In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

like being boiled for breakfast.”
    The crisscrossing streams shot on, a shock to the skin that took the heat straight down to the bones. As they soaked her, she turned. And grabbed him.
    “I feel energized.” She took his mouth in a hard, hungry kiss, with just a hint of bite, then laughed when her back hit the drenched glass wall. And his body pinned hers. “Hey, you too. What a coincidence.”
    He ran his hands down her first, wet against wet, so that every inch of her body craved.
    “Fast,” she said and wrapped herself around him. She bit him again, and those golden brown eyes lit with challenge. “Fast, hard, hot. Now.”
    He gripped her hips, jerking her up to her toes, and gave her what she wanted.
    Pleasure was dark, and had teeth. His eyes, a wild and burning blue, trapped her even as his body plunged and pumped, to propel her over that first barbed peak.
    She cried out from the thrill, from the knowledge that here, here, here, she understood the power of finding, accepting, merging with a mate. Here she knew the fire that forged them, and with him—only him—the absolute trust that tempered strength into love.
    Whatever had come before, whatever dreams came haunting, she knew who she was, and reveled in the world she’d made with her lover.
    She wrapped tighter, only tighter while her system shuddered. Her mouth raced, all speed, all greed, over his hot, wet skin while her heart quaked.
    “More. More.”
    Steam curled; water thundered on glass. Her nails bit into his shoulders as she erupted around him. But she didn’t let go. She wouldn’t, he knew. She would hold, they’d found that. They would hold, whatever came.
    Through the consuming, outrageous lust she incited in him, wove the consuming, outrageous love until they knotted together so truly there was no end or beginning to either.
    He drove her up again, drove them both. When he felt her flying over, saw that dazzled shock glaze in her eyes, he went with her.
    Still she held. As her body went limp with release, her arms stayed around him. Dazzled, he nuzzled her—the curve of cheek, the line of throat. Then his mouth met hers in a kiss, long and sweet.
    “God,” she managed. “Jesus. Wow.”
    “A personal holy trinity?” He tapped a glass block, cupping his hand for the creamy liquid it dispensed. “I feel an urge to stock a lifetime supply of that energy drink.”
    She smiled as he stroked the fragrant soap over her shoulders, her back, her breasts. “I don’t think we need it.”
     
    Whether it was the energy boost, the good, strong sex, or coming out of a nightmare, Eve sat down to write her report on the Jenkins investigation with a clear head.
    She went back through witness statements, started a time line. And because it was routine, ran a probability on her two active cases.
    As she’d suspected, the computer determined both victims had fallen to the same killer at 86.3 percent.
    Though she didn’t buy it, she rearranged her murder board into two sections, one for Flores/Lino, one for Jenkins.
    Sipping coffee, she studied the results.
    “On the surface, sure. On the surface,” she muttered. But it didn’t go deep enough; it ignored the subtleties.
    The simple priest—who wasn’t a priest—in a predominantly Latino parish, and the big-time, wealthy, media-savvy evangelist. Different faiths, different cultures, different doctrines.
    Considering, she circled the board. If the computer was right, and she was wrong, the media itself might be part of the motive. The first murder got plenty of coverage, and with this one, that was going to explode. Both murders had been executed in front of witnesses, both during what could be termed a well-staged, rehearsed performance, and both weapons had been planted backstage. Where, even with the security for Jenkins, people could and did move fairly freely.
    Both victims had secrets, and neither was as good and pure as he professed. Or his image professed.
    She turned as Roarke came in. “Probability hits mid-eighties I’ve got one killer, two vics.”
    “So you predicted.”
    “Here’s a thought: If it’s one killer, could that killer have discovered the duplicity of each vic? Flores’s fakery, Jenkins with his liquor and his sidepiece.”
    “Killed for hypocrisy?” Roarke studied her revised murder board. “Then many thousands of religious leaders best mind what they drink.”
    “Yeah, and more than that. Why these two, in this city? Because, the killer lives here.