“Dead wouldn’t be enough, without arrest, trial, and sentencing.”
“No, it wouldn’t. And here you are, rich, successful, famous—and married, for Christ’s sake—to a cop. I don’t need Mira to draw me a profile on this one. Skinner believes that perpetrators of certain crimes, including any crime that results in the death of a police official, should pay with their life. After due process. Your father skipped out on that one. You’re here, you pay.”
“Then he’s doomed to disappointment. For a number of reasons. One, I’m a great deal smarter than my father was.” He rose, went to her, skimmed a finger down the dent in her chin. “And my cop is better than Skinner ever hoped to be.”
“I have to take him down. I have to fuck over fifty years of duty, and take him down.”
“I know.” And would suffer for it, Roarke thought, as Skinner never would. As Skinner could never understand. “We need to sleep,” he said and pressed his lips to her brow.
She dreamed of Dallas, and the frigid, filthy room in Texas where her father had kept her. She dreamed of cold and hunger and unspeakable fear. The red light from the sex club across the street flashed into the room, over her face. And over his face as he struck her.
She dreamed of pain when she dreamed of her father. The tearing of her young flesh as he forced himself into her. The snapping of bone, her own high, thin scream when he broke her arm.
She dreamed of blood.
Like Roarke’s, her father had died by a knife. But the one that had killed him had been gripped in her own eight-year-old hand.
In the big, soft bed in the plush suite, she whimpered like a child. Beside her, Roarke gathered her close and held her until the dream died.
She was up and dressed by six. The snappy jacket that had ended up in her suitcase fit well over her harness and weapon. The weight of them made her feel more at home.
She used the bedroom ’link to contact Peabody. At least she assumed the lump under the heap of covers was Peabody.
“Whaa?”
“Wake up,” Eve ordered. “I want your report in fifteen minutes.”
“Who?”
“Jesus, Peabody. Get up, get dressed. Get here.”
“Why don’t I order up some breakfast?” Roarke suggested when she broke transmission.
“Fine, make it for a crowd. I’m going to spread a
little sunshine and wake everybody up.” She hesitated. “I trust my people, Roarke, and I know how much I can tell them. I don’t know Angelo.”
He continued to read the morning stock reports on-screen. “She works for me.”
“So, one way or the other, does every third person in the known universe. That tells me nothing.”
“What was your impression of her?”
“Sharp, smart, solid. And ambitious.”
“So was mine,” he said easily. “Or she wouldn’t be chief of police on Olympus. Tell her what she needs to know. My father’s unfortunate history doesn’t trouble me.”
“Will you talk to Mira?” She kept her gaze level as he rose, turned toward her. “I want to call her in, I want a consult. Will you talk to her?”
“I don’t need a therapist, Eve. I’m not the one with nightmares.” He cursed softly, ran a hand through his hair when her face went blank and still. “Sorry. Bloody hell. But my point is we each handle things as we handle them.”
“And you can push and nudge and find ways to smooth it over for me. But I can’t do that for you.”
The temper in her voice alleviated a large slice of his guilt over mentioning her nightmare. “Screen off,” he ordered and crossed to her. Took her face in his hands. “Let me tell you what I once told Mira—not in a consult, not in a session. You saved me, Eve.” He watched her blink in absolute shock. “What you are, what I feel for you, what we are together saved me.” He kept his eyes on hers as he kissed her. “Call your people. I’ll contact Darcia.”
He was nearly out of the room before she found her voice. “Roarke?” She never seemed to find the words as he did, but these came easy. “We saved each other.”
There was no way she could make the huge, elegant parlor feel like one of the conference rooms in Cop Central. Especially when her team was gorging on cream pastries, strawberries the size of golf balls, and a couple of pigs’ worth of real bacon.