“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Carter said quickly, defending the dead. “You’ve got to understand, Roarke—to a lot of us—well, he’s ice, you know? Solid ice. Rolling in credits, mag clothes, outstanding digs, power plus, sexy new wife—” He broke off, flushing. “Excuse me.”

“No problem.” She’d decide later if she was amused or flabbergasted that a boy barely twenty considered her sexy.

“It’s just that a lot of us techs—well, a lot of people altogether—sort of aspire. Roarke’s like the epitome. Drew totally admired him. He had ambitions, Mrs.—Lieutenant. He had goals and plans. Why would he do this?” Suddenly his eyes swam. “Why would he do this?”

“I don’t know, Carter. Sometimes you never know why.”

She led him back, guided him through, until she had a picture of Drew Mathias that gelled. An hour later, there was nothing left for her to do but put together a report for whoever would be transported in to close the case.

She leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator as she and Roarke rode back to the penthouse. “It was good thinking to put him in another room on another floor. He may sleep better tonight.”

“He’ll sleep better if he takes the tranqs. How about you? Will you sleep?”

“Yeah. I’d turn it over easier if I had a glimmer of what was troubling him, what pushed him to it.” She stepped out into the corridor, waited while Roarke disengaged security to their suite. “The picture I’ve got is of your average tech nerd with grand aspirations. Shy of women, into fantasy. Happy in his work.” She lifted her shoulders. “There weren’t any incoming or outgoing calls on his ’link, no E-mail sent or received, no messages recorded, and the security on the door was engaged at sixteen hundred hours by Mathias, disengaged at oh thirty-three by Carter. He didn’t have any visitors, didn’t go out. He just settled in for the evening, then hanged himself.”

“It’s not a homicide.”

“No, it’s not a homicide.” Did that make it better, she wondered, or worse? “Nobody to blame, nobody to punish. Just a dead kid. A life wasted.” She turned to him suddenly, wrapped her arms tightly around him. “Roarke, you changed my life.”

Surprised, he tipped up her face. Her eyes weren’t wet, but dry and fierce and angry. “What’s this?”

“You changed my life,” she said again. “At least part of it. I’m beginning to see it’s the best part of it. I want you to know that. I want you to remember that when we get back and things settle into routine, if I forget to let you know what I feel or what I think or how much you mean to me.”

Touched, he pressed his curved lips to her brow. “I won’t let you forget. Come to bed. You’re tired.”

“Yeah, I am.” She skimmed her hair back from her face as they started toward the bedroom. Less than forty-eight hours left, she remembered. She wouldn’t let useless death mar the last hours of their honeymoon.

She angled her head, fluttered her lashes. “You know, Carter thinks I’m sexy.”

Roarke stopped. He narrowed his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

Oh, she loved it when that lilting Irish voice turned arrogant. “You’re ice,” she continued, circling her head on her tensed shoulders as she unbuttoned her shirt.

“Am I? Am I really?”

“Solid ice, which is, as Mavis would say, mag. And part of the reason you’re ice, in case you’re wondering, is because you have a sexy new wife.”

Naked to the waist, she sat on the bed and tugged off her shoes. She flicked a glance over at him and saw that he’d tucked his hands in his pockets and was grinning. Her lips curved as well. It felt very good to smile.

“So, ice man”—she cocked her head, lifted a brow—“what are you going to do about your sexy new wife?”

Roarke ran his tongue over his teeth, then stepped forward. “Why don’t I demonstrate?”

She thought it would be better, facing the trip back, being flung through space like a kid’s ray ball. She was wrong.

Eve argued, using what she considered very logical reasons why she shouldn’t get into Roarke’s private transport.

“I don’t want to die.”

He laughed at her, which had her eyes kindling, then he simply scooped her up and carried her on board. “I’m not staying.” Her heart jittered into her chest as he stepped into the plush cabin. “I mean it. You’ll have to knock me out to get me to stay on this flying death trap.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He chose a wide, scoop-shaped chair in buttery black leather, kept her in his lap and, moving quickly, strapped her in, trapping her arms to limit any possible reprisals.

“Hey. Stop it.” Panicked, she struggled, wiggled, swore. “Let me out. Let me off.”

Her snug butt jiggling on his lap gave him a solid clue as to how he intended to spend the initial hours of the trip. “Take off as soon as you have clearance,” Roarke ordered the pilot, then smiled at the flight attendant. “We won’t need you for a while,” he told her and engaged the locks on the cabin doors the moment she made a discreet exit.

“I’m going to hurt you,” Eve promised. When she heard the hum of engines gearing up, felt the faint vibrati

Tags: J.D. Robb In Death Mystery
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