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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 him.
Sex, Eve had discovered, could, when it was done right, benefit body, mind, and spirit. She hardly bitched at all about having to dress up to meet with Belle Skinner at a ladies’ tea. Her body felt loose and limber, and while the dress Roarke handed her didn’t fit her image of cop, the weapon she snugged on under the long, fluid jacket made up for it.
“Are you intending to blast some of the other women over the watercress sandwiches and petit fours?” he asked.
“You never know.” She looked at the gold earrings he held out, shrugged, then put them on. “While I’m swilling tea and browbeating Belle Skinner, you can follow up on a hunch for me. Do some digging, see if Hayes was connected to any of the downed cops under Skinner’s command during the botched bust. Something there too close for employer/employee relations.”
“All right. Shoes.”
She stared at the needle-thin heels and flimsy straps. “Is that what you call them? How come guys don’t have to wear death traps like those?”
“I ask myself that same question every day.” He took a long scan after she’d put them on. “Lieutenant, you look amazing.”
“Feel like an idiot. How am I supposed to intimidate anyone dressed in this gear?”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Ladies’ tea,” she grumbled on the way out. “I don’t know why Angelo can’t just haul the woman in to her cop shop and deal.”
“Don’t forget your rubber hose and mini-stunner.”
She smirked over her shoulder as she stepped onto the elevator. “Bite me.”
“Already did.”
The tea was already under way when Eve walked in. Women in flowy dresses, and some—Jesus—in hats, milled about and gathered under arbors of pink roses or spilled out onto a terrace where a harpist plucked strings and sang in a quavery voice that instantly irritated Eve’s nerves.
Tiny crustless sandwiches and pink frosted cakes were arranged on clear glass platters. Shining silver pots steamed with tea that smelled, to Eve, entirely too much like the roses.
At such times she wondered how women weren’t mortified to be women.
She tracked down Peabody first and was more than slightly amazed to see her stalwart aide decked out in a swirly flowered dress and a broad-brimmed straw hat with trailing ribbons.
“Jeez, Peabody, you look like a—what is it—milkmaid or something.”
“Thanks, Dallas. Great shoes.”
“Shut up. Run down Mira. I want her take on Skinner’s wife. The two of you hang close while Angelo and I talk to her.”
“Mrs. Skinner’s out on the terrace. Angelo just walked in. Wow, she’s got some great DNA.”
Eve glanced back, nodded to Angelo. The chief had chosen to wear cool white, but rather than flowing, the dress clung to every curve.
“On the terrace,” Eve told her. “How do you want to play it?”
