Chapter Five

Eve studied the information on the assailants.  She wasn’t positive they had only been after her.  The effort to get both she and Mira out of Cop Central seemed significant to her, a tingling running up her spine.  Using a Cyber Café in Brooklyn they had rented a comp for five minutes to initiate an email to Mira making it look like Eve was requesting to meet, then told Mira to let Eve know by texting her.  McNab had tracked the email back easily, reporting no effort used to misdirect the trail.  He and Calendar had already been dispatched with uniformed officers to get the café’s discs and interview potential witnesses.  Mira had never thought to question the fact that Eve had a private and secure setting; the message had come from an open unsecured line.  Which Eve hoped she would never fail to notice again.  But for now, they had all five assailants in holding, three with records.  Generally familiar rap sheets, a lot of small time stuff leading to progressively longer sentences at Rikers and like facilities.  Where they had no doubt found better connections to boost them up the criminal element scale.  Did they have one of those, Eve wondered.  Scales to judge how bad a criminal you were?  Bet Feeney could devise one.

    Peabody was getting to do the interviews.  Right now she was in the box with the first one, no doubt playing bad cop.  Which was supposed to be Eve’s job.  It wasn’t fair.  Tapping her fingers on the desk of her home office, Eve pouted.  Gave it a good twenty seconds, then moved on.  Until she had something to point at the reason, she’d just take another look at the various discs of the encounter she’d had with them, one block away from Central.

    She called up the first one, saw where she’d failed.  Initially, she should have seen the black sedan coming to a stop at the sidewalk.  No one wanted soy dogs that bad to stop in traffic like that, it was asking for physical retribution from a psychotic commuter who’d had one too many bad days.  But when Albee and Bench got out, fixed on her, Eve should have picked them up on her radar.  The only high point was that she’d taken the two of them out, ok maybe on the light side, but efficiently.  By God, Morris had come running in like a shining knight.  Galahad the second.  Her lips quirked.  And there was Mira coming out of some fancy boutique, looking horrified and still perfect, clutching her suitcase-sized purse.  Eve made a mental note to demand to know the contents of the pretty pink weapon.

    There wasn’t anything else significant on the rest of the bank security disc giving the view outside.  A brief view of Peabody and McNab dashing by.  They had the sedan.  Useless lead as the vehicle had been lifted from long term parking from O’Hara.  She inserted the next disc.  This one showed Morris carrying Eve, following Mira into the building full of innocent bystanders who began calling 911 or taking vids, looking around then setting her down on the floor.  He obviously had no idea that with what was most likely a pay on delivery contract, the men were going to keep on coming after Eve and Mira.  They had been smart enough to know to take Eve out first.  And here they came, through the automatic doors, headed straight for their goal.  Eve critiqued her form, noticing the lack of potency she produced.  Let a cop out of the gym and she became incapable of decent combat.  Sad, sad, sad.  It was going to take weeks to get back into top form.  When Roarke finally let her back up on her feet.

    With the thought, he appeared between their offices.  “Time’s up.”

    Eve glared.  “One more hour.”

    “No even one more minute.  Computer, save and shut down.  Lock out, Roarke One,” Roarke ordered, lips quirking at her outraged howl at his override of her system.  He crossed to her, moving fast before she could think about throwing something, and scooped her up out of her office chair.  “No whining,” he reminded.

    It was like watching a spitting kitten, Roarke reflected, as she protested being taken away from her work.  A progressively more enervated fragile being that he had made his mission to heal.  Roarke took his time walking to their room, taking an indirect path through their home, ignoring her curses and threats, satisfied when her head dropped to his shoulder after five minutes.  She’d wasted more energy, but that was her way.  If it was easy, his Eve wasn’t going to take that road.  Carefully, Roarke placed her in their bed.  Louise could swear that she healed better than any other person the dedicated doctor knew, but Roarke had seen her blood pooling like water, felt her life slipping away from this body not yet healed from the last challenge.  Even his extraordinary warrior had her limits.  And if she didn’t … well, he did.

