The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [397]
“I wanted to hurt him,” she continued. “Personally. I wanted to ram my fist into his face until I erased it. Erased him.”
“Instead you walked away.” He crossed to her, certain she was unaware that her cheeks were wet. “Because you’ll erase him by stopping him, by putting him in a cage for the rest of his life. Eve.” He framed her face in his hands, brushed at the damp with his thumbs. “Darling Eve, you’re exhausted, right down to the bone. If you don’t rest, who’ll stand for those women?”
She lifted her hands to his wrists. “The dream I had, the last one, with my father standing there bleeding from dozens of holes I’d put in him. He said I’d never be rid of him. He was right. You take one down and another one’s right there. Right there waiting. I can’t sleep, because I’ll see them.”
“Not tonight.” He drew her in. “We won’t let them come in tonight. If you won’t sleep . . .” He brushed his lips over her temple. “. . . you’ll rest.”
He picked her up, carried her back to the sofa.
“What are we doing?”
“We’ll watch a movie,” he told her.
“A movie. Roarke—”
“It’s something you don’t do enough of.” He laid her down, selected a film disc. “Go outside yourself and into make-believe. Dramas or comedies, joys and sorrows that pull you away from your own for a bit of time.”
He came back, slid behind her, and tucked her head on his shoulder. “I’ve told you about this one, Magda Lane. It took me out of my own miseries once.”
It felt so good to lie with him, to have his arm hooked cozily around her waist. The opening music swept into the room, color and costume swirled on-screen. “How many times have you seen this?” she asked him.
“Oh, dozens, I suppose. Shh. You’ll miss the opening lines.”
She watched, and when her lids drooped, she listened. Then she slept.
When she woke, it was quiet, and it was dark, and his arm was still around her. Fatigue wanted to drag her back under, but she willed it back and turned her wrist up to check the time.
Already after five, she thought. She’d had a solid three hours’ sleep, and it would have to be enough. But when she started to move, Roarke’s arm tightened.
“Take a few minutes more.”
“Can’t. It’s going to take a half hour in the shower to beat my brain back into shape. I wonder if I can take a shower lying down.”
“It’s called a bath.”
“Not the same.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“I’m not whispering.” She cleared her throat. And felt as if she’d swallowed splinters of glass. “Just a little hoarse.”
“Lights on, ten percent.” In the dim glow he nudged her onto her back. “Pale as a ghost, too,” he said and laid a hand on her brow. Something like panic ran over his face. “I think you’re running a fever.”
“I am not.” If he could feel panic at the thought of illness, she could feel fear. “I’m not sick. I don’t get sick.”
“You don’t sleep more than a handful of hours in a week and live on coffee, you get sick. Damn it, Eve, you’ve sabotaged your immune system once too often.”
“I have not.” She started to sit up, then plopped back when the room spun. “I’m just getting my bearings.”
“I ought to strap you in bed for the next month. You need a bloody keeper.” He rolled off the sofa, strode to the house ’link.
“I don’t know what you’re so pissed off about.” Her voice was perilously close to a whine, and appalled her. “I’m just a little muggy yet.”
“You set a single toe off that sofa, and I’m hauling you to the doctor.”
“You just try it, pal, and we’ll see who needs medical attention.” Since the threat came out in a wheeze, it wasn’t particularly effective.
Roarke simply glared at her, and snapped into the ’link. “Summerset. Eve’s ill. I need you up here.”
“What? What are you doing?” She shoved herself up, nearly gained her feet before Roarke stalked back and held her down. “He’s not touching me. He lays one hand on me and I’m beating you both