Reunion in Death

*** CHAPTER 21 ***

Julianna stormed into her townhouse, heaved her travel bag aside. The hours on the run hadn't chilled her anger, but instead had bottled it up under the rigid cork of control. Now that she was back, alone, unobserved, that cork popped.

She grabbed the first thing in range, a tall vase of delicate English bone china, threw it and its contents of white roses against the wall. The crash echoed in the empty house and set her on a rampage of temper and destruction. She batted lamps to the floor, pitched a large crystal egg into an antique mirror, stomped the already bruised roses into dust.

She upended chairs, tables, spilling precious crockery onto rug and wood until her foyer and living area resembled a war zone.

Then she threw herself down on the sofa and, pounding her fists onto the pillows, wept like a baby.

She'd wanted those few lovely days at the villa. She'd needed it. She was tired, tired, tired of fixing her own hair, of going without the simple necessities of facials and manicures.

And that bitch had ruined it all.

She'd had to leave a brand-new gown and shoes behind, as well as several other lovely outfits. And she'd missed her seaweed plunge and mud wrap.

Well, there would be payment made.

Sniffling, she rolled onto her back. If that little Italian twit in reservations hadn't come through, she might have found herself hauled out of bed by the police. Infuriating. Humiliating.

But that hadn't happened. To calm herself, Julianna breathed deeply and quietly as she'd taught herself in prison. It hadn't happened because she was always prepared, always ahead. And it had been Eve Dallas who'd lost this battle, as she'd lost the others in this newly waged war.

That was enough comfort to give Julianna a slight lift. Imagine, racing all the way to Italy only to find an empty suite. And that clever little message. Yes, that had been a stylish touch.

In any case, she'd come back to New York to work specifically to pit herself against Eve Dallas. So it was foolish to become so upset and overwrought when the woman proved herself to be a skilled foe.

So skilled, Julianna mused, that it might be best to back off a bit. At least temporarily. This last skirmish had unnerved her. And yet…

It was all so exciting. She'd missed this blood rush, this adrenaline spike when she'd been inside. The only way to bring it all to peak was to finish what she'd planned to do.

Destroy Eve Dallas, once and for all.

What better way to do that than by killing the man she was weak enough to love? With the added bonus of going down in history as the woman who murdered the invulnerable Roarke.

It was really all so perfect. Julianna lifted her hands, turned them, and pouted a bit when she noticed she'd chipped a nail.

Eve ran short, unpainted nails over the heel of a black evening shoe. «The Italian police were persuaded to turn over all personal items from Dunne's suite. This shoe is new. There's barely any marks on the sole. It's Italian, but with American sizing. My shoe authority…» she glanced toward Roarke as she briefed her team «tells me this means she most likely purchased it here in New York before leaving for Italy.»

She tossed the shoe to McNab. «Run it, see if you can find out where she bought it, for what it's worth.»

«She's got little feet.»

«Yeah, she's a real dainty man killer. As you're aware, we focus now on the upcoming event at the Regency. Feeney, you're in charge of electronics surveillance, security, and so on. We have the commander's go to put as many men on this as we need. Do. You'll have to keep to background as the subject knows you. She's going to think twice if she shows up and sees a known cop at some snazzy charity deal.»

«They usually have good food at those things.»

«You'll get fed. Peabody, there's a strong likelihood she'd recognize you. She researches and would have studied my aide. You'll remain in the on-site Control.»

«Get your own plate,» Feeney told her.

«McNab, we can risk you. You'll dude yourself up appropriately and work the ballroom.»

«Hey, frigid.»

«If she uses this opportunity to attempt a hit on the target, it's most likely she'll do it as server or staff. Easier to blend, to go unnoticed, to get in close enough to do the job. She'll know the target very well.»

«The target has a name.»

She met Roarke's eyes. «We know your name. So does she. She'll know you have superior security and superior instincts. She'll know you'll be cautious. But she'll also believe that you are unaware you're a target, that you'll feel reasonably comfortable at this sort of event, at your ease with the small talk and the mingling.»

