In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

You questioning yourself, blaming yourself."
    The mad that Feeney had predicted was there now. Ripened to bursting. "Well, he can have it. I'll take a bloody ad out."
    "Give him what he wants," she said evenly. "Let him know he got to you, he'll want more."
    "Then what?" He lifted his hands, and they were fists. "I can fight what comes at me. One way or the other I can take it on. But how do I fight this? Do you know how many work for me?"
    "No."
    "Neither did I. But I ran figures today. I'm a wonder with figures. There are millions. I've given him millions to pluck from."
    "No." She moved forward, wrapped her fingers firmly around his forearms. "You know better. You've given him nothing. He takes. Your mistake will be to give him part of you. To let him know he has it."
    "If I let him know, maybe he'll come at me."
    "Maybe. I've thought of that, and it worries me. But..." She ran her hands up his arms, down again in an unconscious effort to soothe. "That's mostly when I'm thinking with my heart. When I use my head, it doesn't play. He doesn't want you dead. He wants you wounded. Do you understand what I mean? He wants you broken or in turmoil or... he wants you like this."
    "For what purpose?"
    "That's for us to figure out. We will figure it out. Sit down."
    "I don't want to sit down."
    "Sit," she repeated, using the cool, unbending tone he often used with her. When his eyes flashed, she turned away to pour out a snifter of brandy.
    Briefly, she considered slipping a soother into it, but he'd know. She could attempt to pour it down his throat as he'd done to her, but she didn't think she could pull it off.
    Then they'd both be mad.
    "Have you eaten?"
    Too distracted to be amused by the sudden role reversal, he let out an impatient breath. "No. Why don't you go to work?"
    "Why don't you stop being so stubborn?" She set the brandy on the low table in the sitting area, put her hands on her hips. "Now, you can sit down or I can take you down. A little hand to hand might make you feel better, so I'm up for that."
    "I'm not in the mood for a fight." And because he wasn't, but in the mood to brood, he walked over and sat. "Screen on," he ordered.
    "Screen off," she countermanded. "No media."
    Now his eyes glinted. "Screen on. If you don't want to watch, go away."
    "Screen off."
    "Lieutenant, you're treading a thin line."
    Temper rerouted outward, toward her. Just as she'd intended. It wasn't iced yet, no, not yet, she thought. But that would come.
    "I have good balance, pal."
    "Then put it to use elsewhere. I don't want your brandy or your company or your professional advice right at the moment."
    "Fine, I'll drink the brandy." She hated brandy. "I'll stow the professional advice. But," she said as she sat and curled herself into his lap. "I'm not going anywhere."
    He took her by the shoulders to set her aside. "Then I will."
    She simply locked her arms around his neck. "No, you won't. Am I this much trouble when I'm in a mood?"
    He let out a sigh, then defeated, lowered his forehead to hers. "You're a constant annoyance to me. I don't know why I keep you."
    "Me either. Except." She brushed her lips over his. "This maybe. This is pretty good." And skimming her fingers through his hair, tipping his head back, kissed him long and slow and deep.
    "Eve." He murmured it, mouth against mouth.
    "Let me." Her lips traced over his cheeks, soft. Tender. "Just let me. I love you."
    And couldn't bear to see him hurt. Couldn't bear to see him weary. They would work, and work together. They would fight, and fight together. But for now she only wanted to give him peace.
    He was so strong, that strength both appealed to her and challenged her. Now those muscles were taut and knotted with a tension that so rarely showed. She stroked, letting her hands soothe while her mouth seduced.
    So controlled, she thought, shifting to scrape her teeth lightly over his jaw. She found both frustration and security in his control. Now it wavered, and she would exploit the weakness, channel anger into lust.
    Her busy hands moved to his shirt, slowly opened buttons. Her lips followed down the trail of exposed flesh to his heart where the beat was strong, but still too steady.
    "I love the taste of you." She ran her hands up his chest, over his shoulders, flicked her tongue over that warming skin. "Everywhere."
    Again she shifted, straddling him now. And when she saw his eyes, the dark smoke of need over the wild blue, the beat of her own blood