Witness in Death

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mira studied the record of the interview with Kenneth Stiles. She sipped her tea while Eve paced. In another five minutes, she would have been on her way home. Eve had caught her as she'd been locking up.

Now she would be late. That thought shifted through the back of her mind as she focused on the interview. Her husband would understand, particularly if she made a quick detour on the way and picked up a carton of his favorite ice cream.

She'd learned long ago the tricks and balances of blending a demanding career and a successful marriage.

"You and Feeney are an excellent interview team," she commented. "You read each other well."

"We've been doing it awhile." Eve wanted to hurry Mira along but knew better. "I think he's been practicing that hard-ass look in the mirror."

That brought out a smile. "I imagine so. Given his comfortable face, it's surprisingly effective. Am I correct in assuming you don't believe Stiles told the whole truth?"

"Are you ever wrong?"

"Now and again. You're looking for this Anja Carvell?"

"Peabody's tracking her."

"He had, and has, strong feelings for her. I'd say she was a turning point for him. If it had been a storybook, the woman would have come to him after he defended her. Happily ever after. But – "

"She didn't want him."

"Or didn't love him enough, felt unworthy, humiliated, scarred." Mira lifted a hand. "There are countless reasons why she and Stiles didn't match. Without observing her, I couldn't say. Still, it's Stiles's emotional and mental state that interests you."

"Peabody's idea is that this woman was the love of his life, and because of that, he'd never have completely lost touch with her."

"I think Peabody has good instincts. He protected her, defended her. A man with his sense of theater or drama would tend to put himself in the role of hero, and she his damsel in distress. He may very well still be doing so."

"She's key," Eve murmured. "Maybe not the key, but a key." With her hands in her pockets, she wandered to Mira's window. She was feeling closed in today and couldn't say why. "I don't get it," she said at length. "The woman shrugs him off, sleeps with another guy, folds herself into this other guy so completely that when he tosses her away, she tries to self-terminate. And still Stiles is hung up on her. He beats hell out of Draco, gets himself arrested, gets skinned in a civil suit. And when he talks about her twenty-five years later, he goes soft. Why isn't he bitter? Why isn't he pissed? Is he jamming me here?"

"I can't say with absolute certainty. He's a talented actor. But my evaluation at this point is no, as far as his feelings for the woman, he's not jamming you. Eve, the human heart is a mystery we'll never completely solve. You're putting yourself in this man's place. That's one of the skills you have, what makes you so good at what you do. But you can't quite get into his heart. You would look at this woman and see weakness."

Mira sipped more tea as Eve turned. "She was weak. Weak and careless."

"And quite young, I imagine, but that's beside the point. You look at love differently because you're strong and because of where and in whom you found it. The love of your life, Eve, would never betray you or hurt you or, where it matters most, ever let you down. He accepts who you are, absolutely. As much as you love him, I don't think you fully understand how rare and how precious that is. Stiles loved, and perhaps still loves, a fantasy. You have the reality."

"People kill for both."

"Yes." Mira ejected the disc, held it out to Eve. "They do."

All the talk about love and lifetimes got under Eve's skin and made her feel uncomfortably guilty. She played back what others had said and realized everyone who had mentioned her relationship with Roarke as an example had spoken of what he would do for her or wouldn't do to her.

It wasn't, she decided, a very pretty picture of her participation in the whole love and marriage deal.

She never really did anything, she thought. She still had a miserable time finding the right words, the right gesture, the right moment. Roarke seemed to pluck them out of the air as easily, as smoothly, as he plucked his fortune.

So she'd make an effort. She'd push the case onto the back burner, okay, the side burner, she admitted, and do something, Jesus, romantic.

In her current state of mind, she wanted to avoid Summerset at all costs, so she actually put her car in the garage. Then, like a thief, she snuck in the house through one of the side doors.

She was about to plan her first intimate dinner.

How hard could it be? she asked herself as she jumped into the shower. She'd led tactical teams in hostage situations, tracked psychopaths, outwitted the deranged.

