In Death 01 - Naked in Death

thing was overrated, too. After all, anyone with enough money can have one."
    "I didn't buy mine," Roarke said, surprised into defending his physique.
    "No, you've got a gym in this place, don't you?" Bending, she let her lips cruise over his shoulder. "You'll have to show it to me sometime. I think I'd like watching you sweat."
    He rolled her over, reversing positions. He felt her freeze, then relax under his restraining hands. Progress, he thought. The beginnings of trust. "I'm ready to work out with you, lieutenant, anytime." He tugged the sweater over her head. "Anytime at all."
    He released her hands. It moved him to have her reach up, draw him down to her to embrace.
    So strong, he thought, as the tone of the lovemaking changed from playful to tender. So soft. So troubled. He took her slowly, and very gently over the first rise, watched her crest, listened to the low, humming moan as her system absorbed each velvet shock.
    He needed her. It still had the power to shake him to know just how much he needed her. He knelt, lifting her. Her legs wrapped silkily around him, her body bowed fluidly back. He could take his mouth over her, tasting warm flesh while he moved inside her, deep, steady, slow.
    Each time she shuddered, a fresh stream of pleasure rippled through him. Her throat was a slim white feast he couldn't resist. He laved it, nipped, nuzzled while the pulse just under that sensitized flesh throbbed like a heart.
    And she gasped his name, cupping his head in her hands, pressing him against her as her body rocked, rocked, rocked.
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    She discovered lovemaking made her loose, and warm. The slow arousal, the long, slow finish energized her. She didn't feel awkward climbing back into her clothes with the scent of him clinging to her. She felt smug.
    "I feel good around you." It surprised her to say it aloud, to give him -- or anyone -- even so slight an advantage.
    He understood that such an admission, for her, was tantamount to a shouted declaration of devotion from other women.
    "I'm glad." He traced a fingertip down her cheek, dipped it into the faint dent in her chin. "I like the idea of staying around you."
    She turned away at that, crossed over to watch the number sequences fly by on the console screen. "Why did you tell me about being a kid in Dublin, about your father, the things you did?"
    "You won't stay with someone you don't know." He studied her back as he tucked his shirt into his trousers. "You'd told me a little, so I told you a little. And I think, eventually, you'll tell me who hurt you when you were a child."
    "I told you I don't remember." She hated even the whisper of panic in her voice. "I don't need to."
    "Don't tighten up." He murmured to her as he walked over to massage her shoulders. "I won't press you. I know exactly what it is to remake yourself, Eve. To distance yourself from what was."
    What good would it do to tell her that no matter how far, how fast you ran, the past always stayed two paces behind you?
    Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist, satisfied when she closed her hands over his. He knew she was studying the screens across the room. Knew the instant she saw it.
    "Son of a bitch, look at the numbers: income, outgo. They're too damn close. They're practically exact."
    "They are exact," Roarke corrected, and released the woman, knowing the cop would want to stand clear. "To the penny."
    "But that's impossible." She struggled to do the math in her head. "Nobody spends exactly what they make -- not on record. Everyone carries at least a little cash -- for the occasional vendor on the sidewalk, the Pepsi machine, the kid who brings the pizza. -Sure, it's mostly plastic or electronic, but you've got to have some cash floating around."
    She paused, turned around. "You'd already seen it. Why the hell didn't you say something?"
    "I thought it would be more interesting to wait until we found his cache." He glanced down as the-blinking yellow light for searching switched to green. "And it appears we have. Ah, a traditional man, our Simpson. As I suspected, he relies on the well respected and discreet Swiss. Display data on screen five."
    "Jesus fucking Christ." Eve gaped at the bank listings.
    "That's in Swiss francs," Roarke explained. "Translate to USD, screen six. About triple his tax portfolio here, wouldn't you say, lieutenant?"
    Her blood was up. "I knew he was taking. Goddamn it, I knew