." The hand on her jaw gentled. "Your kick-ass rep is intact."

"That's something, anyway. Man, I'm starving."

"Not surprising. Mira said you'd probably lost everything you'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours. I called her," he added when she frowned at him. "I wanted to know what had been done."

She saw the anger in his eyes, and the worry. Instinctively, she lifted a hand to his cheek, stroked. "Are you going to give me grief about it?"

"No. You couldn't have done anything else."

Now she smiled, let her head rest on his shoulder. "I was pissed off when I saw you there, mostly because I was glad you were there."

"How long will you have to wait for the results?"

"A day, maybe two. I can't think about it. I've got enough to keep me busy until… Shit, where are my clothes? My jeans? There's a disc in the pocket."

"This?" He picked up one he'd set on the table beside the bed.

"Yeah. Mira let me steal it out of her office. It's the profile. I need to read it." She tossed the covers back. "Feeney's got the disc we sent him by now. He should have picked up Wo or be on his way to. If he's already interviewed Wo, Peabody might be able to slip me some data on how it went."

She was already up, pulling on clothes. She was still very pale, with shadows like bruises under her eyes. He imagined the headache was beginning to dull from agony to simple misery.

And there was no stopping her.

"Your office or mine?"

"Mine," she said as she rummaged through a drawer and found one of her stash of candy bars. "Hey!" He snatched it out of her hand, jerked it out of reach as she made a grab.

"After dinner."

"You're so strict." Because her mouth was set for chocolate, she tried a soft-eyed smile. "I've been sick. You're supposed to pamper me."

"You hate it when I do that."

"I'm sort of getting used to it," she said as he pulled her from the room.

"No candy before dinner. We're having chicken soup," he decided. "The ageless cure for everything. Since you're feeling so much better," he continued as they turned into her office, "you can get it while I bring up Mira's profile."

She wanted to be cranky about it. After all, her head was achy, her stomach raw, her system still slightly off. Any other time, she thought as she sulked in the kitchen, he'd have annoyed the hell out of her by keeping her in bed, guarding her like a damn watchdog. But when she'd actually, maybe, appreciate just a little hovering, he was giving her kitchen duty. And if she complained, damn him, he'd smirk at her.

So she was stuck, she admitted, as she took a steaming bowl of impossibly fragrant soup out of the AutoChef. And the first spoonful slid down her throat like glory, hit her abused stomach, and nearly made her whimper in gratitude. She ate another, ignoring the cat who'd homed in on the scent and was wrapping himself around her ankles like a furred ribbon.

Before she could stop herself, she'd eaten the entire bowl. Her head was clear, her system humming competently, and her mood wonderfully lifted. Licking the spoon, she eyed the cat.

"Why is he always right?"

"Just a little talent of mine," Roarke said from the doorway. And, damn it, he did smirk. He crossed to her, tapped a finger on her cheek. "Your color's back, Lieutenant, and from the looks of you, the headache's gone and your appetite's just fine."

He glanced down at the empty bowl. "And where's mine?"

Roarke wasn't the only one who could smirk. She set the empty bowl down, snatched the full one out of the AutoChef, and dug into that. "I don't know. Maybe the cat ate it."

He only laughed, bent down, and scooped up the loudly complaining cat. "Well, pal, since she's so greedy, I guess we're on our own. He programmed the AutoChef himself while Eve stood where she was, lazily spooning up soup.

"Where's my candy bar?"

"I don't know." He took out one bowl, set it on the floor where the cat all but leaped into it. "Maybe the cat ate it." He took out his own bowl, picked up a spoon, and strolled out.

"You've got a great ass, ace," she commented when she followed him in. "Now, get it out of my chair."

He grinned at her. "Why don't you come sit in my lap."

"I don't have time for your perverted games." Because he didn't appear to be moving, she rolled a chair over beside his and studied the monitor. "You have to skim through the shrink talk," she told Roarke. "All the fifty-credit words. Mature, controlled, intelligent, organized."

"That's nothing you didn't know."

"No, but her profiles are gold in court, and they confirm the direction of the investigation. God complex. High level of medical knowledge and surgical skill. Probably duality of nature. Healer/destroyer." Eve frowned at that, leaning forward as she scrolled down the text.

In breaking his oath to do no harm, he has put himself above the tenets of his profession. He is certainly, or was certainly, a doctor. With the level of skill shown in these murders, it is probable that he is currently practicing his art, saving lives, improving the qualities of lives in his patients on a daily basis. He is healer.