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

capturing her cries even as her arms chained around his neck.
    Hot jets of water pummeled their joined bodies. Drops glistened on skin, on the air. Steam rose and spread to blur them into one desperate form in that last mad rush.
    She went limp in his arms. It was a moment he loved, when the pleasure overwhelmed her, left her weak. Just that instant of utter surrender to him, but more, to them.
    Basking in it, she rested her head on his shoulder until he lifted her face, laid his lips on hers. Softly now, and sweetly.
    He watched her eyes clear, watched them smile. “That wasn’t makeup sex.”
    “Of course not.”
    “Just confirming.”
    “But it was an excellent prelude.”
    “Worked for me. Coffee in bed, sex in the shower—makes a solid wake-up combo.”
    She nuzzled another moment, then was gone—stepping out and into the drying tube.
    While air swirled around her he ordered the water temperature to lower five civilized degrees.
    When he walked into the bedroom with a towel slung around his waist she stood in a short robe doing something he rarely if ever saw her do. Actively studying the contents of her closet.
    “This is weird,” she said, “but I need to ... Pick something out for me to wear, will you? I need to look in control, an authority, serious. Seriously in charge.”
    Frustrated, she circled her hands in the air. “But without looking planned or studied. I don’t want it to come off like an outfit, but—”
    “I understand you.” He stepped in, studied the jackets first. He’d selected every one of them himself as wardrobe—much less shopping for wardrobe—was dead low on her list of priorities.
    “This.”
    “Red? But—”
    “Not red, but burgundy. It’s not bright, not bold, but deep and serious—and transmits authority, particularly in this very tailored cut. With these pants—a serious gunmetal gray, and this top in a slightly softer gray—no fuss, no embellishments. The gray boots, as they’ll give you one long line, with the jacket as the subliminal element of authority.”
    She puffed out her cheeks, blew out the air. “Okay. You’re the expert.”
    Once she’d dressed she had to admit there was a reason he was the expert. She looked put together but not—how had she put it—studied. And the red—sorry, burgundy —did look strong.
    Plus, if she got blood on it, it might not show. Much.
    “Wear these.”
    She frowned at the little silver studs he held out. “I hardly ever wear earrings to work. They’re—”
    “In this case, just a bit of polish. Simple and subtle.”
    She shrugged, then put them on. Finished, she stood studying herself in the mirror as she sipped another cup of coffee.
    “You’re not giving this attention to your wardrobe for Whitney,” Roarke said. “At least not particularly. It’s true, that old saying. Women dress for other women. This is for Renee Oberman’s benefit.”
    “If things go as I’m damn well going to make sure they go, we’ll have our first face-to-face today. This is the sort of thing she’d pay attention to. She’s going to know, on every level I can manage, she’s dealing with power.”
    “You want to challenge her.”
    “I will challenge her. But that’s for later.” She glanced at the time. “I have to take the next step, contact Whitney. Christ, I hope his wife doesn’t answer the ’link.”
    Eve picked hers up from the dresser, squared her shoulders. “Here we go.”
    Commander Whitney’s wide face came on-screen after the second beep. She had a moment to be relieved he hadn’t blocked video, which meant it unlikely she’d woken him. Still, she was pretty certain it was a sleep crease across his left cheek and not a new line dug by time and the stress of authority, so she hadn’t missed by much.
    “Lieutenant.” He spoke briskly, dark eyes sober in his dark face.
    She matched his tone. “Commander, I apologize for the early hour. We have a situation.”
    She laid it out with a military precision