Page 81 of Calculated in Death

“Stupefied in love.”

She closed her eyes while his hands glided over her. “None of the people I’m looking at understand that. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy for them to kill—more pay for it. It’s colder, I think, when you can’t even do the killing yourself. Like hiring people to fumigate your house or office. You’re not going to actually deal with the bugs. That’s too nasty. You’ll just pay to have it done. Money for money. Not for love or passion, not for need. Even then you don’t think it through, don’t bother yourself with the details. Just get it done, you think—order—and don’t clog up my day with the details.”

“Why come after you?” He knew, but wanted to let her talk it through.

“I bothered him. I got in his face, into his business. That’s insulting, and a little frightening. Get rid of me, and Peabody, and brush your hands off. Which is stupid again, for the same reason killing Dickenson was stupid. Somebody else just picks up the ball and runs with it.”

“It buys time.”

“That’s true, but kill a cop? Two cops? Wrath of God hits about even with the wrath of the entire NYPSD. And neither of those hits the level of the Wrath of Roarke.”

“It’s already been stirred,” he stated.

“I know it, but I’m good. I’m here. I’m good.” She hooked her good arm up and around his neck. “They’re jealous of you, all of them. That’s another kind of greed. Of avarice. They want what you have.”

“They can’t have it.”

“And they know it. More of a pisser. You’re not second- and third-generation money and business. You upstart.”

He laughed at that. “Now I’m insulted.”

“Irish street rat upstart with your shadowy past and your cop wife. Yeah, it adds a layer of pissiness having Roarke’s cop in their face. We’ll just teach them both a lesson.”

“They don’t know my cop.” Carefully, he turned her so they faced. “But I do.”

He kissed her, sweetly, then just took her hands in his when she started to reach for him. “No. You started this, and now you’ll just have to lie back and take it.”

“Oh, I can take it.”

“Let’s see.”

Just his mouth on hers, just that kindest of contacts. He’d wanted only to tend to her, to soothe her aches, ease her hurts. Only that, but he understood she needed more. Needed him, and needed to show them both she wouldn’t be beaten, or even slowed down.

Part of it might have been those memories of being hurt, of being so close to death by McQueen’s hands, of coming so close to taking his life while the pain and shock ruled her.

It didn’t matter why, he thought. She needed, and he’d give.

But gently, slowly, and with that fine sugary layer of sweetness.

He felt her body go pliant, go soft against him, as he knew it would only for him. She, who never surrendered, would surrender to him, for him. Would give him that most intimate treasure.

He murmured to her as he used his hands, his lips to comfort and arouse. A ghra. My love.

He took her down, away from hurts, from worries, from all but silky, shimmering pleasure. Weighted her body with it, clouded her mind. And his words, so lovely, stirred in her heart.

My love.

The water foamed and frothed around them, scented, pulsing. She thought she could float away on it, on him, on what they brought to each other that no one else ever had, ever could.

He gave her comfort before she knew she needed it, and he gave her love when her life had been so empty of it for so long.

He’d come home to her, to bring her both before she’d thought to ask.

“I love you.” She turned her cheek to his. “For everything.”

For everything, he thought as he slipped slowly inside her. For all. Forever.

Because he filled her, lifted her, loved her, she floated away. And linking her hand with his, floated away with him.