Page 18 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“Museums are closed,” he pointed out, and flipped the release on her weapon harness. “You’re circling the ifs at this point, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“And as I recall,” he said as he unhooked her belt, “you’ve plans to be up and out early, since you’re a boss with paperwork to complete.”

“You added to that tonight.” While he nipped his way down her throat, she pushed at his suit jacket. “And shit, I never hit a machine.”

He felt her sigh, recognized both pleasure and resignation.

“I’m going to need a cash loan, if you don’t mind.”

His lips curved in a grin just under her jaw. And there, he thought, the resignation.

“I don’t mind at all. We’ll do the transaction in the morning. But for now, I want my wife.”

His mouth came back to hers, and that want heated as lips and tongues met.

He wanted to seduce her, to take, and be taken. He wanted to know she felt, she needed all that he did.

“I want her body, her mind, her heart.”

He had them. She knew he always would. It was a daily miracle for her to know she had his.

And he could take her, in one thick heartbeat, into a world ruled by the senses, driven by needs both simple and complex, and warmed by a love that had no end.

She fought off his tie. “You’re wearing all the clothes.”

“We can fix that.”

He boosted her up, set her on the command center, then pulled off her right boot.

Her eyes met his as she unbuttoned his shirt. “Here?”

He pulled off the left boot. “We’ve tested it before. It’s more than sturdy enough. And what a picture you make, Lieutenant Dallas, half-dressed on your center of command. It’s no wonder, is it, I can never get enough of you.”

“It is to me.”

When he shrugged out of his shirt, she reached for his belt, and using it, yanked him to her.

They sprawled over the counter as she struggled with the belt. As his hands, and the magic in them, turned her body into a furnace fired with needs.

When his mouth took hers again, all those needs poured into the kiss, all that fire burned through her blood. And every minute of the day before that moment blew away like feathers in the wind.

Only him, only now, only them.

He peeled her support tank away, cupped her breasts in his hands as his lips glided down to them.

So firm, so smooth, a glorious contrast to tough muscle, long, lean lines, fascinating angles.

No, he could never get enough of her, so he let his hands, his mouth, touch and taste the strong and the subtle, the soft and the smooth while the beat of her heart quickened under his lips, while her body trembled under his hands.

He murmured in the language of his blood when she moaned. He felt his own heart spring to a gallop as her hips rocked, as her hands took.

“We’ll need more room after all,” he managed. He pulled her up, then down with him to the floor.

She rolled over him, pressed down to him, and her mouth went on a crazed journey over heated skin the light breeze from the open terrace doors couldn’t cool.

Rolling again, yet again, he dragged at her pants as she dragged at his until there were no barriers between them.

When she rose over him, she wore nothing but the flash of the diamond he’d given her. She took him in, held there one glorious, torturous moment, held him there until the eyes locked on his went blind.

When she moved, they shared a kind of madness, rising and falling in a storm, all drenched in pleasure. It went deep, deeper still until she cried out from the shock of sensation.

When she shuddered, he pulled her down to him, rolled once more.

“Take.” He covered her mouth in a desperate kiss. “Take again.”

Helpless to deny him, herself, she leaped back into the storm and rode it with him.

Spent, sated, saturated, she lay under him. She thought she might regain the use of her extremities in a few hours. Possibly a couple days.

She found she didn’t mind that considering he appeared to be in the same boat.

“We could sleep right here.”

“Aye.” He didn’t move a muscle. “I’m thinking about that option right at the moment.”

“You’re the one who didn’t want to go up to the bedroom.”

“True enough. It might be all that talk of old masters and the thieving of them started it. It’s always been a passion for me, after all. But no.” He managed to turn his head and brush his lips against the side of her throat. “I think it was you all along.”

He feathered on another kiss.

“Just give us another minute here.”

“I can give you until oh-six hundred.” Then she remembered. “No, damn it, oh-five-thirty. I’m going to get that christing paperwork done.”

“Then you need a bed under you.”

He rolled off her, shoved at his wonderfully tousled hair. “Come on then, Lieutenant.” He reached down for her hand. “Let’s get you up.”

When he pulled her to her feet, she looked at the scatter of clothes.

“We need to get all this. I’ve said it before, and I’m saying it now. We don’t leave evidence of sex all over the place.”

“Evidence of sex. Always the cop.” And delighted with her, he helped gather up clothes.

She hitched her weapon harness on one naked shoulder, and made him smile.

