Rapture in Death

CHAPTER TWO

The doctor's name was Wang, and he was old, as most medicals were on off planet projects. He could have retired at ninety, but like others of his ilk, he had chosen to bump from site to site, tending the scrapes and bruises, passing out drugs for space sickness and gravity balance, delivering the occasional baby, running required diagnostics.

But he knew a dead body when he saw one.

"Dead." His voice was clipped, faintly exotic. His skin was parchment yellow and as wrinkled as an old map. His eyes were black, almond shaped. His head was glossy and slick, lending him the appearance of an ancient, somewhat battered billiard ball.

"Yeah, I got that much." Eve rubbed her eyes. She'd never had to deal with a space med, but she'd heard about them. They didn't care to have their cushy routine interrupted. "Give me the cause and the time."

"Strangulation." Wang tapped one long finger against the vicious marks on Mathias's neck. "Self-induced. Time of death I would say between ten and eleven p.m. on this day, in this month, in this year."

She offered a thin smile. "Thank you, Doctor. There aren't any other signs of violence on the body, so I lean toward your diagnosis of self-termination. But I want the results of the drug run. Let's see if it was chemically induced. Did you treat the deceased for anything?"

"I cannot say, but he looks unfamiliar. I would have his records, of course. He would have come to me for the standard diagnostic upon arrival."

"I'll want those as well."

"I will do my best to accommodate you, Mrs. Roarke."

Her eyes narrowed. "Dallas, Lieutenant Dallas. Put a rush on it, Wang." She looked down at the body again. Small man, she thought, thin, pale. Dead.

Pursing her lips, she studied the face. She'd seen what odd tricks death, particularly violent death, could play with expressions, but she'd never seen anything like that wide, goggle-eyed grin. It made her shudder.

The waste, the pathetic waste of such a young life made her unbearably sad.

"Take him with you, Wang. Get me the reports. You can shoot his basic paperwork to the tele-link in my suite. I need the next of kin."

"Assuredly." He smiled at her. "Lieutenant Roarke."

She smiled back, showed her teeth, and decided she didn't want to play the name game. Standing, she put her hands on her hips as Wang directed his two assistants to transport the body.

"You find that amusing," she muttered to Roarke.

He blinked, all innocence. "What?"

"Lieutenant Roarke."

Roarke touched her face because he needed to. "Why not? Both of us could use some comic relief."

"Yeah, your Dr. Wang's a chuckle a minute." She watched the doctor sail out in front of the dead boy on a gurney. "It pisses me off. It fucking pisses me off."

"It's not such a bad name."

"No." She nearly did laugh as she rubbed her hands over her face. "Not that. The boy. A kid like that tossing out his next hundred years of life. That pisses me off."

"I know." He reached out to rub her shoulders. "You're sure it was suicide?"

"No sign of struggle. No additional insults to the body." She shrugged under his hands. "I'll interview Carter and talk to some others, but the way I see it, Drew Mathias came home, turned on the lights, the music. He drank himself a couple beers, maybe took a VR trip, ate a few pretzels. Then he went in, stripped the sheets off his bed, made himself a rope, fashioned a very precise, professional noose."

She turned away, scanning the room, letting the scene into her head. "He took off his clothes, tossed them aside. He climbed up on the table. You can see the smears from his feet. He tied the rope to the light, probably gave it a good tug or two to make sure it was secure. Then he slipped his head into the noose, used the remote to raise the light, and choked himself to death."

She picked up the remote she'd already bagged for evidence. "It wouldn't have been quick. It's a slow ascent, not enough to give him a nice clean broken neck, but he didn't struggle, didn't change his mind. If he had, you'd see scrapes from his nails on his neck and throat from where he'd tried to claw free."

Roarke's brow knit. "But wouldn't it be instinctive, involuntary to do just that?"

"I don't know. I'd say it depended on how strong a will he had, how much he wanted to die. And why. Could have been cruising on drugs. We'll know that soon enough. The right mix of chemicals, the mind doesn't register pain. He might even have enjoyed it."

"I won't deny there's some illegals floating around here. It's impossible to regulate and supervise every staff member's habits and personal choices." Roarke shrugged, frowned up at the gorgeous blue chandelier. "Mathias doesn't strike me as the type for a habitual, even an occasional user."

"People are a constant surprise, and it's an unending wonder what they'll pump into their bloodstreams." Eve jerked her own shoulders in turn. "I'll give the place the standard toss for illegals, and I'll see what I can find out from Carter." She dragged her hair back with a hand. "Why don't you go back up, get some sleep?"

"No, I'll stay. Eve," he said before she could argue, "you deputized me."

