In Death 17 - Imitation in Death

laugh.
     
     
He wrapped his arms around her so they rolled, playfully now. Hands sliding over flesh, tugging off clothes, lips meeting for nibbles or longer tastes.
     
     
She felt free and careless, and foolishly in love as she held him against her. Easy enough to laugh even as her body quaked, to rub her cheek against his in innocent affection even as he slid into her.
     
     
"Looks like I've pinned you again."
     
     
"How long do you think you can keep me down?" "Another challenge, is it?" His breath was backed up in his lungs, but he moved slowly, watching her watch him. With long, smooth, almost lazy strokes he urged her up again until he saw her eyes begin to blur, and the flush deepen in her cheeks. And then heard her low sound, that helpless sound, of pleasure.
     
     
"There's always more," he said and captured her lips with his again and let himself fly with her.
     
     
Chapter 4
     
     
They ate in the dining room at Roarke's suggestion that they have a meal like people who have lives outside their professions. The remark was pointed enough to have Eve checking her intention of grabbing a burger at her desk in her home office. But her initial enjoyment of the crab salad was spoiled - by his reminder that they had plans the following evening.
     
     
"Charity dinner dance," he prompted when she stared blankly. "Philadelphia. We need to make an appearance." He sipped his wine and smiled at her. "Not to worry, darling. It won't hurt very much, and we won't have to leave until after seven. If you're running late, you can change on the shuttle."
     
     
She poked sulkily at chilled crab. "Did I know about this?"
     
     
"You did. And if you ever glanced at your personal calendar, you wouldn't so often be surprised and appalled by these little obligations."
     
     
"I'm not appalled." Dinner, dancing. Fancy outfit, fancy people. God. "It's just that if something breaks at work-"
     
     
"Understood''
     
     
She bit back a sigh because it was true. He understood. She heard enough comments from other cops about spouses or lovers who didn't, or couldn't, or wouldn't, to appreciate it.
     
     
And she knew she wasn't nearly as flexible and understanding about the role she had to play as the wife of one of the richest and most influential men on or off planet.
     
     
She stabbed more crab and made an effort to pull her marital weight. "It shouldn't be a problem."
     
     
"It might actually be fun. Sunday promises to be."
     
     
"Sunday?"
     
     
"Mmm." He topped off her wine, figuring she'd need it. "The cookout at Dr. Mira's. It's, been a very long time since I attended something I suppose would be termed a kind of family picnic. I hope there's potato salad.."
     
     
She picked up her wine, drank deep. "She talked to you. You said yes."
     
     
"Of course. We should take a bottle of wine or I wonder if beer's more appropriate." Enjoying himself, he lifted an eyebrow. "What do you think?"
     
     
"I can't think. I don't know about this stuff. I've never been to a cookout. I don't understand the ritual. If we're both off on Sunday, we could just stay home, in bed. Have sweaty sex all day."
     
     
"Hmm. Sex or potato salad. You've hit me' at two basic levels." Then he laughed at her, and passed her half a roll he'd already buttered. "Eve, it's a simple family gathering. She wants you there because you're important to her. We'll sit around and talk about, I don't know, baseball or some such thing. We'll eat too much and enjoy ourselves. And you'll have the chance to meet her family. Then we'll come home and have sweaty sex."
     
     
She scowled at the roll. "It just makes me nervous, that's all. You like having conversations with strangers. I don't get that about you."
     
     
"You have conversations with strangers all the time," he pointed out. "You just call them suspects."
     
     
Defeated, she filled her mouth with bread.
     
     
"Now, why don't we talk about something that won't make you nervous? Tell me about the case."
     
     
There was a lovely twilight outside the windows, and candles flickering prettily on the table. Wine sparkled in crystal and silver gleamed.
     
     
And her mind, she realized, kept slipping back to a hacked body in a cold drawer at the morgue.
     
     
"It's not exactly dinner conversation."
     
     
"Not for normal people. But it works for us. The media reports were sketchy."
     
     
"I'm not going to be able to keep them that way if and when he hits again. I ducked reporters all