She was smart enough to put a fancy meal on a fancy table. Probably.

She zipped out of the shower and into the drying tube. Not in the bedroom, she decided, because that was, well, obvious, and she thought, most likely, romance should be subtle.

She'd use one of the lounging rooms.

As the hot air whirled around her, she began to plot.

Thirty minutes later, she was feeling both satisfied and frazzled. There were so many damn rooms in the house, she still didn't believe she'd been in all of them. And all the damn rooms had stuff, enormous amounts of stuff. How was she supposed to figure out what was needed?

Candles, she got that, but when she ran an inventory scan, she discovered a veritable forest of candles in several areas. Still, the satisfaction came from skulking through the house, evading the ever-watchful Summerset.

She decided on white, because color meant she'd most likely have to match it with more colors, and that was just more than she could handle. She spent another twenty minutes dealing with the menu, then had to face the frightening ordeal of selecting plates, flatware, crystal.

It had been a shock to run an inventory on something as basic as dinner plates and find her husband had over fifty types of varying material and patterns.

What kind of maniac needed over five thousand plates?

Her maniac, she reminded herself, then nearly choked when she ran the crystal.

"Okay, that's got to be wrong." She was at the point of choosing at random because her time was running short.

"Might I ask precisely what you're doing?"

A lesser woman would have yelped. Eve managed, just barely, to bite it back. "Get lost. I'm busy."

Summerset simply strode over, the cat at his heels. "So I observe. If you wish to know the contents of the house, I suggest you discuss it with Roarke."

"I can't because I've killed him, disposed of his body, and now I'm going to hold the biggest auction, on or off planet, in the history of civilization."

She jabbed a finger against something called Waterford, Dublin pattern, only because she recognized it as the city where Roarke had been born. Then she looked up with a scowl toward the hovering Summerset. "Go away."

But his attention had shifted from her to the table under the glass dome of the observation balcony. She'd used the Irish linen, he noted. An excellent choice, which was probably blind luck. The Georgian candlesticks, white tapers. There were dozens of other candles, all white, scattered around the lounging room, as yet unlighted.

Galahad the cat pranced over and leaped onto the satin pillows on the love seat.

"Jesus Christ, they're just forks and knives!"

The combination of horror and frustration in her tone had Summerset's lips twitching. "Which china pattern have you selected?"

"I don't know. Will you get out of here? This is a private party."

He tapped her hand aside before she could select, scanned her other choices, and ordered the proper flatware. "You've neglected to order napkins."

"I was getting to them."

He turned a pitying eye on her. She was wearing a cotton robe, had yet to enhance her face. Her hair was standing in spikes from the constant swipe of her fingers.

But he gave her points for the attempt. In fact, he was pleasantly surprised by her taste. Though some of her selections were unconventional in combinations, they managed to blend into a rather charming ambiance.

"When one plans a special meal," he said, taking care to look down the long line of his nose at her, "One requires the proper accompaniments."

"What am I doing here? Playing Space Attack? Now, if you'd just go slither under the door again, I could finish up."

"Flowers are necessary."

"Flowers?" Her stomach pitched to her feet. "I knew that." She wasn't going to ask. She'd saw her tongue off with her teeth before she asked.

For a humming ten seconds they simply stared at each other. He took pity on her, though he told himself he was simply maintaining his authority as majordomo. "I would suggest roses, the Royal Silver."

"I guess we've got those."

"Yes, they can be accessed. You'll also require music."

Her palms started to sweat. Annoyed, she rubbed them on the robe. "I was going to program something." Or other.

"I assume you intend to dress for the evening."

"Shit." She heaved out a breath, stared hard at the cat who was staring hard back at her. She suspected he was grinning.

"It's part of my duties to organize matters such as this. If you'll go put on something… more, I'll arrange the rest."

She opened her mouth to agree. Already the knots in her stomach loosened. Then she shook her head and felt them tighten right back up again. "No, I have to do it myself. That's the point." She massaged her forehead. She was getting a headache. Perfect.