It made her smile a little. "Any decent adjutant would know I need coffee to get through this."

"Then I'll see that you get some." He framed her face in his hands. "I wanted you away from this for a while." He let her go and walked into the adjoining kitchen to see about her coffee.

Eve stepped into the bedroom. The lights were low and Carter was sitting on the side of the bed, his head in his hands. He jerked straight when he heard her come in.

"Take it easy, Carter, you're not under arrest yet." When his cheeks paled, she sat beside him. "Sorry, bad cop humor. I'm recording this, okay?"

"Yeah." He swallowed hard. "Okay."

"Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, interview with Carter – what's your full name, Carter?"

"Ah, Jack. Jack Carter."

"Carter, Jack, regarding the unattended death of Mathias, Drew. Carter, you shared suite ten thirty-six with the deceased."

"Yeah, for the past five months. We were friends."

"Tell me about tonight. What time did you get home?"

"I don't know. About twelve thirty, I guess. I had a date. I've been seeing someone – Lisa Cardeaux – she's one of the landscape designers. We wanted to check out the entertainment complex. They were showing a new video. After that, we went to the Athena Club. It's open to the complex employees. We had a couple of drinks, listened to some music. She's got an early day tomorrow, so we didn't stay late. I took her home." He smiled weakly. "Tried to talk her into letting me come up, but she wasn't having any."

"Okay, so you struck out with Lisa. Did you come straight home?"

"Yeah. She's just over at the staff bungalow. She likes it there. Doesn't want to close herself up in a hotel room. That's what she says. It only takes a couple minutes on the glide to get back here. I came up." He drew a breath, rubbed a hand over his heart as if to calm it. "Drew had the door secured. He had a thing about that. Some of the crew leave the locks off, but Drew had all that equipment, and he was paranoid about anybody messing with it."

"Is the palm plate coded for anyone but the two of you?"

"No."

"Okay, then what?"

"I saw him. Right away. That's when I went up to you."

"AH right. When's the last time you saw him alive?"

"This morning." Carter rubbed his eyes, trying to visualize the normality of it. Light, food, mumbling conversation. "We had some breakfast."

"How was he? Upset, depressed?"

"No," Carter's eyes focused then, and were for the first time animated. "That's what I can't get through my head. He was fine. He was joking around, yanking my chain about Lisa because I haven't – you know – scored. We were needling each other, just friendly shit. I said he hadn't scored in so long he wouldn't know it if he did. And why didn't he get himself a woman and come along with us tonight to see how it was done."

"Was he seeing anyone?"

"No. He always talked about this babe he was hung up on. She wasn't on the station. The babe. That's what he called her. He was going to use his next free cycle to pay her a visit. He said she had it all, brains, beauty, body, and a sex drive that wouldn't quit. Why should he play with lesser models when he had state of the art?"

"You don't know her name?"

"No. She was just The Babe. To be honest, I figure he made her up. Drew wasn't what you'd call babe material, you know. And he was shy around women and really into fantasy games and his autotronics. He was always working on something."

"What about other friends?"

"He didn't have many. He was quiet around a lot of people, internal, you know?"

"He use chemicals, Carter?"

"Sure, your basic stimulant if he was pulling an all-nighter."

"Illegals, Carter. Did he use?"

"Drew?" His tired eyes popped wide. "No way. Absolutely no way. He was a total arrow, straight as they come. He wouldn't mess with illegals, Lieutenant. He had a good mind, and he wanted to keep it that way. And he wanted to keep his job, move up. You get tossed for that kind of shit. Only takes one time on a spot check."

"Are you sure you'd have known if he decided to experiment?"

"You know someone you hang with for five months." Carter's eyes went sad again. "You get used to them – habits and everything. Like I said, he didn't hang with other people much. He was happier alone, fiddling with his equipment, diving into his role-playing programs."

"A loner then, internal."

"Yeah, that was his way. But he wasn't upset, he wasn't depressed. He kept saying that he was onto something big, some new toy. He was always onto a new toy," Carter murmured. "He said just last week that he was going to make a fortune this time, and give Roarke a run for his money."

"Roarke?"

"He didn't mean anything by it," Carter said quickly, defending the dead. "You've got to understand, Roarke – to a lot of us – well, he's ice, you know? Solid ice. Rolling in credits, mag clothes, outstanding digs, power plus, sexy new wife – " He broke off, flushing. "Excuse me."

"No problem." She'd decide later if she was amused or flabbergasted that a boy barely twenty considered her sexy.

"It's just that a lot of us techs – well, a lot of people altogether – sort of aspire. Roarke's like the epitome. Drew totally admired him. He had ambitions, Mrs. – Lieutenant. He had goals and plans. Why would he do this?" Suddenly his eyes swam. "Why would he do this?"

