Connections in Death (In Death 48)

And with him, only with him, reached for it.

Later, lying in the dark, curled against him and starting to drift toward sleep, she smiled. “You can be Dr. Sexpert.”

“I don’t think—”

“Just for tonight.”

“Then never again.”

He stroked her back to lull her the rest of the way to sleep, then felt the cat jump up to take his favorite spot. And so he brushed his lips over her forehead, and joined her in sleep.

19

She woke stiff, sore, and early. In the firelight Roarke stood, drinking coffee, watching the scroll on the wall screen as it reported from somewhere she assumed the stupid rotation of the planet made it later.

She thought, sleepily, he looked almost as good in a suit as he did naked. And that was saying something.

She started to roll out of bed, must have made some sound that acknowledged the annoyance of aches. He turned, studied her in the dim light.

“Feeling it this morning?”

“Maybe.”

“We’ll do another round of ice and wanding.”

“Maybe.” She eased out of bed, headed straight to the shower to pummel some of the aches into submission with hot jets.

It helped, as did the coffee Roarke handed her—along with a blocker—when she came out. “Swelling’s down.” He stroked a gentle finger down her jaw. “And the bruising lessened. Let’s see what else we can do.”

“It doesn’t hurt to look like I got punched in the face during arrests on the record in Interview.”

“Always a bright side.”

When they sat, he placed the ice patches, glided the wand over her face. “Let’s see the rest.”

Rather than argue, she unbelted the robe, let him treat the shoulder, the ribs, her arms.

“You should try to take a break sometime during the day, do another round.”

“Breaking those bastards is all the healing up I need.”

“You could do me a favor,” he said as he lifted the domes on breakfast. “Send me a running tally as you do.”

Bacon, she noted—American style—an omelette, fruit, scones, and jam. Not bad.

“I can do that.”

“What’s your plan of attack?”

“After the briefing, I’m taking the one you punched first—and if Dickhead doesn’t have the DNA, hasn’t passed that to Harvo for the other hair found on Duff? I’m siccing Whitney on him. The finger-snapping guy’s the asshole who had Rochelle’s earrings and Lyle’s earbuds in his idiot pocket. I break him, it all falls apart. And I get to tell Cohen even the bullshit deal he signed is rescinded.”

“Why bullshit?”

“I didn’t fill you in on that?” Breaking open a scone, Eve piled on enough butter and jam to delight any five-year-old. “The feds agreed to the Witness Protection—on the stipulation he told no falsehoods—after he’d faced prosecution on the accessories charges from us. So yeah, after he did fifty, minimum, on that, he could be Horace Dickwad of Bullshit, Iowa.”

“He agreed to that?”

“Yeah, he did, because he’s a crappy disbarred lawyer and he didn’t read the fine print.” She bit into the smothered scone. “Or maybe read it and just didn’t understand it.”