Judgment in Death

"Say it. Say it back to me," he demanded while his breath heaved, while he watched her eyes go blind as he pushed her to the edge yet again. "Damn it, I'll hear it from you."

Somehow, through the madness ruling her, she understood. Not surrender, even after this, it wasn't surrender he asked for. But acceptance. Her throat burned, her system screamed to mate. As she opened for him, lifted to him, she fumbled out the Gaelic.

"Mine," was what she said. "You're mine, too." And her mouth rose to his as he drove himself inside her.

– =O=-***-=O=-

She lay beneath him, enervated, stupefied. Her ears were ringing, making it impossible to think. She wanted to find herself in this body that had responded so primitively. But more, she simply wanted to wallow in the echoes of sensations that still rippled through her.

When he shifted, she would have rolled to her stomach, the position she assumed when exhaustion ruled. But he plucked her off the floor, into his arms. "We're not done yet."

Leaving the wreckage of her office behind, he carried her out, and took her to bed.

– =O=-***-=O=-

When she woke, light was streaming through the sky window, her body pulsed with a thousand sly aches. And he was gone.

She lay where she was, on a bed that had been well used, on sheets that were tangled to ropes, and let the tug-of-war between shame and pleasure play out inside her. Nothing was resolved, she realized. Nothing was balanced. She rose, went in to shower wondering if they'd fixed anything or only damaged it further.

She managed to dress for the day without once meeting her own eyes in the mirror. Her harness and weapon were on the table in the sitting area. Wondering when he'd put them there, she strapped it on.

And with her weapon in place, she felt steadier. Or did until she walked into her office and found Peabody staring at the carnage.

"Ah… some party," Peabody said.

"We had an incident." Eve kicked the broken lamp aside, strode directly to her desk. Her only goal at that moment was to stay in charge. "I have information that needs to be considered in the investigation. Sit down."

Peabody cleared her throat, righted a chair. It was the first time in her memory her lieutenant had started a morning briefing without a cup of coffee in her hand. But Peabody sat, took out her memo book.

"An IAB operation has come to my attention," Eve began, and told her aide what she needed to know.

When she was done, Peabody set her book on her knee. "If I can offer an opinion, sir, that sucks."

"Your opinion is noted and agreed with."

"They've been impeding two homicide investigations by withholding pertinent data. Even IAB doesn't have that right."

"No, they don't, and I'm going to deal with it. In the meantime, I'd like you to contact Dr. Mira and request that our consult be moved here. I don't want IAB catching any scent. Call McNab in. I want a harder, closer look at the list from the One twenty-eight, and I want that done here, too. Until we've worked out the feeding chain, officially, we give Internal Affairs nothing."

"So much for solidarity," Peabody muttered. "Those rat bastards."

"Put your personal feelings aside. Cops are being murdered. We can't afford the indulgence of resentment." But she felt it, deep and dark inside her. "I want to inform Whitney of this new information in person. I'll be back within two hours or contact you if I'm delayed."

"Yes, sir. Would you like me to clean up in here?"

"That's not your job," Eve snapped, then squeezed her eyes shut, took a breath. "Sorry. Personal distraction. Don't worry about it unless something's in your way. Relay to Mira that this consult is now a priority. Have the backgrounds on as many from the One twenty-eight as possible before that consult." She hesitated, then shrugged as she walked toward the door. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd inform Roarke's offices that we'll clear Purgatory by end of day."

– =O=-***-=O=-

He wasn't the least bit interested in Purgatory, even the time he assumed he'd spend there for his sins. Nor was Roarke overly surprised to find Don Webster waiting for him in the reception area of his midtown offices.

Roarke's admin, an exceptional woman of great efficiency and insight, moved into reception, cutting neatly between the two men. "Your schedule is quite full this morning. This gentleman would like to see you and is reluctant to make an appointment for later in the week."

"I'll make time for him now. Thank you, Caro. Webster."

He gestured toward the corridor that led to his office and wasn't displeased to note Webster sported a violent bruise ru

His own ribs were aching like a bitch, something he'd refused to see to as a matter of pride. He stepped into his office, moved directly to the desk, but didn't sit. With his hands lightly in his pockets, his body balanced on the balls of his feet, he measured his adversary.

"You want another round, mate?"

"More than I want to see the sunrise," Webster replied, then shook his head when the light came into Roarke's eyes. "But I'm going to have to pass. I hate saying this, but you had every right to pound the shit out of me last night."

"And there," Roarke said smoothly, "we're in perfect accord. And if I find your hands on what's mine again, you'll lose them. That's a promise."

"She'd have taken care of that herself if you'd been five minutes later. Shit, five seconds later. I want you to know that."

"Eve's fidelity was never in question."

"Okay." Webster felt part of the weight that had hung on him through the night lift. "I didn't want you to get the idea that she… hell." He raked a hand through his hair. "We have a professional problem, which I used to move on a personal one. A problem I have," Webster elaborated. "I think I'm in love with your wife."

"That's indeed a problem. I have to admire your courage in saying that to my face." Considering, Roarke chose a chair, took out a cigarette. He caught Webster's quick glance at it, lifted a brow. "Would you like one?"

"I haven't had one in five years. Three months, and… I think it's twenty-six days. I've managed to lose track of the hours. Fuck it." He took one, drew deep until his eyes all but crossed. "I don't know you," Webster continued, "but I know about you."

"I can say the same." Roarke replied. "Did you think Eve hadn't told me you'd once had a night together?"

Doing his best to shrug, Webster sat as well. "It didn't mean anything to her. I knew it then, and I know it now. I know your rep, Roarke. If you want to come after me, that's what you'll do. I'm up for that. I just didn't want Dallas to take any heat for it."

"An attempt like that to protect her would tempt her to kick your balls into your throat."

For the first time, Webster smiled, then swore as the cut lip burned like fire. "Yeah, well." He pressed a finger gingerly to his lip. "When I screw up, I don't like anybody else catching the flak."

"Whatever you know or think you know about me, know this: I don't strike out at women, particularly when they've done nothing but be who they are."

He thought of the way he'd handled her the night before, then ruthlessly pushed that aside again. For later.

"And going after you would make Eve unhappy. I might risk that, but I've no reason to."

Webster stared down at his cigarette. "You're not what I expected."

"I could have been."

"Could have beens don't mean squat." Biting back a sigh, Webster took one last drag. "It's what is that counts. That's ah…" He tapped his bruised cheek. "Something I needed to be reminded of." He crushed out the cigarette before getting to his feet. Meeting Roarke's eyes, he held out a hand. "I appreciate the time."