"I don't know, Carter. Sometimes you never know why."

She led him back, guided him through, until she had a picture of Drew Mathias that gelled. An hour later, there was nothing left for her to do but put together a report for whoever would be transported in to close the case.

She leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator as she and Roarke rode back to the penthouse. "It was good thinking to put him in another room on another floor. He may sleep better tonight."

"He'll sleep better if he takes the tranqs. How about you? Will you sleep?"

"Yeah. I'd turn it over easier if I had a glimmer of what was troubling him, what pushed him to it." She stepped out into the corridor, waited while Roarke disengaged security to their suite. "The picture I've got is of your average tech nerd with grand aspirations. Shy of women, into fantasy. Happy in his work." She lifted her shoulders. "There weren't any incoming or outgoing calls on his 'link, no E-mail sent or received, no messages recorded, and the security on the door was engaged at sixteen hundred hours by Mathias, disengaged at oh thirty-three by Carter. He didn't have any visitors, didn't go out. He just settled in for the evening, then hanged himself."

"It's not a homicide."

"No, it's not a homicide." Did that make it better, she wondered, or worse? "Nobody to blame, nobody to punish. Just a dead kid. A life wasted." She turned to him suddenly, wrapped her arms tightly around him. "Roarke, you changed my life."

Surprised, he tipped up her face. Her eyes weren't wet, but dry and fierce and angry. "What's this?"

"You changed my life," she said again. "At least part of it. I'm beginning to see it's the best part of it. I want you to know that. I want you to remember that when we get back and things settle into routine, if I forget to let you know what I feel or what I think or how much you mean to me."

Touched, he pressed his curved lips to her brow. "I won't let you forget. Come to bed. You're tired."

"Yeah, I am." She skimmed her hair back from her face as they started toward the bedroom. Less than forty-eight hours left, she remembered. She wouldn't let useless death mar the last hours of their honeymoon.

She angled her head, fluttered her lashes. "You know, Carter thinks I'm sexy."

Roarke stopped. He narrowed his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

Oh, she loved it when that lilting Irish voice turned arrogant. "You're ice," she continued, circling her head on her tensed shoulders as she unbuttoned her shirt.

"Am I? Am I really?"

"Solid ice, which is, as Mavis would say, mag. And part of the reason you're ice, in case you're wondering, is because you have a sexy new wife."

Naked to the waist, she sat on the bed and tugged off her shoes. She flicked a glance over at him and saw that he'd tucked his hands in his pockets and was grinning. Her lips curved as well. It felt very good to smile.

"So, ice man" – she cocked her head, lifted a brow – "what are you going to do about your sexy new wife?"

Roarke ran his tongue over his teeth, then stepped forward. "Why don't I demonstrate?"

She thought it would be better, facing the trip back, being flung through space like a kid's ray ball. She was wrong.

Eve argued, using what she considered very logical reasons why she shouldn't get into Roarke's private transport.

"I don't want to die."

He laughed at her, which had her eyes kindling, then he simply scooped her up and carried her on board. "I'm not staying." Her heart jittered into her chest as he stepped into the plush cabin. "I mean it. You'll have to knock me out to get me to stay on this flying death trap."

"Mmm-hmm." He chose a wide, scoop-shaped chair in buttery black leather, kept her in his lap and, moving quickly, strapped her in, trapping her arms to limit any possible reprisals.

"Hey. Stop it." Panicked, she struggled, wiggled, swore. "Let me out. Let me off."

Her snug butt jiggling on his lap gave him a solid clue as to how he intended to spend the initial hours of the trip. "Take off as soon as you have clearance," Roarke ordered the pilot, then smiled at the flight attendant. "We won't need you for a while," he told her and engaged the locks on the cabin doors the moment she made a discreet exit.

"I'm going to hurt you," Eve promised. When she heard the hum of engines gearing up, felt the faint vibration under her feet that signaled imminent takeoff, she seriously considered gnawing at the safety harness with her teeth. "I'm not doing this," she said definitely. "I am not doing this. Tell him to abort."

"Too late." He wrapped his arms around her, nuzzled her neck. "Relax, Eve. Trust me. You're safer here than you are driving through midtown."

"Bullshit. Oh Christ." She squeezed her eyes tight as the engine let out a powerful roar. The shuttle seemed to shoot straight up, leaving her stomach flopping on the ground below. The g's slapped her back, plastering her against Roarke.

She was barely breathing by the time the ride smoothed out and she discovered that the pressure in her chest was caused by the fact that she was holding her breath. She let it out in a whoosh, then sucked in air like a diver surfacing from a great depth.