His face remained stern, cold, but inside, he softened like jelly. "Then you'd better hurry. Roarke will be home within the hour."

She would, Summerset concluded as he left her alone, need every minute of it.

His mind was on business when he got home. His last meeting of the day had involved a textile conglomerate looking for a buyout. He had to decide if he was looking to buy.

The company, and most of its subsidiaries, had been sloppily run. Roarke had no sympathy for sloppy business practices. As a result, his initial offer had been insultingly low.

The fact that their negotiator hadn't been nearly as insulted as he should have been sent up red flags. He would have to do more research before he took the next step.

The problem would be on one of their two off-planet sites, he calculated. It might be worth a trip to study them firsthand.

There had been a time he would have simply arranged his schedule and done so. But in the past year it had become increasingly less appealing to leave home, even for the short term.

He had, he thought with some amusement at himself, become rooted.

He stopped by Eve's office on the way to his own, was mildly surprised not to find her there, neck deep in her current case. Curiosity had him setting his own work aside and moving to the house scanner.

"Where is Eve?"

Eve is currently in Lounging Room Four, third level, south wing.

"What the hell is she doing in there?"

Would you like to engage monitor?

"No, I'll go see for myself."

He'd never known her to loiter in that area of the house. The fact was, he'd never known her to lounge unless he nagged, seduced, or conned her into it.

It occurred to him it might be pleasant to have their meal there, relax together with a bottle of wine, and shake their respective days from their minds.

He'd have to talk her into it.

Thinking this, he walked into the room. If she'd been looking in his direction, she would have caught one of the rare moments when her husband was completely flabbergasted.

The room was lit with dozens of white candles, and the fragrance of them waltzed with the tender perfume of dozens of silver roses. Crystal glinted, silver gleamed, and the romance of harp strings wept in the air.

In the midst of it, Eve stood in an alarm-red dress that left her arms and shoulders bare as it skimmed down her long, slim body like an avid lover's hungry hands.

Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with concentration, as she twisted the wire on a bottle of champagne.

"Excuse me." He saw her lovely shoulders jerk, her only sign of surprise. "I'm looking for my wife."

Her stomach jittered a little, but she turned, smiled. He had a face made for candlelight, she thought. For slow and simmering fires. Looking at it never failed to start one in her blood. "Hi."

"Hello." Glancing around the room, he walked toward her. "What's all this?"

"Dinner."

"Dinner," he repeated, and his eyes narrowed. "What have you done? You're not hurt?"

"No. I'm fine." Still smiling, she popped the cork, relieved when champagne didn't come spraying out.

He frowned as she poured champagne into crystal flutes. "All right, what do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I know a setup when I see one. What do you want?"

Her smile wavered. It took a great deal of effort to keep it from turning into a snarl. Sticking to the steps she'd carefully outlined, she handed him his wine, gently tapped her glass to his. "What, I can't put together a nice dinner without ulterior motives?"

He thought about it. "No."

She set the bottle on the table with an ominous crack. "Look, it's dinner, okay? You don't want to eat, fine."

"I didn't say I didn't want to eat." She was wearing perfume, he noted. And lip dye. She'd fussed with her eyes. He reached out to toy with the tear-shaped diamond pendant he'd given her. "What are you up to, Eve?"

That tore it. "Nothing. Forget it. I don't know what came over me. Obviously, I lost my mind for a minute. No, for two sweaty, stupid hours. That's what it took to put this fiasco together. I'm going to work."

He caught her arm before she could march past him and wasn't the least surprised to see the quick flare of violence in her eyes. But he was surprised to see hurt.

"I don't think so."

"You want to keep that hand, pal, you'll move it."

"Ah, there she is. For a moment, I thought you'd been replaced by a droid. It gave me a bad start."

"I bet you think that's funny."

"I think I've hurt your feelings, and I'm sorry." He brushed his lips over her forehead even as he flipped desperately through his mental calendar. "Have I forgotten an occasion?"

