Betrayal in Death

She fought him, gasping for air like a woman drowning, until in desperation he pressed his mouth to hers as if to give her breath.

She went limp.

"You're all right, you're safe." He rocked, comforting them both. "You're home. Baby, you're so cold." But he could not bear to leave her, even to get a blanket. "Hold onto me."

"I'm okay. I'm all right." But she wasn't, not yet.

"Hold onto me anyway. I need it."

She wrapped her still unsteady arms around him, let her face burrow into his shoulder. "I smelled you. Then I heard you. But I couldn't find you."

"I'm right here." It ripped at him; he couldn't begin to tell her what it did inside him every time she went back to the horrors of her childhood in dreams. "Right here," he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. "It was a bad one."

"Yeah, as bad as they get. It's over now." She drew back, as far as he would allow, and tipped her face up to his. His eyes were dark, emotions burning in them. "Bad for you, too."

"As bad as it gets. Eve." He pulled her against him again, heart against heart until the worst of it ebbed. "I'll get you some water."

"Thanks."

When he walked to the kitchen, she let her head fall into her hands. She'd get past it, she told herself. She could always get past it. She'd swallow back the bitter dregs of the fear and get on with things. She'd remember who she was now, and not what she'd been.

A victim. Always a victim.

Work. She drew a deep breath and lifted her head. She'd get back to work where she had control. And power. And direction.

She was steadier when he came back with the water and crouched at her feet.

Steady enough for suspicion to worm its way through relief and gratitude. "Did you put a soother in this?"

"Drink it."

"Damn it, Roarke."

"Damn it, Eve," he said mildly, and drank half the glass himself. "Drink the rest."

She frowned, and sipping slowly, studied him over the rim. He looked a little frazzled, which was a rare thing for him. A little weary, which was even more rare.

It wasn't work he needed, she realized, but rest. Rest he wouldn't take, even if she put the work aside for the night. He'd just wait until she'd run down, until she slept, then he'd keep going.

But he wasn't die only one who knew how to press the right buttons. She set the empty glass aside. "Satisfied?"

"More or less. You should leave this until morning and get some sleep."

Perfect, she thought, but made sure her nod was reluctant. "I guess. I can't keep my mind focused anyway, but…"

"But what?"

"Would you stay here with me?" She reached for his hand. "I know it's stupid, but…"

"No, it's not." He got into the sleep chair with her, stroking her hair as her arms came tightly around him. "Just turn it off until morning."

"I will." Just as she'd keep her arms around him to make sure he did the same. "Don't go away, okay?"

"I won't."

And knowing he wouldn't leave her, would rest, she closed her eyes, and let herself drift into dreamless sleep.

After a while, a long while, so did he.

She woke first, still wrapped around him, when the dark began to soften and thin. She stayed very still so as not to lose the rare opportunity to watch him sleep.

Love struck her, as it did often and without warning. Not the steady day-to-day feeling she'd grown used to, but the hot, wild spurt of it that geysered up and filled her with so many feelings they couldn't be separated.

Delight, confusion, possessiveness, lust, and a kind of smugness that butted right up against wonder.

He was so ridiculously beautiful, she doubted she'd ever fully comprehend how he could be hers.

He'd wanted her. Out of all the women in the world, he'd wanted her. Wanted, hell, she thought, gri

He cherished.

She'd never believed anyone would, or could. And had never believed there was enough inside her to give all of those things back.

So here they were, the cop and the billionaire, squished together in an office sleep chair like a couple of overworked drones.

It was just fucking great.

She was still gri

"I never get how you can come awake like that, from sleep to full alert, and without coffee."

"A

"Yeah." He was warm, he was beautiful, he was hers. She could have lapped him up like cream. And why not, she thought. Why the hell not?

"But since you're awake." She slid her hand down his body, found him hard and ready. "All the way awake. I've got a little job for you."

"Do you?" Her mouth was already roaming over his face, just missing his lips in teasing little bites. To his considerable surprise, and considerable pleasure, her fingers got very busy. They closed around him, not teasing at all, as her tongue laved thirstily along his throat.

"Well then," he managed. "Anything for the NYPSD. Christ!" He could all but feel his eyes roll back in his head. "Am I on the clock?"

Sometime later, feeling loose and limber, she came out of the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. It surprised her that Roarke still sat in the half-dark. The cat was on his lap now, and with the faintest of smiles on his face, Roarke stroked Galahad's back.

"I think, for an expert consultant, civilian, you've loafed long enough."

"Mmm-hmm." He took the coffee she offered. "Shutting down early to sleep, morning sex, bringing me coffee. You're very wifely these days. Are you taking care of me, Eve?"

"Hey, if you don't want the coffee, I'll drink it myself. And so what if I am? And don't call me wifely. It pisses me off."

"I do want the coffee, thank you very much. I'm touched and grateful you'd take care of me. And pissing you off by calling you wifely is one of my small pleasures."

"Great. Now that we've got all that settled, get your ass up so we can do some work."

CHAPTER TWELVE

She made the first calls and reached the detective sergeant working the homicides in Cornwall. During their fifteen-minute conversation, she was given the facts of the case in a broad North Country accent, the names of the two victims who had been identified by fingerprint, and DNA matches through Feeney's love child, IRCCA.

DS Fortique was cheerful and forthcoming and told her that after considerable tracking and backtracking they had finally tagged the identity of the hiker who had allegedly found the bodies and made the emergency call.

Fortique was perfectly willing to save Eve time and trouble by hauling the witness in and grilling him over a pair of two-foot silver wires.

Eve decided the British police were a great deal more cooperative than her own federal agents. She gave him back in kind by passing along the data on Yost's shopping adventures in London. They ended transmission on good terms.

Her call to the silver shop netted her a full description of Sylvester Yost, who was fondly remembered for his discriminating taste, impeccable ma

Another knot tied off, Eve thought, and shifted her search to hotels.

The New Savoy wasn't quite as cooperative as the police or the merchants in London. She was passed from desk clerk to supervisor, from supervisor to hotel manager. And it seemed there she would stall.

The manager was a woman in her mid- to late fifties with hair the color of polished steel pulled ruthlessly away from a scrawny face that ended on a pointed chin. Her eyes were a surprising baby blue, and her voice, while remaining scrupulously polite, droned on and on over the same notes.