She was still alive, she told herself. And that was something. Now, she would have to kill him. It was then she realized that not only was she unstrapped, but her shirt was unbuttoned and his hands were on her breasts.

"If you think we're going to have sex after you – "

He merely swiveled her to face him. She caught the glint of humor and lust in his eyes just before his mouth closed cagily over her breast.

"You bastard." But she laughed as pleasure speared into her, and she cupped her hands behind his head to urge him on.

She'd never take for granted what he could do to her, do for her. Those wild floods of pleasure, the slow, thrilling glide of it. She rocked against him, let herself forget everything but the way his teeth nipped, his tongue licked.

So it was she who pulled him onto the thick, soft carpet, she who dragged his mouth to hers. "Inside me." She tugged at his shirt, wanting that hard, muscled flesh under her hands. "I want you inside me."

"We have hours yet." He dipped to her breasts again, so small, so firm, already warm from his hands. "I need to taste you."

He did, lavishly. The subtle variety of flavors, from mouth to throat, from throat to shoulder, shoulder to breast. He sampled with tenderness, with finesse, with a quiet concentration focused on mutual pleasure.

He felt her begin to tremble under his hands and mouth.

Her skin grew damp as he roamed to her belly, easing her slacks down, nibbling his way between her thighs. His tongue flicked there, making her moan. Her hips arched for him even as he cupped them, lifted them, opened her. When his tongue slid lazily into the heat, he felt the first orgasm rip through her.

"More." Greedy now, he devoured. She would let go for him as she had for no one else, he knew. She would lose herself in what they made together.

When she was shuddering, when her hands lay limp on the carpet, he slid up her body, slipped into her. Mated.

Her eyes fluttered open, met his. Concentration was what she saw there. Absolute control. She wanted, needed to destroy it, to know she could, as he could destroy her.

"More," she insisted, hooking her legs around his waist to take him deeper. She saw the flicker in his eyes, the deep, dark need that lived inside him and, pulling his mouth to hers, scraping her teeth over those beautifully formed lips, she moved under him.

He fisted his hands in her hair, his breath quickening as he rammed himself into her, harder, faster, until he thought his heart would burst from the ferocity of it. She matched him, beat for beat, thrust for thrust, those short, unpainted nails digging into his back, his shoulders, his hips. Delicious little bites of pain.

He felt her come again, the violent contraction of her muscles fisting over him like glory. Again, was all he could think. Again and again and again, as he hammered into her, swallowing her gasps and moans, shuddering from the thrilling sound of flesh slapping wetly against flesh.

He felt her body tense again, revving toward peak. As that long, low, throaty moan slipped through her lips, he pressed his face into her hair, and with one final thrust, he emptied himself.

He collapsed onto her, his mind fuzzed, his heart thundering. She was limp as water beneath him but for the rage of her heart against his.

"We can't keep this up," she managed after a moment. "We'll kill each other."

He managed a wheezing laugh. "We'll die well, in any case. I had intended a bit more romance – some wine and music to cap off the honeymoon." He lifted his head, smiled down at her. "But this worked, too."

"It doesn't mean I'm not still pissed off at you."

"Naturally. We've had some of our best sex when you're pissed off at me." He caught her chin between his teeth, flicked his tongue along the slight dent in the center. "I adore you, Eve."

While she was adjusting to that, as she always did, he rolled off, got lightly to his feet, and walked naked to a mirrored console between two chairs. He laid his palm on it, and a door slid open. "I have something for you."

She eyed the velvet box with suspicion. "You don't have to get me presents. You know I don't want you to."

"Yes. It makes you uncomfortable and uneasy." He grinned. "Perhaps that's why I do it." He sat beside her on the floor, handed her the box. "Open it."

She imagined it would be jewelry. He seemed to thrive on giving her body decorations: diamonds, emeralds, ropes of gold that left her stunned and feeling awkward. But when she opened it, she saw only a simple white blossom.

"It's a flower?"

"From your wedding bouquet. I had it treated."

"A petunia." She found herself sentimentally teary-eyed as she picked it out of the box. Simple, basic, ordinary, one that might grow in any garden. The petals felt soft, dewy, and fresh.

"It's a new process one of my companies has been working on. It preserves without changing the basic texture. I wanted you to have it." He closed a hand over hers. "I wanted both of us to have it, so we could be reminded that some things last."

She raised her eyes to his. They had both come from misery, she thought, and survived it. They had been drawn together through violence and tragedy, and had overcome it. They walked different paths and had found a mutual route.

Some things last, she thought. Some ordinary things. Like love.