“A challenge then?”
She arched again, heat to heat. “You’re up for it.”
He laughed as well even as he captured her mouth again.
Quick, quick, and oh yes, efficient, those hands skimming, those clever fingers tugging and pressing. A thief’s steady hands, a pickpocket’s nimble fingers, they stole her breath. And had her disarmed, naked to the waist before she caught it again.
“So far, so good,” she managed.
Then lost her breath again as his mouth ravished her breast. With her heart hammering under the assault, she fought her way under his shirt to flesh.
The fire smoldered, rolled out heat and light. The cat, displaced and annoyed, plopped off the couch, stalked out of the room.
Roarke moved over her, savoring those long lines, subtle curves. He could make her tremble, always a thrill. And she could make him ache. Every gasp, every sigh he drew from her beat in his blood, tribal drums. Her hands, long and narrow like the rest of her, rushed over him, reached for him, unleashed him.
He drove into her, buried himself, filled her.
They held, breath ragged, eyes locked.
Her hands lifted to his face—one tender beat—then her fingers shot back into his hair, gripped, dragged his mouth back to hers for the hunger, mad and avid.
Then the movement, the hard and fast taking each of each, eclipsed all. The madness of need overtook with her arms chained around him, her hips flashing beat for beat.
When she cried out, flung herself off that whippy edge, he held on, held on, then fell with her.
9
Eve woke in the gray limbo before dawn, alone, naked, and to the alarm of her communicator beeping.
She fumbled for it.
“Block video. Dallas.”
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to officer, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, Eighty-Sixth Street. Possible homicide. Victim identified as Banks, Jordan.
“Crap,” she breathed it out. “Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. Dallas out.”
She rolled over. “Lights on, twenty percent.” Headed for the shower.
“Who did you talk to, you asshole? Who did you talk to?” she muttered while the hot pulse of jets pounded her. She jumped out of the shower and into the drying tube. Closed her eyes while warm air swirled.
Jumped out, grabbed a robe, and strode into the bedroom just as Roarke came in the door with the cat at his heels.
“You’re up early,” he commented.
“Banks is dead.”
“Ah, well. I’ll get the coffee.”
Grateful, she dived into her closet. “What the hell was he doing in Central Park?” She grabbed black pants, a shirt, a jacket. “What was he doing at the JKO?”
“The reservoir?”
“All I know until I get there. Except this is damn well connected. No way in hell this bomb goes off yesterday, I talk to him, and he’s dead by morning.”
She came out in the shirt—white—the pants—black—tossed a black jacket on the sofa in the sitting area, and grabbed the coffee Roarke held out to her.
“Thanks.”