In Death 04 - Rapture in Death

for a seduction." He drew her back, kept his hands on her shoulders. "I wondered where you'd gone off to. I should have known." He glanced down at the body at their feet. "What did he do?"
    "He had a predilection for beating the brains out of young women, then eating them."
    "Oh." Roarke winced, shook his head. "Really, Eve, couldn't you have come up with something a little less revolting?"
    "There was a guy on the Terra Colony a couple of years back who fit the profile, and I wondered..." She trailed off, frowning. They were standing in a stinking alley, death at their feet. And Roarke, gorgeous, dark angel Roarke, was wearing a tuxedo and a diamond stud. "What are you all dressed up for?"
    "We had plans," he reminded her. "Dinner?"
    "I forgot." She tucked her weapon away. "I didn't think this would take so long." She blew out a breath. "I guess I should clean up."
    "I like you the way you are." He moved into her again, took possession. "Forget dinner... for now." His smile was slow and irresistible. "But I do insist on slightly more aesthetic surroundings. End program," he ordered.
    The alley, the smells, and the huddle of bodies winked away. They stood in a huge, empty room with equipment and blinking lights built into the walls. Both floor and ceiling were glass-mirrored black to better project the holographic scenes available on the program.
    It was one of Roarke's newest, most sophisticated toys.
    "Begin Tropical Setting 4-B. Maintain dual control status."
    In response came the whoosh of waves, the sprinkle of starlight on water. Beneath her feet was white sugar sand, and palm trees waved like exotic dancers.
    "That's more like it," Roarke decided, then began unbuttoning her shirt. "Or it will be when I get you naked."
    "You've been getting me naked every time I blink for nearly three weeks."
    He arched a brow. "Husband's privilege. Complaints?"
    Husband. It was still a jolt. This man with the warrior's mane of black hair, the poet's face, the wild Irish blue eyes was her husband. She'd never get used to it.
    "No. Just an -- " Her breath hitched as one of his long-fingered hands skimmed over her breasts. "An observation."
    "Cops." He smiled, unfastened her jeans. "Always observing. You're off duty, Lieutenant Dallas."
    "I was just keeping my reflexes sharp. Three weeks away from the job, you get rusty."
    He slid a hand between her naked thighs, cupped her, watched her head fall back on a moan. "Your reflexes are just fine," he murmured and pulled her down to the soft white sand.
    His wife. Roarke liked to think about that as she rode him, as she moved under him, as she lay spent beside him. This fascinating woman, this dedicated cop, this troubled soul belonged to him.
    He'd watched her work through the program, the alley, the chemical-mad killer. And he'd known she would face the reality of her work with the same tough, terrifyingly courageous determination that she'd possessed in the illusion.
    He admired her for it, however many bad moments it gave him. In a few days, they would go back to New York and he would have to share her with her duties. For now, he wanted to share her with nothing. With no one.
    He was no stranger to back alleys that reeked of garbage and hopeless humanity. He'd grown up in them, escaped into them, and eventually had escaped from them. He had made his life into what it was -- and then she had come into it, sharp and lethal as an arrow from a bow, and had changed it again.
    Cops had once been the enemy, then an amusement, and now he was bound to one.
    Just over two weeks before, he had watched her walk toward him in a flowing gown of rich bronze, flowers in her hands. The bruises on her face a killer had put there only hours before had been softened under cosmetics. And in those eyes, those big brandy-colored eyes that showed so much, he'd seen nerves and amusement.
    Here we go, Roarke. He'd nearly heard her say it as she put her hand in his. For better or worse I'll take you on. God help us.
    Now she wore his ring, and he hers. He'd insisted on that, though such traditions weren't strictly fashionable in the middle of the twenty-first century. He'd wanted the tangible reminder of what they were to each other, the symbol of it.
    Now he picked up her hand, kissed her finger above the ornately etched gold band he'd had made for her. Her eyes stayed closed. He studied the sharp angles of her face, the overwide mouth, the short cap of brown hair tousled into spikes.
    "I love you,