"No. No." She stepped back. "No," she said again, and felt ridiculous. "I just wanted to do something for you. To give you something. And you can just stop looking at me like I've fried a few circuits. You think you're the only one who can put this kind of deal together? Well, you're right. You are. I nearly stunned myself with my own weapon a half a dozen times tonight just to put myself out of my misery. Oh fuck it."

She picked up her glass again, stalked to the wide, curved window.

Roarke winced and began the delicate task of extracting his feet from his mouth. "It's lovely, Eve. And so are you."

"Oh, don't start with me."

"Eve – "

"Just because I don't do this kind of thing, because I don't take the time – hell because I don't think of it, doesn't mean I don't love you. I do." She spun around, and he wouldn't have described the look on her face as particularly loving. She'd gone back to fury. "You're the one who's always doing the things, saying the words. Giving…" She fumbled a moment. "Just giving. I wanted to give something back."

She was beautiful. Hurt and angry, passionate and pissed, she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. "You steal my breath," he murmured.

"I've got this whole love of a lifetime thing in my head. Murder, betrayal, rage."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind." She paused, took a deep breath. "The last couple of days people have said things that keep sticking in my brain. Would you jump in front of a maxibus for me?"

"Absolutely. They don't go very fast."

She laughed, relieving him considerably. "That's what I said. Oh hell, I messed this up. I knew I would."

"No, I took care of that." He moved to her, took her hand. "Do you love me enough to give me another chance at this?"

"Maybe."

"Darling Eve." He lifted her hand to his lips. "What you've done here means a great deal to me. You, you mean everything to me."

"See how you do that. Slick as spit."

He trailed his fingers over the curve of her shoulder. "I like the dress."

It was a good thing, she thought, he hadn't seen her frozen panic when she'd opened her closet. "I thought it would work."

"It does. Very well." He picked up her glass, then his own. "Let's try this again. Thank you."

"Yeah, well, I'd say it was nothing, but that would be a big, fat lie. Just tell me this one thing. Why do you have a million plates?"

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration."

"Not by much."

"Well, you never know who might be coming to dinner, do you?"

"Including the entire population of New Zealand." She sipped champagne. "Now, I'm behind schedule."

"Have we a schedule?"

"Yeah. You know, drinks, dinner, conversation. Blah blah. It all ends up with me getting you drunk and seducing you."

"I like the end goal. Since I came close to spoiling things, the least I can do now is cooperate." He started to pick up the bottle, but she laid a hand on his arm.

"Dance with me." She slid her hands up his chest, linked them behind his neck. "Close. And slow."

His arms came around her. His body swayed with hers. And his blood leapt with love, with lust, as her mouth brushed silkily over his.

"I love the taste of you." Her voice was husky now, soft. "It always makes me want more."

"Have more."

But when he attempted to deepen the kiss, she turned her head, skimmed those heated lips along his jaw. "Slow," she said again. "The way I'm going to make love with you." She nibbled her way to his ear. "So that it's almost torture."

She threaded her fingers through his hair, all that gorgeous black, fisted them, drew his head back until their eyes met. His were deep and blue and already hot.

"I want you to say my name when I take you." She teased his mouth with hers again, retreated, felt his body tighten like a bow against hers. "Say it so that I know nothing exists for you but me at that moment. Nothing exists for me but you. You're all there is."

Her mouth took his now, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues. She felt his moan start low, start deep, then merge with her own. She let herself tremble, let herself ache, then pulled back, pulled away a breath before surrender.

"Eve."

She heard the strain in his voice, enjoyed it as she picked up their glasses again. "Thirsty?"

"No." He started to reach for her, but she shifted away, thrust out his glass. "I am. Have a drink. I want to go to your head."

"You do. Let me have you."

"I will. After I've had you." She picked up a small remote, pressed a series of buttons. On the side wall, panels opened. The bed that had been tucked behind them was heaped with pillows. "That's where I want you. Eventually."

She took a long sip of champagne, watching him over the rim. "You're not drinking."

"You're killing me."

Delighted, she laughed, and the sound was like smoke. "It's going to get worse."

Now he did drink, then set his glass aside. "Praise God."

