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“And it’s not your style, Roarke. You’ve got moves, I can’t keep up with all of them, but they’re all slick, practiced. You may get rough, but never mean. And as one who’s made love with you in about every way that’s anatomically possible, I can certify that you’re never selfish.”
“Well.” He wasn’t quite certain how to react. “You humble me.”
“It wasn’t you,” she murmured.
“I beg to differ.”
“It wasn’t what you’ve made yourself into,” she corrected. “And that’s what counts. You snapped off. Something inside you snapped off. Or on. That son of a bitch.” Her breath shuddered out as she met Roarke’s eyes, and in them she saw the dawning of understanding. “That son of a bitch has something. He was telling me while we were dancing. He was fucking bragging, and I didn’t get it. But he just had to give a little demonstration. And that’s what’s going to hang him.”
This time Roarke’s grip on her arm was firm. “You’re talking about Jess Barrow. About brain scans and suggestions. Mind control.”
“Music should affect how people behave, how they think. How they feel. He said that to me minutes before the performance began. Cocky bastard.”
Roarke remembered the shock in her eyes when he’d thrown her against the wall and driven himself into her like a battering ram. “If you’re right,” his voice was cool now, too cool, “I want a moment alone with him.”
“It’s police business,” she began, but he stepped slightly closer, and his eyes were cold and determined.
“You’ll give me a moment alone with him, or I’ll find a way to take it. Either way, I’ll have it.”
“All right.” She laid a hand over his, not to ease his grip but in solidarity. “All right, but you’ll wait your turn. I have to be sure.”
“I’ll wait,” he agreed. But the man would pay, Roarke promised himself, for wedging even one instant of fear and distrust into their relationship.
“I’ll let the performance wind up first,” she decided. “I’ll interview him, unofficially, in my office downstairs, with Peabody as control. Don’t make a move on him, Roarke. I mean that.”
He opened the door, let her slip out. “I said I’d wait.”
The music was still going strong, and it hit them with a high, gritty pitch yards before they reached the doorway. But she had only to step in and through the crowd before Jess’s eyes shifted from his controls and met hers.
His smile was quick, cocky, amused.
And she was sure.
“Find Peabody and ask her to go down to my office and set up for a prelim interview.” She stepped in front of Roarke, willed his gaze to move to hers. “Please. We’re not talking about just a personal insult here. We’re talking about murder. Let me do my job.”
Roarke turned without a word. The moment she lost him in the crowd, she worked her way through to Summerset. “I want you to watch Roarke.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Listen to me.” Her fingers dug through his neat jacket and into bone. “It’s important. He could be in trouble. I don’t want you to let him out of your sight until at least an hour after the performance. If anything happens to him, I’ll fry your ass. Understood?”
Not in the least, but he did understand her urgency. “Very well.” He spoke with dignity, crossed the room with grace, but his nerves were shattered.
Confident that Summerset would watch Roarke like a mother hawk, she wound her way through the audience again until she stood on the front edge of the group. She applauded with the rest, schooled herself to flash a supportive smile as Mavis wound up for the encore. And when the next round of applause rang out, she slipped toward Jess and skirted the controls.
“Quite a triumph,” she murmured.
“I told you, she’s a treasure.” There was a wicked gleam in his eyes as he smiled up at her. “You and Roarke missed a couple of numbers.”
“Some personal business,” she said levelly. “I really need to talk to you, Jess. About your music.”
“Glad to. Nothing I like better.”
“Now, if you don’t mind. Let’s go someplace a little more private.”
“Sure.” He shut down his console, locked on the code. “It’s your party.”
“Damn right it is,” she murmured, and led the way.
