She didn’t belong there. Would never belong there, in that hideous gallery of death.
Yet she had put herself there, he realized. Had put her image among the others. Steely-minded, he thought now. His cop, his wife, his world. Coolheadedly, cool-bloodedly aligning the facts and data, even when her own life was part of them.
He ordered himself to calm, to understand why she’d put herself there. She needed to see the whole picture, and seeing the whole picture would shut it down.
He looked away from the board and over to her. She was exactly as she’d been when he entered. Kicked back, still—and safe.
He went to her, realized some of the rage and fear was still with him when he wanted to simply pluck her up, wrap himself around her, and hold on. And on. Instead he reached down to take the mug out of her hand.
“Get your own coffee,” she muttered, and opened her eyes.
Not asleep, he realized, but in the zone. “My mistake. I thought you were sleeping on the job.”
“Thinking time, pal. Didn’t hear you come in. How’s it going?”
“Well enough. I grabbed a swim and a shower to delude myself that I was still feeling human.”
“Yeah, I went the beach run and iron pumping route. Mostly works. I’ve been doing probabilities and some data juggling. I need to write up a report, then do some runs. When—”
“I want ten minutes,” he interrupted.
“Huh?”
“Ten minutes.” He took the coffee now, set it aside, then captured her hand to pull her out of the chair. “Where it’s just you, just me.”
She cocked up her eyebrows as he drew her away from the desk. “Ten minutes isn’t anything to brag about, ace.”
“I’m not meaning sex.” He slid his arms around her, kept moving in what she now understood was a slow and easy dance. “Or not precisely that. I want ten minutes of you,” he repeated, lowering his brow to hers. “Just that, without anything or anyone.”
She drew in a breath, and smelled the shower on him. That lingering scent of soap on his skin. “It already feels good.” She touched her lips to his, angled her head. “Tastes good, too.”
He skimmed a finger down the dent in her chin, brushed his lips on hers. “So it does. And there’s this spot I know.” He used his finger to turn her head slightly, then laid his lips along her jawline, just below her ear. “Just exactly there. It’s perfect.”
“That one spot?”
“Well now, there are others, but that’s a particular favorite of mine.”
She smiled, then rested her head on his shoulder—a favorite spot of hers—and let him guide her through the easy dance. “Roarke.”
“Mmm?”
“Nothing. It just feels good to say it.”
His hand stroked up and down her back. “Eve,” he said. “You’re right again. It does. I love you. There’s nothing that feels more perfect than that.”
“Hearing it’s not bad. Knowing it’s the best.” She lifted her head, met his lips again. “I love you.”
They held on, and they ended the dance as they’d begun. With his brow resting against hers. “There, now,” he murmured. “That’s better.” He drew back, then lifted her hands to his lips.
He had a way, just that way, of making her insides curl. His lips warm on her skin, and those wild blue eyes looking over their joined hands into hers made her wish she had a hundred ten minutes just to be. As long as he could just be along with her.
“It’s pretty damn good,” she told him.
“Why don’t I get us a meal,” he suggested, “and you can tell me about those probabilities.”
“I’ll get it. It’s got to be my turn by now. You can go ahead and look them over if you want.”
She stepped back, turned. And saw, as she realized now he would have seen, her photo on the board. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus.” Appalled, she gripped a handful of her own hair and tugged. “Listen, this was stupid. I’m stupid. I only put this up there