The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [487]
That she could have lived with. That was the job, and she had learned how to channel all thoughts and energies into the job during the months she’d worked under Eve.
What she couldn’t live with, and what spread a thin layer of cranky over fatigue, was the fact that a great deal of her thoughts—and not pure ones—and entirely too much of her energies had been centered on McNab during the long night.
She hadn’t been able to talk to Zeke. Not about this sudden weird compulsion for McNab. McNab, for Christ’s sake. And she hadn’t wanted to talk about the bombing at The Plaza.
He’d seemed distracted himself, she thought now, and they’d circled each other the night before and again that morning.
She’d make it up to him, Peabody promised herself. She’d carve out a couple of hours that night and take him to some funky little club for a meal and music. Zeke loved music. It would do them both good, she decided as she stepped off the guide and tried to rub the stiffness out of the back of her neck.
She turned toward the conference room and rammed straight into McNab. He sprang back, collided with a pair of uniforms who toppled into a clerk from Anticrime.
Nobody took his apology very well, and he was red-faced and sweaty by the time he managed to look Peabody in the eye again. “You, ah, heading into the meeting.”
“Yeah.” She tugged at her uniform coat. “Just now.”
“Me, too.” They stared at each other a moment while people shoved by them.
“You shake anything loose on Apollo?”
“Not much.” She cleared her throat, tugged her coat again, and finally managed to start moving. “The lieutenant’s probably waiting.”
“Yeah, right.” He fell into step beside her. “You get any sleep?”
She thought of warm slick bodies . . . and stared straight ahead. “Some.”
“Me, either.” His jaw ached from gritting his teeth, but it had to be said. “Look, about yesterday.”
“Forget it.” She snapped it out.
“I already have. But if you’re going to walk around all tight-assed about it—”
“I’ll walk any way I want, and you just keep your hands off me, you moron, or I’ll rip your lungs out and use them for bagpipes.”
“Same goes, sweetheart. I’d rather kiss the back end of an alley cat.”
Her breath was coming quick now. Outrage. “I bet that’s just your style.”
“Better that than a stiff-necked uniform with an attitude.”
“Asshole.”
“Twit.”
They turned together into an empty office, slammed the door. And leapt at each other.
She bit his lip. He nipped her tongue. She body pressed him against the wall. He managed to get his hands under her thick coat to squeeze her ass. The moans that ripped from their throats came out as one single, tortured sound.
Then her back was against the wall and he filled his hands with her breasts.
“Oh God, you’re built. You are so built.”
He was kissing her as if he could swallow her whole. As if the universe centered on that one taste. Her head was spinning too fast for her to catch her own thoughts. And somehow the bright buttons of her uniform were open and his fingers were on her flesh.
Who’d have thought the man had such fabulous fingers?
“We can’t do this.” Even as she said it she was scraping her teeth along his throat.
“I know. We’ll stop. In a minute.” The scent of her—all starch and soap—was driving him crazy. He was fighting with her bra when the ’link behind them beeped and had them both muffling a scream.
Panting like dogs, clothes twisted, eyes glazed, they stared at each other with a kind of horror. “Holy God,” he managed.
“Step back, step back.” She shoved him hard enough to knock him back on his heels and began to fumble with her buttons. “It’s the pressure. It’s the stress. It’s something, because this is not happening.”
“Right, absolutely. If I don’t have sex with you, I think I’m going to die.”
“If you’d die, I wouldn’t have this problem.” She did her buttons up wrong, swore, and fumbled them open again.
Watching her, he felt his tongue go thick. “Having