And he would, she thought, while her nerves would be balled up into slippery wires. «She doesn't know, or can't be sure, if I've copped to her moving on you. Her other New York targets have all been similar to her previous choices. You don't fit pattern. She'll consider that one of her advantages. The hit will take form in a drink or possibly some finger food. That means you eat and drink nothing. Nothing whatsoever.»

«It promises to be a very long evening. I have a stipulation here, if you don't mind, Lieutenant.»

«What?»

«The possibility remains you are her target, or that she hopes to take a two-for-one with us.» He inclined his head as he saw this had occurred to her already. «Therefore, you eat or drink nothing right along with me.»

«Fine. The media's already picked up the bone about the large contribution Roarke is presenting to Louise Dimatto that evening. This is an open door for her, and she will go through it.» Eve had thought long and hard about it. «She will. I nipped at her heels in Italy this morning, put the skids on her nice little holiday. She doesn't care to be crossed. She'll be pissed, but she'll also be determined. So am I. So am I pissed and determined to slam that door shut on her.»

She paused, read the faces in the room to see if they understood her meaning. Julianna Dunne was hers. «Feeney, I'll want your input on selecting what remains of the operation team. We'll go over that once we've done a walk-through on-site. We'll meet there, main security office, in thirty. Questions?»

«Not now.» Feeney got to his feet. «Imagine there'll be plenty when we start the walk-through.»

«Then let's save it. Peabody, you're with Feeney and McNab. I'll transport the civilian.»

«And the civilian has a name as well.» Mildly irked, Roarke got to his feet. «If you've a moment or two, Lieutenant, the Peabodys would like to say good-bye before they leave.»

«Fine. In thirty,» she said to her team as she walked out with Roarke.

«You're trying to depersonalize this by referring to me as an object.» He paused at the top of the stairs, took her arm. «I don't appreciate it.»

«That's too bad. When this is done and she's on ice, I'll say your name five hundred times as punishment.» She could see his temper stir. «Give me a break on this, for God's sake. Give me a fucking break. I'm handling this the only way I know how.»

«Understood. But you might understand that it's the both of us doing the handling. And I won't be relegated to a thing, Eve, not even for you.» He took her hand firmly in his. «You've had a year to learn how it works.»

A year? she thought as they walked down. As far as she could tell she wouldn't figure out all the angles of marriage in a hundred years.

The Peabodys were in the front parlor, cozied together on one of the sofas and laughing. Sam got to his feet the minute Eve stepped into the room.

«There you are. We were afraid you wouldn't have time to say good-bye, and give us the chance to say how glad we are we were able to get to know you this way. Both of you.»

«It's been a pleasure having you here.» Roarke held out a hand. «And spending time with Delia's family. I hope you'll come back, and know you're welcome here whenever you do.»

«We'll look forward to that.» Phoebe's gaze rested on Eve, long enough, deep enough to bring on the jitters. «And you, Eve? Will we be welcome?»

«Sure. Um, door's always open.»

Phoebe laughed, then swept forward to catch Eve's face in her hands and kiss both her cheeks. «Still don't quite know what to make of us, do you?»

«I don't know much about roots, but I recognize when somebody's got good ones. Peabody does.»

Phoebe's humor changed to baffled delight. «Why, thank you. That's a lovely gift to take away with us. Be careful, as careful as you can manage,» she added and stepped back. «We'll think of you often.»

«That was well done,» Roarke said when he and Eve were outside.

«I'm not a complete moron.» She yanked open the driver's-side door of her vehicle, then caught herself. Calmed herself and studied him as he was studying her over the roof. «How about if I just call you the Civilian Roarke? You know, like a title.»

«Perhaps if you punched it up just a bit. As in the Awesome and All-Powerful Civilian Roarke. Has a ring.»

She reached over the roof to take his hand. «I'll think about it.»

She ate, drank, slept, she breathed the operation. She could have drawn a detailed blueprint of the Grand Regency Hotel in her sleep. She'd spoken with all of Roarke's key people. Or grilled them like fish, as he'd put it during one of their several heated disagreements on operational procedure.

She had also run thorough and deep background checks on them, and though she'd been mollified and impressed by just how carefully Roarke chose his top security people, she didn't think it wise to mention it to him.

She slept poorly, often waking in the middle of the night with the sick feeling she'd neglected a key detail. The single detail that would lose Julianna.