She walked back to him, slipped his jacket from his shoulders. "I love your body," she murmured, slowly working open the buttons of his shirt. "I'm going to spend a lot of time enjoying it tonight."

It was a powerful rush, she thought, to make a strong man quiver. She felt that dance of muscles as she traced a fingertip down his chest to the hook of his trousers.

Instead of releasing them, she smiled. "You'd better sit down."

There was a throbbing in his blood, primal, edging toward violent. It took a great deal of effort not to yield to it, to drag her to the floor and answer that urgent beat.

"No, not here," she said, and lifting his hand, nipped lightly at his knuckles. "I don't think you'll be able to manage to cross the room when I'm done."

It wasn't the wine making his head swim. She guided him across the room, a kind of lazy, circling dance with her in the lead. When she eased him down to sit on the side of the bed, she knelt at his feet, brushed her hands slowly, intimately down his legs. And took off his shoes.

She rose. "I'll just go get the wine."

"I'm not interested in wine."

She walked away, tossed a glance over her shoulder. "You will be. When I start licking it off you."

She topped off the glasses, brought them back to set them on the small, carved table by the bed. Then, watching him, her eyes gold and full of the light from the candles, she began to peel the dress down her body.

He wondered that his system didn't simply implode.

"Christ. Christ Jesus."

The Irish had leaped back into his voice, as she knew it did when he was distracted, angry, aroused. The simple sign made her glad she'd taken the time and trouble to, well, dress for the evening.

The siren-red lingerie was an erotic contrast against her skin. The silk and lace body skimmer rode low over her breasts so they all but spilled out of the top. Then it cinched in, sheer and seductive, slicked over her hips. Her hose was sheer and shimmering, and braked to a teasing halt at mid-thigh.

She stepped out of the dress, kicked it aside with the toe of one spiked heel.

"I thought we'd have dinner first."

He managed to lift his gaze to her face even as his mouth fell open.

"But… I guess it'll keep." She stepped forward, planted herself between his legs. "I want you to touch me."

His hands burned to take, but he skimmed them lightly over her, following angle, curve. "I'm lost in you already."

"Stay there." She bent down, took his mouth.

She knew he held back, let her hold the reins. And because she knew it, she gave him everything she had.

The candlelight glimmered, warming the scent of the roses as she slid onto the bed with him. As she took her hands, her mouth over him. Erotic and tender, passionate and loving. She wanted to show him all, everything.

And as she did, he gave back. Long drugging kisses that weighed the limbs, lazy, lingering caresses that thrilled the blood.

The bed, with its thick mattress of gel, undulated beneath them.

She rolled, leaned away, so he contented himself with the flavor just above the silk hose on the back of her thigh.

Then she straddled him, drank from the glass of champagne. Upending it, she began to drink him.

His vision blurred, the breath clogging in his lungs to burning. She tormented him. Pleasured him. Her agile body slid and slithered over his while her mouth drove him to the verge of madness.

His control snapped, steel rending steel. The sound of silk tearing inflamed him as he ripped at it. And with a sound of greed, he filled his hands, his mouth with her.

She came, a wild, shock slap to her system. Her head fell back as she gulped for air. Her body shuddered as he feasted on it.

He said something she couldn't understand, in the language of his homeland that so rarely passed his lips. Then his face was pressed against her, his breath hot on her skin.

"I need you. Eve. I need you."

"I know." Tenderness washed into her, balm over a burn. She cupped his face, lifted it. Her lips met his, soft as a whisper. "Don't ever stop."

There were tears in her eyes. The shifting light caught the glint of them. He drew her closer, kissed them away. "Eve – "

"No, let me say it first. This time let me remember to say it first. I love you. I always will. Be with me," she murmured as she took him inside her. "Oh. Stay with me."

She wrapped herself around him, rose to him, matching stroke to stroke, beat to beat. Then his hands clasped hers, locked tight. Their eyes held in a bond just as fierce.

When she saw his, that wild blue, go blind, when she heard him say her name, her lips curved into a smile. And she surrendered.