Midnight in Death (In Death #7.5)(11)

It was all she managed before he leapt at her and took her out with a mid-body tackle.

“Bastard.” She nearly giggled it even as she scissored up and managed to roll on top of him. But he used the impetus to keep going until he had her pinned again. “Beautiful, my ass.”

“Your ass is beautiful.” The elbow to his gut knocked some of the breath out of him, but he sucked more in. “And so’s the rest of you. I’m going to have your beautiful ass, and the rest of you.”

She bucked, twisted, nearly managed to slip out from under him. Then his mouth closed over her breast, sucking, nipping through her shirt. She moaned, arched up against him, and the fist she’d clenched in his hair dragged him closer rather than yanking him away.

When he tore at her shirt, she reared up, hooking strong, long legs around his waist, finding his mouth with hers again as he pushed back to kneel in the center of the bed.

They went over in a tangle of limbs, hands rough and groping. And flesh began to slide damply over flesh.

He took her up and over the first time, hard and fast, those clever fingers knowing her weaknesses, her strengths, her needs. Quivering, crying out, she let herself fly on the edgy power of the climax.

Then they were rolling again, gasps and moans and murmurs. Heat coming in tidal waves, nerves raw and needy. Her mouth was a fever on his as she straddled him.

“Let me, let me, let me.” She chanted it against his mouth as she rose up. Her hands linked tight to his as she took him inside her. He filled her, body, mind, heart.

Fast and full of fury, she drove them both as she’d needed to from the moment he’d come into the room. It flooded into her, swelled inside her, that unspeakable pleasure, the pressure, the frantic war to end, to prolong.

She threw her head back, clung to it, that razor’s edge. “Go over,” She panted it out, fighting to clear her vision, to focus on that glorious face. “Go over first, and take me with you.”

She watched his eyes, that staggering blue go dark as midnight, felt him leap over with one last, hard thrust. With her hands still locked in his, she threw herself over with him.

And when the energy slid away from her like wax from a melting candle, she slipped down, quivering even as she pressed her face into his neck.

“I won,” she managed.

“Okay.”

Her lips twitched at the smug, and exhausted, satisfaction in his voice. “I did. I got just what I wanted from you, pal.”

“Thank Christ.” He shifted until he could cradle her against him. “Take a nap, Eve.”

“Just an hour.” Knowing he would never sleep longer than that himself, she wrapped around him to keep him close.

When she woke at two a. m., Eve decided the brief pre-dinner nap had thrown her system off. Now she was fully awake, her mind engaged and starting to click through the information and evidence she had so far.

David Palmer was here, in New York. Somewhere out in the city, happily going about his work. And her gut told her Stephanie Ring was already dead.

He wouldn’t have such an easy time getting to the others on his list, she thought as she turned in bed. Ego would push him to try, and he’d make a mistake. In all likelihood he’d already made one. She just hadn’t picked up on it yet.

Closing her eyes, she tried to slip into Palmer’s mind, as she had years before when she’d been hunting him.

He loved his work, had loved it even when he’d been a boy and doing his experiments on animals. He’d managed to hide those little deaths, to put on a bright, innocent face. Everyone who’d known him—parents, teachers, neighbors—had spoken of a cheerful, helpful boy, a bright one who studied hard and caused no trouble.

Yet some of the classic elements had been there, even in childhood. He’d been a loner, obsessively neat, compulsively organized. He’d never had a healthy sexual relationship and had been socially awkward with women. They’d found hundreds of journal discs, going back to his tenth year, carefully relating his theories, his goals, and his accomplishments.

And with time, with practice, with study, he’d gotten very, very good at his work.

Where would you set up, Dave? It would have to be somewhere comfortable. You like your creature comforts. You must have hated the lack of them in prison. Pissed you off, didn’t it? So now you’re coming after the ones who put you there.

That’s a mistake, letting us know the marks in advance. But it’s ego, too. It’s really you against me.

That’s another mistake, because no one knows you better.

A house, she thought. But not just any house. It would have to be in a good neighborhood, close to good restaurants. Those years of prison food must have offended your palate. You’d need furniture, comfortable stuff, with some style. Linens, good ones. And an entertainment complex—got to watch the screen or you won’t know what people are saying about you.

And all that takes money.

When she sat up in bed, Roarke stirred beside her. “Figure it out?”

“He’s got a credit line somewhere. I always wondered if he had money stashed, but it didn’t seem to matter since he was never getting out to use it. I was wrong. Money’s power, and he found a way to use it from prison.”

She tossed back the duvet, started to leap out of bed when the ‘link beeped. She stared at it a moment, and knew.

Chapter Five