“Christ Jesus, how can you make me want you again when I’m barely breathing from the last?”

“I’m not picking all this up a second time.”

He laughed and walked over to shut the balcony doors. “To bed. You need some sleep.”

She glanced back as she walked to the elevator. “Looks like the cat beat us there.”

“Then he’ll need to make room.”

Not long after Eve opened operations, Jonathan Harper Ebersole went on the hunt.

He’d painted for hours that day. The music soaring, and his heart with it, as every stroke of his brush brought him joy. He knew the portrait was his best work, magnificent work, and no wonder. He’d taken her life with his hands, and her death brought life to the art.

He understood that as he never had before.

It would take time to finish, to perfect the portrait. And it needed to wait, to allow him to begin another.

He’d prepared it all, and very carefully. He’d selected the model. Not from the same block, oh no, he thought as he walked. He’d spotted and studied this one hustling in Times Square.

The beauty there? Not only had he found an excellent representation for the work he’d do, but no one would notice a man picking up an LC in Times Square.

It was, to him, a charmless, classless blight on the city. But for this purpose? Perfection.

The lights, so brilliant, all flashing. The noise, huge, rolling like thunder. The crowd? Thick, stupidly energetic, and for the most part, gawking tourists.

And those who hustled and hyped, who picked pockets or pushed discounts for sex clubs into greedy hands.

He knew it was fate, was right , when he spotted his next model soliciting in front of the theater he used in lieu of a flop.

Careful to stay out of the view of street cams, even though he’d worn a hat, sunshades, Jonathan gestured.

Bobby Ren sauntered over. He wore a cropped skin shirt that exposed tight abs, and skin pants cut to a V , front and back.

“Looking for some action?”

“I have a proposition,” Jonathan began.

Because she’d requested it, Roarke buzzed Eve awake from his office at five-thirty.

“I’ve a meeting to finish, but I’ll be up shortly.”

“Great.” She cast a sleepy, gimlet eye at his perfectly groomed hair, the dark blue suit jacket, pale blue shirt, and, of course, perfectly knotted and coordinated tie. “Later.”

She signed off, rolled out of bed. Hit the coffee, hit the shower, all while keeping paperwork in the locked box so it didn’t lower her already sour mood.

What she wanted? Another hour’s sleep. A quick workout, a swim. Instead, she faced her closet.

“Why does this keep happening to me?”

Inside, she found an outfit, hung together, boots at its feet. And a memo cube.

Roarke’s voice cruised out. “Just to save you a bit of time and frustration this morning.”

When she hissed out a breath, part of her wanted to reject the choices just to…

to be a pissy-ass, she admitted. But the part of her that wanted to get it over with accepted the chocolate brown pants, the jacket she called tan that probably had a fancy name.

It also had chocolate brown buttons. The white shirt—no, she corrected, he’d say cream—had a silkier flow to it than she’d have chosen.

But it was right there.

The boots, chocolate brown, had fake tan laces and a zip on the side. She’d never understand fake laces, and these, in the Roarke way, matched the chunky belt.

When she came out for her weapon, he stood at the AutoChef programming breakfast.

Before she could speak, her communicator signaled. She picked it up, said, “Fuck.”

It said,

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

She listened, acknowledged. “Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. I’m on my way.”

As she stuffed the communicator in her pocket, Roarke did the same with his ’link. Then handed her an omelet with a side of bacon. “Eat a bit, won’t you? Your address on West Thirty-Seventh is Midtown Gallery.”

“He moved fast. He’s got everything prepped, everything planned, and he’s moving fast.” She shoveled in some eggs, then plucked up a slice of bacon before she set the plate down. “I can move fast, too.”

She gulped down some of the coffee he gave her, then swung on her jacket, loaded her pockets.

He offered her a wad of cash.

“What— Oh, right. I don’t need that much.”

“You may be too pressed today to stop for a withdrawal, so this carries you through until.” He tapped her chin. “Now, you’re graciously accepting a loan, as I’ll be equally gracious when you repay it.”

Since they’d made exactly that deal, she stuffed the wad in her pocket. “Right,” she said again, “thanks.”

He kissed her. “While you’re taking care of my cop today, feed her a bit more.”

Eve grabbed another slice of bacon, bit in. “Done.” She kissed him back, then rushed out.

“Not quite what I meant.” Roarke rubbed at the gray button in his pocket. Then spotted the cat. “And stop where you are, mate. Don’t think you’ll help yourself to her breakfast.”