    Roarke doubted the interviews Peabody was conducting would take as long as if Eve were primary.  The two women had different techniques, certainly, and Peabody was learning to squeeze suspects until they popped.  Not quite dry, she had to take them back into interview several times, but they were cracked.  He figured it would be late afternoon before she was done and bringing the recordings to the house to start the review with Eve.  No doubt McNab would come by, then Feeney.  Possibly Calendar, Baxter and Trueheart.  With Eve back on bed rest, or at least as much as Roarke could humanly make her, the house would be full of cops.  Hell, after these past three years it wasn’t even strange, must less unusual.  Summerset fed them like they were a local scout troop on adventure.  And if truth be known, Roarke had come to enjoy his part in combatting crime with his wife.

    She stirred, frowned, brushed a hand over her thigh where two days ago the surgeon had replaced a section of the artery with an organic implant guaranteed to be better than what she’d been born with;  at least that was what his medical R&D department promised Roarke.  Giving in to the need that filled him despite it being barely ten in the morning, Roarke stripped off his clothes before lying on the bed and pulled her against him, ordering the room darkened once he had her positioned comfortably.  He tucked the covers around her.

    The furor over her viral vid clip was dying down to a low roar.  His attorneys had smoothed things over with the SEC and NYPSD, and Channel 75 probably wouldn’t be sued by Roarke for surreptitious recording of his wife.  Eve appeared completely unaffected, simply because she had no conception of what had happened.  She had watched the vid without concern, seeing herself drink the booster, offer some to Nadine, then going about her work day as normal.  If anything, she was baffled that anyone could care what she chose to drink, unless it was some insane criminal planning to poison her.  Roarke pushed that thought away, as given his wife’s history that possibility wasn’t so farfetched.

    Turning on his side, Roarke stroked his fingers through her hair. Unable to run, Trina had captured his Eve weekly to subject her to new tortures in beauty.  Her hair had been trimmed and now fell back into place as he played with the soft mink strands.  Roarke closed his eyes, letting the tactile sensation of his fingers in her hair fill him.  It had been difficult since the first time he had finally captured her in his hold to get her still long enough to enjoy such a simple pleasure.  Always she was in motion.  And if she wasn’t, then such simple pleasures as this made her nervously dive back into motion.  Best to take time now to satiate himself.  Roarke touched her gently, memorizing each feature by touch and sight.

    And then it was too late.  Eve’s fingers were twining in his hair, pulling him to her so their mouths could mate gently.  She sighed and offered herself to his slow love-making, a seductive surrender he’d enjoyed these past weeks.  She was more easily tired and had begun to learn how to conserve a strength that was, right now, not readily available to be called upon.  And he had benefited greatly from this dreamy contentment she seemed to struggle in as he made love to her.  Before, she could entice his control to slip, much more easily than he was comfortable in admitting.  But now Roarke thought she was learning to enjoy the slow build of passion into a fierce blaze rather than the combustible conflagration she so often demanded.  “Cuimhnigh I gconai thar gach ni eile ta gra agam duit, Eve.”  Roarke smiled when she demanded a translation.  ”Always remember above all else I love you, Eve.”  Then she demanded he teach her the words.  He spoke them slowly to her, between long drugging kisses and gentle touches over recently sutured cuts as he eased the lengthy nightgown from her body.    

Roarke felt the instant she became anxious, freezing up as his hands stroked her body.  Ever since she had come home to him with her body so thin he could have broken her in his hands like glass, she had had these moments.  Times when she had a sudden aversion to touch, unable to move until her mind pushed past some barrier.  He had been terrified it had to do with her past, her sexual and physical abuse as a child, then that she had been attacked during the crisis when she fought on the streets of NYC to bring safety and an end to the violence, attacked and not told him.  But she reassured him it was neither of those things.  All he knew was that if he was patient, coaxing her with soft touches and gentle strokes, she seemed to shake the moment loose.  The one time he had pushed aside her fear, thinking to take her quickly past this point she had shut down, withdrawn completely for hours until he had been forced to call Mira in a panic, admitting in anguish what he had done.  Mira had reassured him, ordered him to give her a soother and let her sleep.  Eve had been herself when she’d woken, not remembering the incident.    

