Free Three in Death by J.D. Robb Page B

better.”
    “I missed the date, the significance, and I shouldn’t have. I believe I would have seen these things once my annoyance with you had ebbed a bit, but that’s beside the point. Now, I need to question Roarke regarding his conversation with the commander this morning, and regarding his association with Zita Vinter. To keep my official records clean, you are not included in this interview. I would appreciate it, however, if you’d remain and lead my team through the examination of the crime scene.”
    “No problem.”
    “I’ll keep this as brief as I can, as I imagine both you and Roarke would like to go back and get out of those damp, dirty clothes.” She tugged the sleeve of Eve’s jacket as she passed. “That used to be very attractive.”
     
    “She was easier on me than I’d’ve been on her,” Eve admitted as she rolled the stiffness out of her shoulders. She’d hit the floor under Roarke harder than she’d realized and figured she should take a look at the bruises.
    After a long, hot shower.
    Since Roarke’s response to her statement was little more than a grunt as they rode up to their suite, she took his measure. He could use some cleaning up himself, she thought. He’d ditched the ruined jacket, and the shirt beneath it had taken a beating.
    She wondered if her face was as dirty as his.
    “As soon as we clean up,” she began as she stepped out of the elevator and into the parlor. And that was as far as she got before she was pressed up against the elevator doors with his mouth ravaging hers.
    Half her brain seemed to slide out through her ears. “Whoa. What?”
    “Another few seconds.” With his hands gripping her shoulders and his eyes hot he looked down at her. “We wouldn’t be here.”
    “We are here.”
    “That’s right.” He jerked the jacket halfway down her arms, savaged her neck. “That’s damn right. Now let’s prove it.” He stripped the jacket away, ripped her shirt at the shoulder. “I want my hands on you. Yours on me.”
    They already were. She tugged and tore at his ruined shirt, and because her hands were busy, used her teeth on him.
    Less than a foot inside the room, they dragged each other to the floor. She rolled with him, fighting with the rest of his clothes, then arching like a bridge when his mouth clamped over her breast.
    Need, deep and primal, gushed through her until she moaned his name. It was always his name. She wanted more. More to give, more to take. Her fingers dug into him—hard muscle, damp flesh. The scent of smoke and death smothered under the scent of him so that it filled her with the fevered mix of love and lust that he brought to her.
    He couldn’t get enough. It seemed he never could, or would. All of the hungers, the appetites and desires he’d known paled to nothing against the need he had for her—for everything she was. The strength of her, physical and that uniquely tensile morality, enraptured him. Challenged him.
    To feel that strength tremble under him, open for him, merge with him, was the wonder of his life.
    Her breathing was short, shallow, and he heard it catch, release on a strangled gasp when he drove her over the first peak. His own blood raged as he crushed his mouth to hers again, and plunged inside her.
    All heat and speed and desperation. The sound of flesh slapping, sliding against flesh mixed with the sound of ragged breathing.
    She heard him murmuring something—the language of his youth, so rarely used, slid exotically around her name. The pressure of pleasure built outrageously inside her, a glorious burn in the blood as he drove her past reason with deep, hard thrusts.
    She clung, clung to the edge of it. Then his eyes were locked on hers, wild and blue. Love all but swamped her.
    “Come with me.” His voice was thick with Ireland. “Come with me now.”
    She held on, and on, watching those glorious eyes go blind. Held on, and on while his body plunged in hers. Then she let go, and went with