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

indulged in some holiday pushy-shovey, or had their wallets lifted in the parade crush.
    She took the glides rather than the faster elevators to give herself just a little more time to level out.
    She wished she had something to pummel. Wished she could take twenty to swing into one of the on-site gyms and tune up a sparring droid. But eight hours after the tag from Whitney, she strode into the bullpen in Homicide, and straight through to her office.
    Coffee, she thought—the real deal—would have to substitute for the release of punches and sore knuckles.
    He sat in her visitor’s chair, one she knew was miserably uncomfortable because she didn’t want anyone to settle into her space too long.
    But he sat, working on his PPC, his sleeves rolled up, his hair tied back as it was when he prepared to dive into some thorny task or was already in the thicket.
    She shut the door.
    “I thought you’d be with Feeney.”
    “I was.” Roarke sat where he was to study her face. “They haven’t been back from the scene long. They’re setting up in the conference room you booked.”
    She nodded, walked straight to her AutoChef to order coffee. “I just want a minute to organize my thoughts for the briefing. You can tell them I’m on my way.”
    She’d wanted to brood out her skinny window while downing the coffee, but brooding required being alone. Instead, she turned to walk to her desk.
    He’d risen and stepped behind her. He made less noise than their cat. And he took the mug of coffee out of her hand to set it aside.
    “Hey. I want the kick.”
    “You can have it in a minute.” All he did with those strong, seeking blue eyes on hers was touch his fingertips to her cheeks.
    “Okay.” Letting go, just letting go, she stepped into his arms. She could close her eyes and be enfolded, be held, be loved and understood.
    “There now.” He turned his head to press his lips to her hair. “There.”
    “I’m okay.”
    “Not quite. I won’t ask if you’ll pass this on. You wouldn’t even if a colleague hadn’t asked you for help.” At the shake of her head, he kissed her hair again, then eased her back so their eyes met. “You need to prove you can get through it.”
    “I am getting through it.”
    “You are. But I think you forget you need to get through nothing alone.”
    “She was older than I was. Twice my age. Still . . .”
    He stroked her back when she shuddered, just one hard tremor. “Still. Young, defenseless, innocent.”
    “I’d already stopped being innocent. I was . . . When I was at the morgue, I looked at her, and I thought, that could’ve been me on the slab. If I hadn’t put him on one first, it could’ve been me. He’d have killed me sooner or later, or worse, turned me into a thing. Putting him there first had to be done, and that’s that. She didn’t have a chance, not even the chance I did. A good home, parents who loved her, and who’ll be broken, some pieces of them always broken now. But she didn’t have the chance I did. I could never pass her on.”
    “No, you never could.”
    She held and was held another minute, then stepped back. “I was wishing I had time to go beat the living crap out of a sparring droid.”
    “Ah.” He had to smile. “A never-fail for you.”
    “Yeah. This was better.”
    He picked up her coffee, handed it to her. “Taking a blocker for the headache would be better yet.”
    “It’s not so bad, not so bad now. I’ll work it off.”
    “The pizza I ordered should help.”
    “You ordered pizza?” The part of her that yearned warred against the part of her that wanted to maintain discipline. “I’ve told you not to keep buying food for my cops. You’ll spoil and corrupt them.”
    “There’s only one cop I’m interested in spoiling and corrupting, and pizza happens to be a weakness of hers.”
    She drank her coffee doing her best to scowl at him over the rim. “Did you get pepperoni?”

5
    FEENEY CHOMPED DOWN ON A LOADED SLICE. He stood at