With her body she could give them both a reprieve from whatever tomorrow asked of them.
She let herself fly into it, not soft and slow, but like an arrow loosed from a bow. Hot-tipped and keen. And when his hands, all too clever and skilled, roamed over her, she stopped them, gripped them tight in hers. And conquered him with only her mouth.
His lips, his throat, his chest. That heartbeat pounding, pounding as she feasted on warm flesh, on the quiver of strong muscles.
“You wait,” she managed, ripe with her own power as she released his hands. “You wait.” Undid the buttons to free him.
And gripping his hands again, used her mouth.
She destroyed him. Relentless, agile, she destroyed control, layer by layer. Not eroded, he thought, already half mad for her, but simply burned it away like a brushfire.
The heat, God, the heat was unbearable. Was glorious.
He fought to hold back, swore he felt the world, the whole of it, turn upside down. She took him to the searing edge, left him there all but shuddering, as she worked her way up his body again.
At the end, at his limit, he said her name. Like a prayer, a plea, a demand all in one.
He saw her eyes, just her eyes, tawny as a lion’s with her own power. She said, “You wait.”
He snapped, and answered, “No.”
He rolled her over, pinned her. And freed, his hands had their way.
He ravished, as she had, burned away those layers, as she had. Now he feasted, that lean and limber body his to touch, taste, take. She cried out as she came, a sound that thrilled, pushed him to drive her up again, sweeping her from limp to desperate.
Now the world spun, stealing the air, blurring the vision until they clung to each other, wrecked and ready.
When their eyes met, he plunged into her. Fast, rough, with a violence they both craved in the moment, they drove each other to that burning edge, clawed at it to hold the mad pleasure.
And finally spilled over.
Breathless, they lay like survivors of the wreck, waiting for sense and sanity to seep back.
“You said…” She had to pause, pull in more air through still-laboring lungs, then picked her way through something resembling Irish. “What does it mean?”
She’d mangled it, Roarke thought, but he put it together. “Did I?”
“Yeah, right before we killed each other.”
“Apt then. It’s Is mise mo chiall. You’re my madness.”
She thought it over. “I’m going to say that’s a good thing, under the circumstances.”
Turning his head, he brushed his lips over her hair. “You unravel me, Eve, in thousands of ways.”
“I needed to, I don’t know, burn off the day.”
“I’d say we succeeded there.” He shifted, drew her in so she curled against him. “You’ll sleep.”
“Yeah.” She closed her eyes, breathed him in, began to drift. “You have lights on all over the house when I come home at night, when I come home late.”
“To help you find your way.”
“It’s nice,” she murmured, and slipped into sleep.
The cat, concluding his spot was once again clear, leaped onto the bed to settle in the small of Eve’s back.
Yes, Roarke thought, it was very nice.
* * *
She woke alone and early, considered trying for another ten, then gave it up. Too much to do, she reminded herself, and stumbled across the room to program coffee.
The first life-giving gulp got her system going. She gulped more as she headed for the shower.
Between the coffee, hot jets on full, a quick spin in the drying tube, she felt not only human again but ready to deal with the day. The robe on the back of the door—thin, soft cotton the color of apricots—had to be yet another new one. When she shrugged it on, it felt like she was wrapped up in a cloud.
The man never missed.
And there he was, back from whatever predawn meeting he’d scheduled, sitting on the sofa in a perfectly tailored suit the color of moonless midnight offset by a shirt nearly as magical a blue as his eyes. His tie married that blue with paler tones in thin stripes.
The cat sat with him, content to have his head scratched by those clever fingers while Roarke drank coffee and watched the morning stock reports scroll by on-screen.
“I thought to wake you, but you got an early start.”
“A lot going on.” Since he’d programmed a pot, she poured coffee from the table into her mug. “And I may have to browbeat Dickhead for results.”
Dick Berenski, chief lab tech, had skills—and a thirst for a good bribe.
“What’ll it be this time?” Roarke wondered as she moved by him into her closet. “Single malt scotch, box seats?”
“Browbeat,” she repeated from the depths of her closet. “No bribe. If he even hints at one over this, I may have to arrest myself for felony assault.”
“I’ll stand your bail.”
In the closet, she thought of the interviews, the morgue, the lab, and all that might ray out from them. Too many clothes, too many choices.
Why couldn’t everything just be black or brown?
“If I were interviewing grieving employees and likely family as well,” Roarke said conversationally from the bedroom, “I’d go with somber. But not full black,” he added even as Eve reached for black pants. “I’d leave black to those in mourning.”
Brown, she thought. Brown was somber. She started to reach for brown pants, pulled back again. Thought, Shit.
Gray, maybe gray because it was almost black. But not black.
And she didn’t want to think about it anymore.
It took longer than it should have, and she dressed in the closet to avoid having Roarke exchange one or all of her choices for something else.
Something, no doubt, better. But still.
When she stepped out—gray pants, darker gray boots, a thin navy sweater, holding a gray jacket (she’d spotted the navy buttons, the navy leather cuffs on the sleeves, trim on the pockets), he already had breakfast under warming trays.
“A very somber and dignified choice,” he told her. “And still authoritative and fashionable. Well done.”
“Bite me.” She tossed the jacket over a chair, strapped on her weapon harness. “It took twice as long as black. You’re wearing a black suit,” she pointed out.
“Indigo, actually, but close enough. It suits, we’ll say, my day’s agenda.”
“What planet are you buying?”
“While not buying Mars, as yet,” he said with a smile, “I do have some business regarding the colony. But prior, I’ll attend the first staff meeting at An Didean later this morning. After which, we’ll have a secondary meeting including some of the staff of Dochas, as we’ll want them working together as needs be.”
She glanced over. “You could, potentially, have minors who come to Dochas for shelter transferred to the school.”
“That’s a hope.”
She sat beside him. “It’s a good thing, an all-around good thing. You said when we were in Italy everything’s on schedule.”
“And so it is.” He lifted the warmers.
No oatmeal, Eve noticed—happily. Though she had a feeling the little dish didn’t contain fruit and crunchy stuff over ice cream, but yogurt. Still, the omelets and bacon could make up for it.