The In Death Collection Books 21-25 - J. D. Robb [79]
Her knees had dissolved, and everything above them throbbed with sensation. Liquid excitement, pouring through her as his hands, his lips, tongue, teeth explored. To hear him say her name as he took her over, the music of his voice enticed her even as his hands teased, tormented.
She let herself ride the wave, then let herself melt into it.
Her pliancy, such a contrast to her strength and will, was arousing. Outrageously. Her absolute involvement in him, in them, while everything else around them washed away in pleasure and passion, in love and lust. When he pulled her with him to the floor, she slid down, slid under him like silk. There he had her mouth, warm and generous. Her skin, smooth and fragrant.
Then he was inside her, where there was nothing else. And he let her yielding take him with her.
She could have curled up to sleep on the floor without a word of complaint. Every cell in her body was relaxed and satisfied. But when she felt herself starting to drift off, she shook it off, sat up. And let out a startled yelp when she saw the cat perched on her desk, staring unblinkingly with different-colored eyes.
Roarke studied the cat while he ran a hand lightly down Eve’s back. “Does he approve or disapprove, do you think? He never lets on.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass, but I don’t think he should be watching us while we’re having sex. It can’t be right.”
“Maybe we should get him a girlfriend.”
“He’s been fixed.”
“He still might enjoy the companionship.”
“Not enough to share his salmon fixes.” Because it was just weird to have the cat staring, especially when she was wearing little sparkly red hearts, she grabbed her pants, pulled them on.
As she raked her fingers through her hair, her computer beeped. Galahad jumped a little, then immediately shot up a leg and began to lick his backside.
Tasks complete . . .
“Hey, there’s timing.” She leaped up now, grabbing her sweatshirt. “Plus I think the sex burned the alcohol out of my system.”
“You’re welcome.”
He said it with a laugh, but she’d learned a few things in over a year of marriage. “The way you touched me? It counteracted the trauma that is Trina. This is great power.”
His eyes warmed for her as he got to his feet.
“But the hearts have got to go. Computer, display matches, on wall screen.”
Singular match displayed . . .
“Score,” Eve bellowed when the images flashed on, side by side. “Hello, Deena.”
Flavia, Deena, DOB June 8, 2027, Rome, Italy. Father, Dimitri, doctor, specializing in pediatrics. Mother, Anna Trevani, doctor, psychiatry. No siblings. No marriage, cohabitation on record. No offspring on record. No criminal on record. Last known address, Brookhollow College. No data on record after May 19–20, 2047. Image displayed is of official ID taken June 2046.
“Lovely young woman,” Roarke stated. “Extremely lovely.”
“And she poofs. Early graduation. Computer, search for any missing persons report on Flavia, Deena. International search.”
Working . . .
“Side task. Are her parents still living? If so, where, and under what employment?”
Acknowledged. Working . . .
“Her address was listed at the college, not a residence. No criminal, no marriage, no cohab, and she goes into the wind before her twentieth birthday.”
“And surfaces,” Roarke put in, “a dozen years later to kill the Icoves.”
“Couple years younger than Avril, but they’d have been at school at the same time. Exclusive boarding school, they’d have brushed up against each other.”
“A long way from school chums to partners in crime.”
“Yeah, but it connects them. She saw the image from the center, and didn’t say, ‘Hey, that’s Deena from Brookhollow. Haven’t seen her in years.’ And yeah,” she said, holding up a hand, “a defense attorney’s going to say Avril’s not required to remember everyone she went to school with. That it’s been a dozen years since she got out of college, which coincidentally coincides with Deena’s vanishing act. But it puts her in the same place, at the same time, with the suspect.”
Secondary