In Death 07 - Holiday in Death

hope it's secure." She sniffed. "Smells like a forest in here. I guess we're going to hang stuff on it."
    "That's the plan." He slipped his arms around her waist, drew her back against him. "I'll deal with the lights later."
    "You will?"
    "It's a man's job," he told her and nipped at her neck.
    "Who says?"
    "Women throughout the ages who were sensible enough not to want to deal with it. Are you off duty, Lieutenant?"
    "I thought I'd get some food, then run a few probability scans." His mouth was cruising up to her earlobe. She thought he could do the most interesting things to an earlobe. "And I want to see if Mira sent through her profile."
    Her eyes were already half shut as she angled her head to give him fuller access to the side of her neck. When his hands slid up to cup her breasts, her mind went wonderfully foggy.
    "Then I've got a report to write and file." His thumbs flicked over her nipples and sent a spear of heat lancing straight to her gut.
    "But I probably have an hour to spare," she muttered, and turning, she fisted her hands in his hair and pulled his mouth to hers.
    A sound of pleasure hummed in his throat and his hands glided down her back. "Come with me."
    "Where?"
    He bit her bottom lip. "Wherever I take you."
    Circling her, he guided her back into the elevator. "Holoroom," he ordered, then backed her into the corner and cut off her question with one long, mind-numbing kiss.
    "Something wrong with the bedroom?" she asked when she could breathe again.
    "I have something else in mind." Keeping his eyes on hers, he drew her out. "Engage program."
    The large, empty room, with its stark black mirrored walls, shimmered, shifted. She smelled smoke first, fragrant, faintly fruity, then the tang of some spicy scented flower. The lights dimmed and wavered. Images formed.
    A crackling fire in a big stone hearth. A window wide as a lake with a view of steel-blue mountains and deep, feathery snow that gleamed icily in the moonlight. Urns of hammered copper filled to bursting with flowers in whites and rusty hues. Candles, hundreds of candles, white as the snow, burning with flickering flames out of polished brass holders.
    Under her feet the mirrored floor became wood, dark, nearly black, with a dull sheen.
    Dominating the room was an enormous bed with head- and footboards fashioned of complicated curves and loops of thin, sparkling brass. Spread over it was a cover of dull gold that looked thick enough to drown in, and dozens of pillows in shades of precious gems.
    Scattered over all were white rose petals.
    "Wow." She looked toward the window again. The view, those towering peaks, the miles of white, did something odd to her throat. "What are those?"
    "A simulation of the Swiss Alps." One of his greatest delights was watching her reaction to something new. The initial wariness that was the cop, the slow bloom of pleasure that came from the woman. "I've never managed to take you there in reality. A holographic chalet is the next best thing."
    Turning, he picked up a robe that was draped over a chair. "Why don't you put this on?"
    She reached for it, frowned. "What is it?"
    "A robe."
    She shot him a bland look. "I know that. I meant what's it made of? Is this mink?"
    "Sable." He stepped forward. "Why don't I help you?"
    "You're in a mood, aren't you?" she murmured as he began unbuttoning her shirt.
    His hands skimmed over her bare shoulders as he brushed the shirt aside. "It seems I am. In a mood to seduce my wife. Slowly."
    Need was already kindling, spreading. "I don't need seduction, Roarke."
    He laid his lips on her shoulder. "I do. Sit." He nudged her down so he could tug off her boots. Then, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, he leaned over and took her mouth again.
    Just mouth to mouth, warm and soft, a skillfully tender sliding of lips and tongue, a cleverly gentle scrape of teeth. Her muscles quivered, then went lax. Feeling her surrender was his own seduction.
    Drawing her to her feet, he unhooked her trousers. "The wanting of you never stops." His fingers skimmed over her hips; the trousers pooled at her feet. "The loving of you never peaks. There's always more."
    Undone, she leaned against him, her face buried in his hair. "Nothing's the same for me since you."
    He held her a moment, for the simple pleasure of it. Then, reaching down, he lifted the robe and draped the soft pelt over her shoulders. "For either of us."
    He picked her up and carried her to the bed.
    And her arms reached out