Calculated in Death

constellation.
    Tits not too bad either, she decided, and gave her own sternum a poke. No thumping or twinging, not even when she tested her shoulder.
    So she’d work those muscles, remind them they had a job to do.
    She changed into a sports bra and workout shorts, and after a very short debate left the neatly folded and
not
ragged T-shirts in the drawer.
    Inspired, she took the disc of the theater’s layout, considering it as she rode the elevator down to the gym.
    It took her some time—electronics always took her some time—but she managed to program three scenarios using the layout. She’d get in a good, hard run, she thought, and familiarize herself with the area.
    She set a brisk pace. If she had to run, there wouldn’t be time to warm up. Through the lobby, up stairs, down stairs, into the maintenance level, behind the screen, through the main audience area, up again, down again.
    He was fast, she thought. She’d be faster.
    He was strong. She’d be smart.
    When Roarke came in she’d worked up a sweat.
    He studied her view screen, raised his brows. “Did you program that yourself?”
    “Yeah.” She panted it out, not ready to quit. “I can do e-stuff.”
    “How long did it take you?”
    “Shut up.”
    “Let’s see if I can catch up.”
    “I’ve got . . . twenty-six minutes on you, and I’m taking it out to the street. You never know.”
    “You don’t, no.” He got on the machine beside hers, and in seconds had his synched with hers.
    She wanted to ask him what he’d found at Milo’s, what he knew, but realized she needed her breath to run.
    She avoided people and street traffic, both of which she’d programmed the machine to throw in at random. By the time she’d circled around to run through the theater one last time she hadn’t worked up a sweat. She was dripping with it.
    “Okay. Okay.” She slowed to a walk, sucked in air, guzzled down water. “Okay.”
    “Interesting scenarios,” Roarke commented. “More so, I think, if you were in pursuit or being pursued. Mix it up, make a bit of a game out of it.”
    “Yeah, you do that.”
    She walked over, lay flat on her back, and told herself she’d stretch it out in just a second. For now she’d just lie there and watch him sweat.
    God, he had the most excellent ass. She wouldn’t mind taking just a little bite. Maybe a big one. And maybe she could stretch that hour into, oh, say, ninety minutes.
    What better way to tune up?
    She watched him while she stretched her hamstrings, her quads, so tight from the long run they all but pinged. And found another inspiration.
    “I think I pulled something.” She sat, head down, rubbing at her calf.
    “What?”
    “It’s nothing. I just . . .” She let out a little hiss.
    “Let me see.” He shut off the machine, came over to kneel beside her. “What did you pull?”
    “Your strings,” she said, and yanked him down on top of her.
    “Think you’re clever, don’t you?”
    “Got you here, didn’t I?” She hooked her legs around him, shifted weight, rolled him under her. “Just where I want you.”
    “Did you program this scenario as well?”
    “No, this one I’m making up as I go. We’re all sweaty.” She leaned down to nip at his chin. “All worked up and wet. Why waste it?”
    “I appreciate your sense of efficiency.” He ran a hand over her butt, down the back of her thigh. “You’re still tight.”
    “Why don’t you stretch me?”
    She started to lean down again, but this time he flipped her, pressing body to slick body and mouth to mouth in an explosion of heat that quaked down to the core.
    Her system shuddered from it, then leaped toward it.
    Passion for passion, reckless and greedy.
    She dragged at his shirt, short nails scraping along his skin, fingers digging into muscle. She craved his body, the weight, the shape, the glorious
feel
of it pressed into hers.
    In moments she was breathless again, muscles quivering, heart slamming. Before she could catch that breath again, he drove her up and over with hands and mouth.
    He felt her go, that shuddering release, the gasp and moan.
    It wasn’t enough, not yet, for either of them.
    He yanked off her bra, knew his hands were rough. Didn’t care. He wanted her wild, he wanted her desperate, wanted—needed—to drag her down into the madness with him.
    She went. Her body alive and eager and reckless under his. Her hands, rough as well, grasping, taking.
    No patience, no tenderness here. Not now. Only