  She hadn’t had this for almost a week now, and Roarke held down his dread, ordering the lights on at twenty percent, rubbing her shoulders, feathering kisses over her cheeks and forehead, whispering her name and his love.

“Roarke?”  He could hear the grating sound as her teeth unclenched.

“I’m here, aghra.  It’s all right.  You’re safe.”  She was warming beneath his hands, already relaxing back against him.  Thank God.  These episodes were shortening.

“Roarke, I’m sorry,” she started to pull away.

  He held her, bringing her back, kissing the mouth that frowned in distress.  “Never apologize to me, Eve.  We’ll get through this.  You’ve been through so much.  Does your leg hurt” he asked, already knowing her answer.  She’d deny injury if a bone was sticking out of her body.

“No.  It’s fine.”  Showing some of the partial confusion she experienced when coming back from this fugue, she raised her head and looked around.  “What time is it?

The computer answered.  “The time is eleven thirty-three, darling Eve.”

  She sighed and her fingers stroked through his long hair.  “I supposed you’re going to make me eat lunch.”  Restless fingers stroked down his shoulders, neck.  Long naked legs twined silkily with his.  Feeling his growing arousal, she pressed against him, slender body rubbing his in fast rising urgent need.  “Before you go to the office.”

  He chuckled in delight at her obvious efforts at manipulating him, the sound dying as her hand reached to stroke him intimately, her lips seeking his.  “I’d rather stay home with my beautiful wife.”  He should leave her alone, let her sleep, Roarke told himself, even as he was being seduced by her boldness.  “I think we should play a game” he told her, freeing his mouth for the words before taking her soft lips with his once more.  It was becoming harder to think as her hands moved on him, knowing what aroused, what enticed him.

  “I’m not up to handstands, ace.”  Eve sighed as she filled herself with his scent, his warmth, her hands happily taking over his body as the odd sense of abandonment of her identity dissipated and lust flooded her.  She planned her attack, already working her way down his body in the least painful way as her thigh protested that it had just been stabbed open and surgically repaired recently.  Sliding on the soft satin of the bed sheets seemed a good idea.  She tried more Gaelic, knowing how he reacted.  “Mo anam cara. A bheil feum agad orm?”  My soulmate. Do you need me?  An involuntary moan came from her throat as she took him into her mouth, a satisfied sound, only to let out a half angry screech in the next moment as he twisted his fingers in her hair and dragged her head up.  “Dammit, Roarke.  You’re not the only one in this bed. I get a turn” she snapped, then felt herself blush in consternation.

  His eyes exploded into an azure blue as he simply lost all restraint at her wanton words, and pulled her over him, arranging her to his satisfaction so he could mate, the feel of her hot, tight and wet almost overwhelming him.  Fighting for discipline, Roarke cursed, realizing she had pushed him into the rush he’d tried to avoid.  “How do you do this to me,” he asked, moving, thrusting, hearing his own breath tearing.  “Keep your leg straight” he didn’t want her pulling out her stitches.  “Hold onto me … Christ, Eve!”  The rest was in his native tongue, a jumble of Gaelic expressing exactly what she did to him.  He held on, barely, until she melted over him, then Roarke let go, his shout startling the cat who napped in the closet on a convenient rack of dress shirts.

   It was some while later before Eve remembered something.  “What game?”  She stretched carefully, assuring herself her stitches were still in place without alerting Roarke to the concern they had ripped out during their recent activity.  She didn’t feel anything wrong.  Good.  He’d give her a headache beating himself up if she’d had to get sutured up again.

  Perfectly aware of her hand brushing her thigh and why, having already done so himself, Roarke smiled up into those golden brown eyes.  So much for nap time, he thought.  She was alert, energized, and ready to fight him if he tried to keep her from returning to work in her office.  “I believe the moment has passed.  You’re eating lunch before anything else, Eve.”  Best to draw the line now.

Eve rolled her eyes.  “Whatever.”