She was moody, snappish, and continually pumped on caffeine.

She came close to the point where it was difficult for her to spend five minutes in a room with herself, but she kept right on pushing.

The night before the operation, she stood in her office, studying the image of the ballroom on-screen once again while the cat ribboned affectionately between her legs. Calculating the angles she'd already calculated, she arranged, re-arranged the proposed movements of the men who were assigned to the floor.

When the screen went blank, she thought she'd finally blown her eyes.

«That's enough.» Roarke stepped up behind her. «You could build a bloody replica of the hotel with your bare hands by now.»

«There's always a way to slide through a crack, and she's good at it. I want another pass at it.»

«No. No,» he repeated as he massaged her shoulders. «It's time we both put it aside until tomorrow. Take a pass at each other.» He nuzzled her neck. «Happy anniversary.»

«I didn't forget.» She said it quickly, guiltily. «I just thought maybe we could… I don't know, save it for after tomorrow. Until after everything's clear.» She cursed softly. «And when the hell is everything really clear, so that's stupid. But I didn't forget.»

«That's good, as neither did I. Ah. Come along then, I've something to show you.»

«I'm sort of surprised you're talking to me. I haven't been a bundle of joy to be around the last couple of days.»

«Darling, you're such a master of understatement.»

She stepped into the elevator with him. «Yeah, fine, but you haven't been Mr. Smooth yourself, pal.»

«Undoubtedly true. I don't care for anyone questioning or countermanding my orders and arrangements any more than you. Let's have a truce, shall we?»

«I guess I could use one. Where are we going here?»

«Back,» he said, and when the doors opened led her out.

The holo-room was a large clean space of mirrored black. When the elevator closed behind them, he drew her into its center. «Begin designated program, dual settings.»

And the black shimmered, wavered with color and shape. She felt the change in the air a soft and fragrant warmth that had the faint hint of rain. She heard that rain patter softly against the windows that formed, on the floor of a balcony where the doors were open to welcome it.

And in front of her, the sumptuous beauty spilled around her and took shape.

«It's the place in Paris,» she murmured. «Where we spent our wedding night. It was raining.» She stepped to the open doors, held her hand out, and felt the wet kiss her palm. «Steamy with summer, but I wanted the doors open. I wanted to hear the rain. I stood here, just here, and I… I was so in love with you.»

Her voice shook as she turned back, looked at him. «I didn't know I could stand here a year later and love you more.» She scrubbed the heels of her hands over her damp cheeks. «You knew this would get me all sloppy.»

«You stood there, just there.» He walked to her. «And I thought, She's everything I want. Everything there is. And now, a year later, you're somehow even more than that.»

She leaped into his embrace, locking her arms around his neck, making them both laugh as he was forced to take two backward steps to maintain balance.

«Should've been ready,» he chuckled against her lips. «I believe you did that a year ago as well.»

«Yeah, and I did this.» She tore her mouth from his to sink her teeth lightly into his throat. «Then I'm pretty sure we started ripping each other's clothes off on the way to the bedroom.»

«Then in the interest of tradition.» He got two fistfuls of the back of her shirt, yanked hard in opposite direction and ripped the fabric.

She went after his by the front, tugging until buttons flew, until she had her hands on flesh. «Then we—«

«It's all coming back to me.» He pivoted, bracing her back against a wall, ravishing her mouth while he ripped at her trousers.

«Boots.» Her breath caught, her hands kept busy. «I wasn't wearing boots.»

«We'll ad-lib.»

She fought to toe them off as her clothes, pieces of them, hung here and there like rags.

She stopped hearing the rain. The sound was too subtle to compete with the pounding of her blood. His hands were rough, demanding, rushing over her in a kind of feral possession until she could all but feel her skin screaming.

He drove her to peak where they stood, a brutal blinding peak that jellied her knees. His mouth was on hers, swallowing her cries as if he could feed on them.

Washed in the heat, she fell against him. And dragged him to the floor.

They went wild together, rolling over the delicate floral pattern of the rug, whipping all the needs to aching then pushing for more.

