In Death 01 - Naked in Death

back was shoved against the wall and his mouth crushed hard on hers. She didn't fight. The wind had been knocked out of her by the suddenness, and the rage under it, and the shock of need that slammed into her like a fist.
    It was quick, seconds only, before her mouth was free. "Stop it," she demanded, and hated that her voice was only a shaky whisper.
    "Whatever you think," he began, struggling for his own composure, "there are times when you need someone. Right now, it's me." Impatience shimmering around him, he pulled her outside. "Where's your car?"
    She gestured down the block and let him propel her down the sidewalk. "I don't know what your problem is."
    "It seems to be you. Do you know how you looked?" he demanded as he yanked open the car door. "Sitting in that place with your eyes closed, shadows under them?" Picturing it again only fired his anger. He shoved her into the passenger seat and rounded the car to take the driver's position himself. "What's your fucking code?"
    Fascinated with the whiplash temper, she shifted to key it in herself. With the lock released, he pressed the starter and pulled away from the curb.
    "I was trying to relax," Eve said carefully.
    "You don't know how," he shot back. "You've packed it in, but you haven't gotten rid of it. You're walking a real straight line, Eve, but it's a damn thin one."
    "That's what I'm trained to do."
    "You don't know what you're up against this time."
    Her fingers curled into a fist at her side. "And you do."
    He was silent for a moment, banking his own emotions. "We'll talk about it later."
    "I like now better. I went to see Elizabeth Barrister yesterday."
    "I know." Calmer, he adjusted to the jerky rhythm of her car. "You're cold. Turn up the heater."
    "It's busted. Why didn't you tell me that she'd asked you to meet Sharon, to talk to her?"
    "Because Beth asked me in confidence."
    "What's your relationship with Elizabeth Barrister?"
    "We're friends." Roarke slanted her a look. "I have a few. She and Richard are among them."
    "And the senator?"
    "I hate his fucking, pompous, hypocritical guts," Roarke said calmly. "If he gets his party's nomination for president, I'll put everything I've got into his opponent's campaign. If it's the devil himself."
    "You should learn to speak your mind, Roarke," she said with a ghost of a smile. "Did you know that Sharon kept a diary?"
    "It's a natural assumption. She was a businesswoman."
    "I'm not talking about a log, business records. A diary, a personal diary. Secrets, Roarke. Blackmail."
    He said nothing as he turned the idea over. "Well, well. You found your motive."
    "That remains to be seen. You have a lot of secrets, Roarke."
    He let out a half laugh as he stopped at the gates of his estate. "Do you really think I'd be a victim of blackmail, Eve? That some lost, pitiful woman like Sharon could unearth information you can't and use it against me?"
    "No." That was simple. She put a hand on his arm. "I'm not going inside with you." That was not.
    "If I were bringing you here for sex, we'd have sex. We both know it. You wanted to see me. You want to shoot the kind of weapon that was used to kill Sharon and the other, don't you?"
    She let out a short breath. "Yes."
    "Now's your chance."
    The gates opened. He drove through.

CHAPTER TEN
    The same stone-faced butler stood guard at the door. He took Eve's coat with the same faint disapproval.
    "Send coffee down to the target room, please," Roarke ordered as he led Eve up the stairs.
    He was holding her hand again, but Eve decided it was less a sentimental gesture than one to make sure she didn't balk. She could have told him she was much too intrigued to go anywhere, but found she enjoyed that ripple of annoyance under his smooth manner.
    When they'd reached the third floor, he went through his collection briskly, choosing weapons without fuss or hesitation. He handled the antiques with the competence of experience and, she thought, habitual use.
    Not a man who simply bought to own, but one who made use of his possessions. She wondered if he knew that counted against him. Or if he cared.
    Once his choices were secured in a leather case, he moved to a wall.
    Both the security console and the door itself were so cleverly hidden in a painting of a forest, she would never have found it. The trompe l'oeil slid open to an elevator.
    "This car only opens to a select number of rooms," he explained as Eve stepped into the elevator with him. "I rarely take guests down to the