The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [94]
“I married a bloody criminal,” Eve muttered, “but nobody ever thinks of that.”
“I do, darling.” Amused, Roarke kissed her hand. “Constantly.”
Brian let go another of his rollicking laughs and poured another shot. “Here’s to the pair of you. And to the icicles that are forming in Hell.”
He’d have to postpone the next.
He prayed for patience. After all, he’d waited so long already. But it was a sign from God, he understood that. He had veered from the path, acted on his own desires, when he had planted the bomb in her car.
He had sinned, and so prayed for forgiveness as well as patience. He had only to listen to the guiding force. He knew that, and was repentant. Tears blurred his vision as he knelt, accepting his penance, his punishment for his conceit and arrogance.
Like Moses, he had faltered in his mission and tested God.
The rosaries clinked musically in his hands as he moved from bead to bead, from decade to decade with a practiced ease and a deep devotion.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
He used no cushion for his knees, for he’d been taught that forgiveness demanded pain. Without it, he would have felt himself uncleansed. Votive candles, white for purity, flickered and carried the faint smell of wax pooling on wax.
Between them, the image of the Virgin watched him silently. Forgivingly.
His face was shadowed by the candlelight, and aglow with the visions of his own salvation.
Blessed art thou among women.
The anthem to the Virgin Mother was his favorite prayer, and no penance at all. It was comfort. As he completed the fifth of the nine rosaries he’d been given as penance, he pondered the Sorrowful Mysteries. He cleared his mind of worldly cares and carnal thoughts.
Like Mary, he was a virgin. He had been taught that his innocence and his purity were the paths to glory. Whenever lust crept its stealthy way into his heart, heating his blood, slickening his skin, he fought that whispering demon with all his might. Both his body, well trained, and his mind, well honed, were dedicated to his faith.
And the seeds of his faith were sown in blood, rooted in vengeance, and bloomed with death.
chapter fifteen
Eve could hear the low murmur of an international news report from the parlor screen when she awoke. Her body clock was a mass of confusion. She figured it was still the middle of the night according to her system, and a nice, rainy dawn where her body happened to be.
She didn’t think Roarke had slept long, but accepted that he needed less sleep than anyone she’d ever known. He hadn’t been talkative when they’d gotten back from the Penny Pig the night before, but he had been . . . hungry.
He’d made love like a man desperate to find something, or to lose it, and she had little choice but to grab hold and join the ride.
Now he’d already been up and working, she imagined. Scanning the news reports, the stock reports, making calls, pushing buttons. She decided it was best to leave him to it until her mind cleared.
She eyed the bathroom shower dubiously. It was a three-sided affair of white tile that left the user’s butt exposed to the room. Search as she might, she found no mechanism that would close her in and protect her privacy.
It was nearly six feet in length, with ceiling heads angled down to soak or spray. She went for spray, hot, and struggled to ignore the opening behind her as she soaped and rinsed.
Brian had been little help, she mused, though he had promised to put out the word, discreetly, and try to gather any information on the families of the men who’d killed Marlena. A few of them he knew personally and had laughed off the idea of any of them having the skill, the brains, or the nerve to choreograph a series of murders in New York.
Eve preferred to look at police records and solicit the opinion of a professional colleague. All she had to do was nudge Roarke in a different direction so that she would have the morning free to brainstorm with Inspector Farrell.
Confident that would