“Sounds fairly normal,” Eve murmured. “Data on Spirit Quest.”
Spirit Quest. Wiccan shop and consultation center, owned by Isis Paige and Charles Forte. Three years in Tenth Street location. Annual gross income one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars. Licensed priestess, herbalist, and registered hypnotherapist on site.
“Wicca?” Eve leaned back with a snort. “Witch stuff? Jesus. What kind of scam is this?”
Wicca, recognized as both a religion and a craft, is an ancient, nature-based faith which—
“Stop.” Eve blew out a breath. She wasn’t looking for a definition of witchcraft, but an explanation as to why a steady-as-a-rock cop ended up with a granddaughter who believed in casting spells and magic crystals.
And why that granddaughter wanted a secret meeting.
The best way to find out, she decided, was to show up at the Aquarian Club in a bit over twenty-four hours. She left the note on the desk. It would be easy to dismiss it, she thought, if it hadn’t been written by a relative of a man she’d respected.
And if she hadn’t seen that figure in the shadows. A figure she was sure hadn’t wanted to be seen.
She walked to the adjoining bath and began to strip. It was too bad she couldn’t take Mavis with her for the meet. Eve had a feeling the Aquarian Club would be right up her friend’s alley. Eve kicked her jeans aside, leaned over to stretch out the kinks of a long day. And wondered what she would do with the long night ahead.
She had nothing hot to work on. Her last homicide had been so open and shut that she and her aide had put it to bed in under eight hours. Maybe she’d spend a couple hours glazing out watching some screen. Or she could pick a weapon out of Roarke’s gun room and go down and run a hologram program to burn off excess energy until she could sleep.
She’d never tried one of his auto-assault rifles. It might be interesting to experience how a cop took out an enemy during the early days of the Urban Wars.
She stepped into the shower. “Full jets, on pulse,” she ordered. “Ninety-eight degrees.”
She wished she had a murder to sink her teeth into. Something that would focus her mind and drain her system. And damn it, that was pathetic. She was lonely, she realized. Desperate for a distraction, and he’d only been gone three days.
They both had their own lives, didn’t they? They’d lived them before they met and continued to live them after. The demands of both their businesses absorbed much time and attention. Their relationship worked—and that continued to surprise her—because they were both independent people.
Christ, she missed him outrageously. Disgusted with herself, she ducked her head under the spray and let it pound on her brain.
When hands slipped around her waist, then slid up to cup her breasts, she barely jolted. But her heart leaped. She knew his touch, the feel of those long, slim fingers, the texture of those wide palms. She tipped her head back, inviting a mouth to the curve of her shoulder.
“Mmm. Summerset. You wild man.”
Teeth nipped into flesh and made her chuckle. Thumbs brushed over her soapy nipples and made her moan.
“I’m not going to fire him.” Roarke trailed a hand down the center of her body.
“It was worth a shot. You’re back…” His fingers dipped expertly inside her, slick and slippery, so that she arched, moaned, and came simultaneously. “Early,” she finished on an explosive breath. “God.”
“I’d say I was just on time.” He spun her around, and while she was shuddering and blinking water out of her eyes, he covered her mouth in a long, ravenous kiss.
He’d thought about her on the interminable flight home. Thought about this, just this: touching and tasting and hearing that quick catch in her breath as he did. And here she was, naked and wet and already quivering for him.
He braced her in the corner, gripped her hips, and slowly lifted her off her feet. “Miss me?”
Her heart was thundering. He was inches away from driving into her, filling her, destroying her. “Not really.”
“Well, in that case…” He kissed her lightly on the chin. “I’ll just let you finish your shower in peace.”
In a flash, she wrapped her legs around his waist, took a firm hold of his wet mane of hair. “Try it, pal, and you’re a dead man.”
“In the interest of self-preservation then.” To torture them both, he slipped into her slowly, watched her eyes go opaque. He closed his mouth over hers again so that her shallow breaths shuddered through him.
The ride was slow and slippery, and more tender than either had expected. Climax came on a long, quiet sigh. Her lips curved against his. “Welcome home.”
She could see him now, those stunning blue eyes, the face that was both saint and sinner, the mouth of a doomed poet. His hair was streaming with water, black and sleek, just touching broad shoulders roped with subtle and surprisingly tough muscle.
Looking at him after these brief, periodic absences always made something unexpected lurch through her. She doubted she would ever get used to the fact that he not only wanted her but loved her.