The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [180]
“Arrange for some time off and we’ll go to the Alps for real and you can soak in a tub until you turn into one big pink wrinkle.”
It was exactly what he wanted—to take her away, to see that she was completely healed and recovered. And he imagined he had as much chance of doing so as he had of convincing her to kiss Summerset on the mouth.
The image of that even made him grin.
“Joke?” she asked lazily.
“Oh, it would be a delightful one.” He handed her a flute and, taking his own, climbed in to join her.
“I have to get to work.”
“I know.” He let out a long breath. “Ten minutes.”
The combination of hot water and icy champagne was just too good to refuse. “You know, before you, my breaks used to consist of a cup of bad coffee and a . . . a cup of bad coffee,” she decided.
“I know, and they still do entirely too often. This,” he said and sank a little deeper, “is a much superior way to recharge.”
“Hard to argue.” She lifted her leg, examined her toes for no particular reason. “I don’t think he’s going to give me much time, Roarke. He’s working on a deadline.”
“How much do you have?”
“Not enough. Not nearly enough.”
“You’ll get more. I’ve never known a better cop. And I’ve known more than my share.”
She frowned into her wine. “It’s not out of rage, not yet. It’s not for profit. It’s not, that I can find, for revenge. He’d be easier to track if I had a motive.”
“Love. True love.”
She cursed softly. “My true love. But you can’t have twelve true loves.”
“You’re being rational. You’re thinking a man can’t love more than one women with equal degrees of fervor. But he can.”
“Sure, if his heart is in his dick.”
With a laugh, Roarke opened one eye. “Darling Eve, it’s often impossible to separate the two. For some,” he added, mistrusting the quick glint in her eye, “physical attraction most usually proceeds the finer emotions. What you may not be considering is that he might very well believe each of them the love of his life. And if they didn’t agree, the only way he can convince them is to take their lives.”
“I have considered it. But it isn’t enough to give me a full picture. He loves what he can’t have, and what he can’t have he destroys.” She jerked her shoulder. “I hate all the goddamn symbolism. It muddles things up.”
“You have to give him points for theatrical flare.”
“Yeah, and I’m counting on that to be what trips him up. When it does, I’m tossing jolly old St. Nick in a cage. Time’s up,” she announced and rose out of the water.
She’d just flicked a towel from a heated bar when she heard the muffled beep on her communicator. “Shit.” Dripping, she dashed across the room to snatch up her trousers and pull it from the pocket.
“Block video,” she muttered. “Dallas.”
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. DAS at 432 Houston. Apartment 6E. Report to scene immediately as primary.”
“Dispatch.” She dragged a hand through her damp hair. “Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Officer Delia as adjutant.”
“Affirmative. Dispatch out.”
“DAS?” Roarke picked up the robe to drape it over her again.
“Dead at scene.” She heaved the towel aside and, bending, tugged on the trousers. “Damn it, goddamn it, that’s Donnie Ray’s apartment. I just interviewed him today.”
Donnie Ray had loved his mother. That was the first thing Eve thought of as she looked at him.
He was on the bed, draped in green garland that sparkled with gold flecks. His buttery hair had been carefully styled to flow against the pillow. His eyes were shut so that lashes, lengthened and dyed a deep, antique gold lay against his cheeks. His lips matched the tone perfectly. Around his right wrist, just over the raw and broken skin, was a thick bracelet with three pretty birds etched into hammered gold.
“Three calling birds,” Peabody said from behind her. “Shit, Dallas.”
“He changed sexes, but he’s keeping to pattern.” Eve’s voice was flat as she shifted aside so that the body would be in full view for the record. “There’s bound to be a tattoo