There was nothing else. Nothing for him now but her. The way her skin sprang damp as passions ruled her. The way her body lifted, writhed, slithered. The taste of her filled his mouth, pumped into his blood like some violent drug that promised the razor's edge of madness.

He savaged her breasts while her heart galloped under his hungry lips. Mine, he thought now as he had then. Mine.

He yanked her to her knees, his breath as ragged as their clothes. His muscles, primed to spring, quivered for her.

She fisted her hands in his hair. «More,» she said, and dragged him back against her.

She fell on him, seeking to plunder. Her body was a morass of aches and glory, too battered by sensations to separate pain from pleasure. Clashed together, they equalled greed.

She feasted on him, on the hard, disciplined body, on the poet's mouth, the warrior's shoulders. Her hands streaked over him. Mine, she thought now as she had then. Mine.

He rolled, pinning her. He shoved her hips high and drove in, hard. Hard and deep. And held there, buried in her, while she came.

«There's more.» His lungs screamed, and the dark pleasure all but blinded him as she fisted around him. «We'll both have more.»

She rose to him, wrapped around him, matching him thrust for desperate thrust. When the need lanced through him, through heart, through head, through loins, he gave himself to it, and to her.

He rested his head between her breasts. The most perfect of pillows for a man, in his current opinion. Her heart was still thundering, or perhaps it was his. He felt a raging thirst and hoped he'd find the energy to quench it in the next year or two.

«I remembered something else,» she told him.

«Hmm.»

«We didn't make it to the bed the first time back then either.»

«Eventually we did. But I think I had you on the dinner table first.»

«I had you on the dinner table. Then you had me in the tub.»

«I believe you're right about that. Then we managed to find the bed, where we proceeded to have each other. We had some dinner and some champagne before the table was so hastily cleared.»

«I could eat.» She combed her fingers lazily through his hair. «But maybe we can eat right here on the floor so we don't have to move very much. I think my legs are paralyzed.»

He chuckled, nuzzled, then lifted his head. «It's been a fine and remarkable year. Come then, I'll help you up.»

«Can we get food in here?»

«Absolutely. It's all arranged for.» He got to his feet, hauled her to hers. «Give me a minute.»

«Roarke? This is a really nice present.»

He smiled at her, then went to the wall and keyed in something on a panel. «Night's young yet.»

A droid that looked remarkably French wheeled a cart in as the elevator opened. Instinctively Eve tossed an arm over her breasts, the other below her waist. And made Roarke laugh.

«You have the oddest sense of modesty. I'll fetch you a robe.»

«I never see droids around here.»

«I assumed you'd object to Summerset bringing in the dinner. Here you are.»

He handed her a robe. Or she supposed you could call it a robe if you didn't define one as actually covering anything. This was long and black and completely transparent. His grin flashed when she frowned at it.

«It's my anniversary, too, you know.» He shrugged into a robe of his own, one, she noted, that wasn't so skimpy on the layers.

He poured the champagne the droid had opened, then offered her a glass. «To the first year, and all that follow.» He touched his glass to hers.

He dismissed the droid, and she saw he hadn't missed a detail with the meal, either. There was the same succulent lobster, the tender medallions of beef in the delicate sauce, the same glossy hills of caviar they'd shared on their wedding night.

Candlelight shimmered and the music of the rain was joined by something that soared with strings and flutes.

«I really didn't forget.»

«I know.»

«I'm sorry I tried to push it aside. Roarke.» She reached over, closed her hand over his. «I want you to know that I wouldn't change anything, not one thing that's happened since the first time I saw you. No matter how often you've pissed me off.»

He shook his head. «You are the most fascinating woman I've ever known.»

«Get out.»

When she laughed, started to pull back, he tightened his grip on her hand. «Brave, brilliant, irritating, funny, exasperating, driven. Full of complications and compassion. Sexy, surprisingly sweet, mean as a snake. Disarmingly lacking in self-awareness, and stubborn as a mule. I adore every part and parcel of you, Eve. Everything you are is a maddening joy to me.»

«You're just saying that because you want to get laid again.»

«Hope does spring. I have something for you.» He reached into the pocket of the robe and drew out two silver boxes.

