In Death 05 - Ceremony in Death

who now shared it, but she was adjusting. So well, in fact, that she decided not to go bury herself in work, but to go outside, into the golden autumn evening and take an hour for herself.
    She was used to streets and sidewalks, crowded sky-glides, jammed people movers. The sheer space Roarke could command always astonished her. His grounds were like a well-tended park, quiet and lush, with the foliage of rich man's trees in the dazzling flame of fall. The scents were of spicy flowers, the faintly smoky fragrance of October in the country.
    Overhead, the sky was nearly empty of traffic, and even that was a dignified hum. No rumbling airbuses or lumbering tourist blimps over Roarke's land.
    And the world she knew, and that knew her, was beyond the gates and over the walls, in the seamy dark.
    Here she could forget that for a short time. Forget New York existed with its death and its anger -- and its perpetually appealing arrogance. She needed the quiet and the air. As she walked over thick, green grass, she worried the ring with its odd symbols on her finger.
    On the north side of the house was an arbor of thin, somehow fluid iron. The vines twisting and tumbling over it were smothered with flowers wildly red. She had married him there, in an old, traditional ceremony where vows were exchanged and promises made. A ceremony, she thought now. A rite that included music, flowers, witnesses, words that were repeated time after time, place after place, century through century.
    And so, she thought, other ceremonies were preserved and repeated and believed to hold power. Back to Cain and Abel, she mused. One had planted crops, the other tended a flock. And both had offered sacrifice. One had been accepted, the other dismissed. Thus, she imagined, some would say good and evil were born. Because each needed the balance and challenge of the other.
    So it continued. Science and logic disproved, but the rites continued, incense and chanting, offerings and the drinking of wine that symbolized blood.
    And the sacrifice of the innocent.
    Annoyed with herself, she rubbed her hands over her face. Philosophizing was foolish and useless. Murder had been done by human force. And it was human force that would dispense justice. That was, after all, the ultimate balance of good and evil.
    She sat on the ground under the arbor of bloodred blossoms and drew in the burning scent of evening.
    "This isn't usual for you." Roarke came up quietly behind her -- so quietly, her heart gave a quick trip before he settled on the grass beside her. "Communing with nature?"
    "Maybe I spent too much time inside today." She had to smile when he handed her one of the red flowers. She twirled it in her fingers, watched it spin before she looked over at him.
    He was relaxed, his dark hair skimming his shoulders, as he leaned back on his elbows, legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles. She imagined his pricey and beautiful suit would pick up grass stains that would horrify Summerset. He smelled male, and expensive. Lust curled comfortably in her stomach.
    "Successful day?" she asked.
    "We'll have bread on the table another day or two."
    She flicked her fingers at the ends of his hair. "It's not the money, is it? It's the making it."
    "Oh, it's the money." His eyes laughed at her. "And the making it." In a quick move she told herself she should have seen coming, he reached up, cupped the back of her neck, and overbalanced her onto him and into a hot kiss.
    "Hold on."
    She didn't squirm quickly enough and ended up under him.
    "I am."
    His mouth fastened greedily on her throat and sent little licks of heat straight down her body to her toes.
    "I want to talk to you."
    "Okay, you talk while I get you out of these clothes. Still wearing your weapon," he observed as he hit the release for the harness. "Thinking of zapping some wildlife?"
    "That's against city ordinance. Roarke." She caught his wrist as his hand closed sneakily over her breast. "I want to talk to you."
    "I want to make love with you. Let's see who wins."
    It should have infuriated her, the fact that he already had her shirt open and her breasts aching. Then his mouth closed over that sensitive flesh and had her eyes all but crossing in pleasure. Still, it wouldn't do to let him win too easily.
    She let her body go limp, moaned, and combed her fingers through his hair, ran them over his shoulders. "Your jacket," she murmured and tugged at it. When he shifted to shrug free, she had him.
    It was a