In Death 38 - Thankless in Death

throat. “Scream and I’ll slice your throat. Understand me?”
    She nodded.
    “Good dog.” He reached for the tape again, leaned down so their faces were close. “Forgot, there’s one more thing.”
    He reached back, pulled the length of cord from his back pocket. “I don’t give a shit what you have to say.”
    He wrapped it around her neck, pulled, pulled.
    And felt the thrill watching her eyes bulge, watching the red crack the white, feeling her body rage and ripple under his, hearing the gurgles.
    The tighter he pulled, the more it built, burning inside him. Her bound feet drummed against the bed as she convulsed, her bloodied hands shook like an old woman’s. And he yanked harder, groaning with pleasure, hips rocking as the sharp, uncontrollable sensation clawed through him, out of him.
    When her eyes went fixed, the orgasm ripped through him. Huge, amazing, like nothing before experienced.
    He choked out his own cry, gulped and gasped for air until his body stopped vibrating.
    Then he collapsed beside her, sated, stunned, and for the first time in his life, totally fulfilled.
    “Jesus! Where have you been all my life?” He gave her thigh a little pat. “Thanks.”
    Now he had to shower, and dig out her hoarded tip money, scout out anything in this dump worth taking. But first, he had to see what she had in the kitchen.
    Like a fat joint of zoner, killing gave him the serious munchies.

6
    THOUGHTS WEIGHED HER DOWN AS EVE TURNED through the gates of home. Often—usually, in fact—after a long day that first sight of the gorgeous, castle-like house Roarke built smoothed things out. The way it rose, spread, jutted against the evening sky at the end of the long curve of road tended to lift weights. Reminded her she had a home. After a lifetime that had begun in nightmares, shifted to the misery of shuffling foster care and state control, and to, at long last, her own place in New York that had been primarily a space to catch some sleep between investigations, she had a real home.
    But tonight, there was just too much weight.
    It strained against her that a selfish asshole could elude her, even for a day. She needed to start fresh, go back to the beginning, and move through it all step-by-step. And without the distractions of an offer of a captaincy.
    She needed to clear her head, look at it all from another angle.
    She needed Roarke, she admitted. His ear, his eye, his canny brain.
    She’d run it through for him, run it by him, bounce it off him, she determined as she braked at the front entrance. Maybe she’d missed something he’d see, or think of.
    He’d help. That wasn’t assumption, but fact. And as much home to her as the stone and glass they lived in.
    She started to climb out, and Peabody’s date night arrowed into her mind. And for Christ’s sake, she didn’t have time for that.
    Didn’t make time, she corrected, and slumped back.
    He did. Roarke made time, and she couldn’t claim he wasn’t one of the busiest people on or off planet.
    She hardly ever made time for the fussy stuff, and now that added one more weight. Even when she wasn’t neck-deep in an investigation she just didn’t think of it.
    Now thinking of it stacked guilt on her head like boulders.
    She couldn’t manage a
date
night, just couldn’t, but she should be able to put a nice meal together, with a few fancy touches.
    And balance out his eye, ear, canny brain.
    She shoved out of the car, bolted for the front door, and through.
    And saw Summerset, looming in black, with the pudgy cat at his feet.
    “I don’t have time for witty repartee,” she snapped.
    “That’s unfortunate.”
    “Is he home?”
    “Not as yet.”
    “I need to put a meal together, on the roof terrace.”
    Summerset’s eyebrows lifted. “There’s nothing on the calendar.”
    “Just …” She waved that away as the cat padded over to ripplebetween her feet. “I can handle the setup, but tell me what he should eat—we should eat. And don’t make it something I hate out of spite.”
    Even scarecrows could be amused, she noted.
    “Very well. I’d start with the tomato soup with poached shrimp.”
    “Wait.” She yanked out her PPC to note it down. “Go.”
    “Then move to a green salad with seasonal pears in a champagne vinaigrette. For the main, I’d suggest Lobster Thermidor.”
    “What the hell is that?”
    “Delicious. You’ll enjoy it. I’d serve it with a sauvignon blanc or champagne, and finish with a vanilla bean