Nora Roberts - Sacred Sins

Saying nothing, she pressed her lips to his shoulder. “You’ve a scar here.”

“It’s old.” He unfastened the snap of her slacks.

Her thumb moved over it. “A bullet,” she realized. There was a dull horror in her voice.

“It’s old,” he repeated, and drew her onto the bed. She lay beneath him, her hair flared out on the dark spread, her eyes heavy, lips parted. “I’ve wanted you here. I can’t tell you how much or how often.”

She reached up and touched her fingertips to his face. Along his jawline was the beginnings of his beard. Beneath, just above where his pulse beat, the skin was smooth. “You can show me.”

When he grinned, she discovered she was relaxed and waiting for him.

His experience might have been greater, but his need wasn’t. Hers had been under tight control and was ripe and hungry now that it was set free. They rolled over the bed, damp and naked, forgetting the civilized, the ordinary.

The spread rumpled and tangled beneath them. He swore at it, then pulled her free and on top of him. Her breasts were small and pale. He cupped one then both in his hands. He heard her murmur of pleasure as he watched her eyes close with it. Then she was pulling him to her, and her mouth was like a fever.

His intention to treat her as a lady, with care and gentleness, was abandoned when her arms and legs wrapped around him. Here, she wasn’t the cool and classy Dr. Court, but a woman as passionate and demanding as any man could want. Her skin was soft, fragile to the touch, but slicked with desire. He skimmed his tongue over it, thirsting for her.

She arched against him, letting needs, fantasies, passions have their way. Here and now were all that mattered. What was outside was removed, distant. He was real, and vital, and important. The rest of the world could wait.

Candlelight flickered, gutted, and went out.

Hours later, he awoke, cold. The spread was bundled at the foot of the bed. Tess was curled in a ball beside him, naked, her hair curtaining her face. He rose and pulled the covers over her. Even the moonlight was gone now. For a while he just stood over the bed, looking down at her as she slept. The cat padded into the room as Ben walked quietly out.

Doctors and Cops. Those in either profession know they will rarely have a day that begins at nine and ends at five. They understand that they’ve chosen a career where the divorce and burnout rates are high, the demands many, and the emotional toll extreme. Phone calls spoil dinner parties, sex, and sleep. It’s part of the job description.

When the phone rang, Tess reached over automatically. And picked up a candlestick. On the other side of the bed Ben swore, knocked over an ashtray, and found the phone.

“Yeah, Paris.” In the dark he ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away sleep. “Where?” Instantly awake, he switched on the lamp. The cat curled on Tess’s stomach growled a complaint then leaped aside as she braced herself on her elbows. “Keep him there. I’m on my way.” Ben hung up the phone and stared at the light sheen of frost on the window.

“He didn’t wait, did he?”

The light fell harshly over his face as he turned to look at her. She gave a quick, involuntary shudder. His eyes were hard-not weary, not regretful, but hard. “No, he didn’t wait.”

“Do they have him?”

“No, but it looks like we’ve got a witness.” As he rolled out of bed he grabbed his jeans. “I don’t know how long I’ll be but you can wait here, get some more sleep. I’ll fill you in when… What are you doing?”

She stood on the opposite side of the bed, dragging on her sweater. “Going with you.”

“Forget it.” His legs disappeared into the jeans, but he left the pants unsnapped as he pulled open a drawer for a sweater. “There’s nothing you can do at a murder scene but get in the way.” In the mirror above his dresser he saw her head snap up. “Its still shy of five, for Christ’s sake. Go back to bed.”

“Ben, I’m involved in this case.”

He turned. She wore only the sweater that skimmed her thighs. He remembered the material had been thick and soft when he’d drawn it off of her. Her slacks were balled in her hands and her hair was rumpled from the pillow, but it was the psychiatrist facing him, not the woman. Something inside of him curdled. He yanked his own sweater on, then walked to the closet for his shoulder holster. “This is a homicide. It’s not like going to look at somebody’s who’s been painted up nice to lie in a casket.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“I know what you are.” He checked his gun, then hitched the holster on.

“Ben, it’s possible I could see something, some detail that would give me a clue to his mind.”

“Fuck his mind.”

Saying nothing, she shook out her slacks, stepped into them, then fastened them in place. “I understand how you feel, and I’m sorry.”

“Yeah?” He sat down to pull on his boots but continued to watch her. “You think you know how I feel? Well, let me tell you anyway. There’s a dead woman a few miles from here. Somebody put a scarf around her neck and pulled until she couldn’t breathe anymore. She’d have kicked and pulled at the scarf with her hands and tried to scream, but she wouldn’t have been able to. So she’s dead, but she’s not a name on a list yet. She’s still a person. For a little while longer she’s still a person.”

She would have reached out to him if she’d thought there was a chance he’d accept it. Instead she fastened her belt and kept her voice neutral. “Don’t you think I understand that?”

“I’m not sure you do.”

They studied each other a moment longer, each dedicated, each frustrated, each coming from different backgrounds and beliefs. It was Tess who accepted it first. “I either go with you now or I call the mayor and end up five minutes behind you. Sooner or later you’ve got to start working with me.”

He’d just spent the night with her. He’d poured himself into her three times during the night. He’d felt her body rock and buck and shudder. Now they were talking murder and politics. The femininity, the softness, even the shyness he’d taken to bed were still there, but beneath was a core of toughness, a self-possession he’d recognized from the first. Studying her, he saw she would go no matter what he said, what he did.

“All right. You go with me and get an up-close look. Maybe after you see her, you’ll stop letting your heart bleed for the man who did her.”

She bent for her shoes. The bed was between them, but it was as if they’d never shared it. “I suppose it’s no use reminding you I’m on your side.” He was reaching for his wallet and shield, and said nothing. Tess saw her earrings on his nightstand, a little thing of great intimacy. She scooped them up and dropped them in her pocket. “Where are we going?”

“An alley near Twenty-third and M.”

“Twenty-third and M? That’s only a couple of blocks from my place.”

He didn’t bother to look at her. “I know.”

The streets were deserted. The bars would have closed at one. Most private parties would have waned by three. Washington was a political town, and though its night spots ranged from the elite to the sleazy, it didn’t have the energy of a New York or Chicago. Drug deals around Fourteenth and U were a life-style away. Even the hookers would have called it a night.

Now and then the leaves that had fallen rushed along the sidewalk then stopped, victims of the sporadic wind. They drove past blank storefronts and boutiques with neon sweaters in the windows. Ben lit a cigarette and let the familiar taste of Virginia tobacco ease some of the tension.