«Two?» Dumb shock covered her face. «There's supposed to be two gifts for this thing? Damn it, marriage should come with an instruction disc.»

«Relax.» Yes, a maddening joy. «There are two here because I see a kind of connection between them.»

She frowned over it. «So, it's really like one? That's okay then.»

«I'm relieved to hear it. Have this one first.»

She took the box he offered, lifted the lid. The earrings sparkled up at her, deep and rich multicolored hunks of gems in hammered silver.

«I know you're not much on baubles, and you feel I heap them on you.» He picked up his wine as she studied them. «But these are a bit different, and I think you'll appreciate why.»

«They're great.» She lifted one, and because she'd learned enough to know it would please him, began to fumble it into her ear. «Sort of pagan.»

«They suit you. I thought they would. Here, let me do that.» He rose, came around the table to fasten the earrings himself. «But I think their history will appeal to you more. They once belonged to Grainne Ni Mhaille that's the proper name for her in Irish. She was a chieftain, head of her tribe in a time when such things were not heard of or admitted to. She is sometimes called the Sea Queen, as she was a great sailing captain. So …»

He sat again, enjoying the way the earrings gleamed on his wife. His voice fell into a storytelling rhythm, so fluid, so Irish, she doubted he heard it. But she did.

«Tribal chief, warrior, queen, what have you. She lived during the sixteenth century. A violent age, in a country that's seen more than its fair share of violence. And known for her courage was Grainne. In her life she had triumph and tragedy, but she never faltered. On the west island where she was fostered, the castle she built still stands on the cliff strategically. And there, at sea, or at one of the several strongholds she acquired, she held her own against all comers. She stood for her beliefs. She defended her people.»

«She kicked ass,» Eve said.

«Aye.» He grinned at that. «That she did. And so do you, so I think it would please her for you to have them.»

«It pleases me.»

«And here's the second part.»

She took the other silver box. Inside this was a silver medallion, an oval with the figure of a man carved on it.

«Who's this guy?»

«This is St. Jude, and he is the patron saint of police.»

«You're kidding? Cops have their own saint?»

«They have Jude, who also happens to be the patron saint of lost causes.»

She laughed as she held it up to the light. «Covering all your bases, aren't you?»

«I like to think so, yes.»

«So what we've got here are like … talismans. Good luck pieces.» She draped St. Jude over her head. «I like the idea. Adding luck to those brains and grit you mentioned the other day.»

This time she got up, skirted the table. She bent down to kiss him. «Thanks. These are really good baubles.»

«You're welcome. And now if you want to clear the table…»

«Just hold on, ace. You're not the only one who can give a present. But I have to go get it. Sit tight.»

She hurried out in such a way that made him realize she'd forgotten about the sheerness of the robe. Grinning, Roarke poured more champagne and hoped, for the sake of everyone's physical health, she didn't run into Summerset along the way.

Since she came back quickly, and with no rantings, he decided she'd made the round trip without incident. She handed him a package covered with recycled brown paper.

He identified it by shape as some sort of painting or picture. Curious, as Eve was no art critic, he tore the wrappings.

It was a painting, of the two of them as they stood under the blooming arbor where they'd been married. Her hand was in his, their eyes on each other's. He could see the glint of new rings, new vows on her finger and on his.

He remembered the moment, remembered it perfectly. And the one just after when they had leaned into each other and exchanged that first kiss as husband and wife.

«It's wonderful.»

«I had it done from the disc of the wedding. I just liked this moment, so I froze, printed and got this artist Mavis knows. He's actually a real artist and not one of the guys she knows who just does body painting. You probably could've got somebody better, but-«

She broke off when he looked up at her, when she saw his raw emotions flash his stunned pleasure. It was tough going to stun the man with anything including a steel bat. «I guess you like it.»

«It's the most precious gift I've ever been given. I liked this moment, too. Very much.» He rose, set the painting carefully aside. Then slid his arms around her and drew her in, rubbed his cheek over her with the kind of exquisite tenderness that had her heart spilling out of her chest. «Thank you.»

«That's okay.» She sighed against him. «Happy anniversary. I need a minute to settle here, maybe one more drink. Then I'll clear that table.»

He stroked a hand over her hair. «That's a deal.»