Memory in Death (In Death #22)(8)

She could take the noise, the blats and the beeps that thumbed their collective noses at noise pollution laws. The tidal wave of voices rolled toward her, through her, past her. Thousands crammed the streets, the natives clipping along, tourists gawking and getting in the way. People juggling and hauling boxes and shopping bags.

Christmas was coming. Don't be late.

She'd bought a scarf off the street from a smart-ass kid she'd enjoyed. Green and black checks, for Dr. Mira's husband. What would Mira have to say about her reaction to today's ugly flashback?

Plenty. The criminal profiler and psychiatrist would have plenty to say in her classy and concerned way.

Eve didn't give a rat's bony ass.

She wanted home.

Her eyes blurred when the gates opened for her. Blurred with weariness and relief. The great, grand lawn flowed, acres of peace and beauty in the center of the chaos of the city she'd made hers.

Roarke had the vision, and the power, to create this haven for himself, and for her the sanctuary she hadn't known she'd wanted.

It looked like an elegant fortress, but it was home. Just home, for all its size and fierce beauty. Behind those walls, that stone and glass, was the life they'd created together. Their lives, their memories, spilled out into all those vast rooms.

He'd given her home, she needed to remember that. And to remember that no one could take it from her, no one could rip her back to when she'd had nothing, had been nothing.

No one could do that but Eve herself.

But she was cold, so cold, and the headache was tearing through her skull like demon claws.

She dragged herself out of the car, swayed on a hip that now ached horribly. Then she put one foot in front of the other until she'd made it up the steps, through the door.

She barely registered Summerset, Roarke's majordomo, glide into the foyer. She didn't have the energy to spar with him, hoped she had enough to get up the stairs.

"Don't talk to me." She gripped the newel post, and the cold sweat on her palms made it slick. She pulled herself up the stairs, one tread at a time.

The effort had her breath coming short. Her chest was so tight, so tight it felt as if someone had banded steel around it.

In the bedroom, she pulled off her coat, let it fall, dragged off her clothes as she aimed for the bathroom.

"Jets on," she ordered. "Full. One hundred and one degrees."

Naked, she stepped under the spray, into the heat. And exhausted, lowered herself to the shower floor, curled up, and let the heat and force of the water battle the cold.

* * *

That's where he found her, curled on the wet tiles with water beating over her. Steam hung like a curtain. It ripped at his heart to see her.

He grabbed a bath sheet. "Jets off," Roarke ordered, and crouched down to bundle her up.

"No. Don't." She slapped out at him, automatic defense without any sting. "Just leave me alone."

"Not in this lifetime. Stop it!" His voice was sharp, and the Irish in it had a bite. "You'll have boiled your bones in another minute." He hauled her up, lifting her off her feet and into his arms when she tried to curl up again. "Just hush now. Ssh. I've got you."

She closed her eyes. Shutting him out, he knew well enough. But he carried her into the bedroom, over to the platform that held their bed, and sitting with her on his lap rubbed the towel over her.

"I'm going to get you a robe, and a soother."

"I don't want—"

"Didn't ask what you wanted, did I?" He lifted her chin with his hand, traced his thumb down its shallow dent. "Eve, look at me. Look at me now." There was resentment as well as fatigue in her eyes—and it nearly made him smile. "You're too sick to argue with me, and we both know it. Whatever's hurt you... well, you'll tell me about it, then we'll see what's to be done." He touched his lips to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

"I've already taken care of it. Nothing has to be done."

"Well, that'll save us some time, won't it?" He shifted her, then rose to get her a warm robe.

She'd gotten his suit wet, she noted. Damn suit probably cost more than the tailor made in two years. Now the shoulders and sleeves were damp. She watched in silence as he shrugged out of the jacket, laid it over the back of a chair in the sitting area.

Graceful as a cat, she thought, and a lot more dangerous. He'd probably been in one of his hundreds of weekly meetings, making plans to buy a freaking solar system. Now he was here, flipping through the closet for a robe. Long and lean, a body of elegant and disciplined muscles, the face of a young Irish god who could seduce with one look out of those Celtic blue eyes.

She didn't want him here. Didn't want anyone here.

"I want to be alone."

He arched an eyebrow, cocked his head a little so that silky mane of midnight flowed around his face. "To suffer and brood, is it? You'd have a better time fighting with me. Here, put this on."

"I don't want to fight."

He laid the robe beside her, bent so their eyes were level. "If I have the opportunity, I'll take whoever put that look on your face, my darling Eve, and peel the skin from their bones. One thin layer at a time. Now put on your robe."

"She shouldn't have called you." Her voice hitched before she could steady it, and added another tear to humiliation. "Peabody contacted you, I know it. She should've left it alone. I'd've been all right in a little while. I'd be fine."