Naked In Death

"Narrow windows still provide access." But she said it only to irritate him as she turned away. She'd held back the information on the doctored security discs from the file she'd given DeBlass. The murderer had been in the Gorham by midnight. Rockman would hardly use the victim's grandfather for an alibi unless it was solid. Rockman's working in East Washington at midnight slammed even that narrow window closed.

She saw Roarke again, and watched with interest as Elizabeth Barrister clung to him, as he bent his head and murmured to her. Not the usual offer and acceptance of sympathy from strangers, Eve mused.

Her brow lifted as Roarke laid a hand on Elizabeth 's right cheek, kissed her left before stepping back to speak quietly to Richard DeBlass.

He crossed to the senator, but there was no contact between them, and the conversation was brief. Alone, as Eve had suspected, Roarke began to walk across the winter grass, between the cold monuments the living raised for the dead.

"Roarke."

He stopped, and as he had at the service, turned and met her eyes. She thought she caught a flash of something in them: anger, sorrow, impatience. Then it was gone and they were simply cool, blue, and unfathomable.

She didn't hurry as she walked to him. Something told her he was a man too used to people – women certainly – rushing toward him. So she took her time, her long, slow strides flapping her borrowed coat around her chilly legs.

"I'd like to speak with you," she said when she faced him. She took out her badge, watched him give it a brief glance before lifting his eyes back to hers. "I'm investigating Sharon DeBlass's murder."

"Do you make a habit of attending the funerals of murder victims, Lieutenant Dallas?"

His voice was smooth, with a whisper of the charm of Ireland over it, like rich cream over warmed whiskey. "Do you make a habit of attending the funerals of women you barely know, Roarke?"

"I'm a friend of the family," he said simply. "You're freezing, lieutenant."

She plunged her icy fingers into the pockets of the coat. "How well do you know the victim's family?"

"Well enough." He tilted his head. In a minute, he thought, her teeth would chatter. The nasty little wind was blowing her poorly cut hair around a very interesting face. Intelligent, stubborn, sexy. Three very good reasons in his mind to take a second look at a woman. "Wouldn't it be more convenient to talk someplace warmer?"

"I've been unable to reach you," she began.

"I've been traveling. You've reached me now. I assume you're returning to New York. Today?"

"Yes. I have a few minutes before I have to leave for the shuttle. So… "

"So we'll go back together. That should give you time enough to grill me."

"Question you," she said between her teeth, a

"I hate to waste time," he said easily. "You strike me as someone who feels the same. Did you rent a car?"

"Yes."

"I'll arrange to have it returned." He held out a hand, waiting for the key card.

"That isn't necessary."

"It's simpler. I appreciate complications, lieutenant, and I appreciate simplicity. You and I are going to the same destination at the same approximate time. You want to talk to me, and I'm willing to oblige." He stopped by a black limo where a uniformed driver waited, holding the rear door open. "My transport's routed for New York. You can, of course, follow me to the airport, take public transportation, then call my office for an appointment. Or you can drive with me, enjoy the privacy of my jet, and have my full attention during the trip."

She hesitated only a moment, then took the key card for the rental from her pocket and dropped it into his hand. Smiling, he gestured her into the limo where she settled as he instructed his driver to deal with the rental car.

"Now then." Roarke slid in beside her, reached for a decanter. "Would you like a brandy to fight off the chill?"

"No." She felt the warmth of the car sweep up from her feet and was afraid she'd begin to shiver in reaction.

"Ah. On duty. Coffee perhaps."

"Great."

Gold winked at his wrist as he pressed his choice for two coffees on the AutoChef built into the side panel. "Cream?"

"Black."

"A woman after my own heart." Moments later, he opened the protective door and offered her a china cup in a delicate saucer. "We have more of a selection on the plane," he said, then settled back with his coffee.

"I bet." The steam rising from her cup smelled like heaven. Eve took a tentative sip – and nearly moaned.

It was real. No simulation made from vegetable concentrate so usual since the depletion of the rain forests in the late twentieth. This was the real thing, ground from rich Columbian beans, singing with caffeine.

She sipped again, and could have wept.

"Problem?" He enjoyed her reaction immensely, the flutter of the lashes, the faint flush, the darkening of the eyes – a similar response, he noted, to a woman purring under a man's hands.

"Do you know how long it's been since I had real coffee?"

He smiled. "No."

"Neither do I." Unashamed, she closed her eyes as she lifted the cup again. "You'll have to excuse me, this is a private moment. We'll talk on the plane."

"As you like."

He gave himself the pleasure of watching her as the car traveled smoothly over the road.

Odd, he thought, he hadn't pegged her for a cop. His instincts were usually keen about such matters. At the funeral, he'd been thinking only what a terrible waste it was for someone as young, foolish, and full of life as Sharon to be dead.

Then he'd sensed something, something that had coiled his muscles, tightened his gut. He'd felt her gaze, as physical as a blow. When he'd turned, when he'd seen her, another blow. A slow motion one-two punch he hadn't been able to evade.

It was fascinating.

But the warning blip hadn't gone off. Not the warning blip that should have relayed cop. He'd seen a tall, willowy brunette with short, tumbled hair, eyes the color of honeycombs and a mouth made for sex.

If she hadn't sought him out, he'd intended to seek her.

Too damn bad she was a cop.

She didn't speak again until they were at the airport, stepping into the cabin of his JetStar 6000.

She hated being impressed, again. Coffee was one thing, and a small weakness was permitted, but she didn't care for her goggle-eyed reaction to the lush cabin with its deep chairs, sofas, the antique carpet, and crystal vases filled with flowers.

There was a viewing screen recessed in the forward wall and a uniformed flight attendant who showed no surprise at seeing Roarke board with a strange woman.

"Brandy, sir?"

"My companion prefers coffee, Diana, black." He lifted a brow until Eve nodded. "I'll have brandy."

"I've heard about the JetStar." Eve shrugged out of her coat, and it was whisked away along with Roarke's by the attendant. "It's a nice form of transportation."

"Thanks. We spent two years designing it."

"Roarke Industries?" she said as she took a chair.

"That's right. I prefer using my own whenever possible. You'll need to strap in for takeoff," he told her, then leaned forward to flip on an intercom. "Ready."

"We've been cleared," they were told. "Thirty seconds."

Almost before Eve could blink, they were airborne, in so smooth a transition she barely felt the g's. It beat the hell, she thought, out of the commercial flights that slapped you back in your seat for the first five minutes of air time.

They were served drinks and a little plate of fruit and cheese that had Eve's mouth watering. It was time, she decided, to get to work.