Imitation in Death

  Before she went back to work, back to her own hunt, she’d track down another man.

  The home locator told her Roarke was on the rear patio, off the kitchen. She couldn’t figure out why he’d be out in the nasty air when the house was blissfully fresh and cool, and provided a room for any possible activity.

  But she walked the long stretch of it, and out the kitchen to find him. Then simply stood, struck speechless.

  “Ah, good, you’re here. We can get started.”

  He was wearing jeans—not his usual around-the-house attire—and a white T-shirt. He was barefoot, and a little sweaty, which appealed to her. The fact was, he would have appealed to her, or any woman, regardless of his attire, or the fact that he was standing on a sun-baked patio on a September evening where the air quality index had simply waved the white flag and surrendered the field.

  But at the moment, she was more interested in the enormous, shiny silver contraption beside him.

  “What is that thing?”

  “It’s an outdoor cooking system.”

  Warily, relieved she was still wearing her weapon just in case, she approached. “Like a barbecue deal?”

  “That, and more.” He stroked one of his beautiful hands over the lid, as a man might stroke a woman who bewitched him. “Gorgeous, isn’t she? Just arrived an hour ago.”

  It was massive, and the glare of the sun off its surface nearly blinding. There was, she noted, more than one lid as it had extensions on either side, and some doored compartment beneath the main unit.

  There were countless buttons, controls, dials. She wet her lips. “Um. It doesn’t look exactly like the one the Miras used.”

  “Newer model.” He opened the main lid and revealed another gleaming surface, this one full of shiny bars, with a bunch of silver cubes beneath, and a side surface of solid metal. “No reason not to have the latest.”

  “It’s really big. You could almost live in it.”

  “After a couple of practice runs, I thought we might have a barbecue of our own. In a few weekends perhaps.”

  “By practice run, I don’t guess you mean you’re going to drive it somewhere.” She gave one of its big, sturdy wheels a quick, testing kick.

  “Totally under control.” He crouched, opened one of the doors. “Refrigerator unit. We’ve got steaks, potatoes, some vegetables we’ll put on these skewers.”

  “We will?”

  “It’s just a matter of shoving them on.” He assumed. “And a bottle of champagne, to christen it. Though I thought we’d drink it rather than whack the unit with the bottle.”

  “I can get behind that part. Have you ever cooked a steak?”

  He sent her a mild look as he opened the champagne. “I read the tutorial and I watched how it was done at the Miras. It’s hardly rocket science, Eve. Meat, heat.”

  “Okay.” She took the glass he’d poured for her. “What happens first?”

  “I turn it on, then according to the timetable in the tutorial, the potatoes would go first. They take the longest. While they’re cooking, we’ll sit in the shade.”

  The idea of him turning on the monster unit had her taking a cautious step back. “Yeah, well, I’ll just get started on the sitting in the shade part.” Several buffering feet away.

  Still, she loved him, so she prepared to leap to his defense if the machine got testy. She watched Roarke arrange two potatoes on some of the smaller sections of grill, fiddle with controls.

  Whatever he did had a red light, like a single, unfriendly eye, beam on. Apparently this pleased him, as he closed the lid, patted it, then pulled a little tray of crackers and cheese out of the lower compartment.

  He looked pretty cute, she had to admit, carrying the tray, crossing the sunny patio in his bare feet, with his hair tied back as he often did for serious work.

  She grinned at him, popped a cube of cheese in her mouth. “You put all this together.”

  “I did. Very gratifying, too.” He stretched out his legs, sipped champagne. “I don’t know why I haven’t fiddled about in the kitchen before this.”

  The umbrella over the table broke the blast of the sun, and the champagne was ice cold. Not, she decided, such a bad deal after a long day. “So, how do you know when the potatoes are done?”

  “There’s a timer. It also suggested we might want to jab them with a fork.”

  “Why?”

  “Something to do with doneness. I assume it’ll be self-evident. What did you do to your knee?”

  Never missed a trick, she thought. “Some jerk in uniform let an asshole get away from him. I used my knee to discourage said asshole from ramming me down the glide. Now he’s crying because his jaw was dislocated, and he has a mild concussion.”

  “Knee to jaw. Sensible. How’d he get the concussion?”

  “He says it was from the tube of Pepsi I pitched at him, but that’s bogus. I figure he got it when a bunch of cops landed on him.”

  “You threw your Pepsi at him.”

  “It was handy.”

  “Darling Eve.” He picked up her free hand, kissed it. “Ever resourceful.”

  “That may be, but I had to waste time on more paperwork. Officer Cullin is going to rue this day.”

  “No doubt.”

  He poured more champagne, and they drank it in the shade. When she heard the distant rumble of thunder, she lifted her eyebrows, glanced toward the grill. “You may be rained out.”

  “There’s time yet. I’ll just turn it up a bit, and put on the steaks.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Eve sipped champagne and watched a little burst of flame erupt from one end of the grill. Since it wasn’t the first, she was no longer alarmed by it.

  Instead, she watched Roarke fight his new toy, curse it in two languages, and eye it with frustration.

  When jabbed, the potatoes proved to be hard as stone inside their blackened skin. The skewered vegetables were burned to a crisp, and had been on fire twice.

  The steaks were a sickly gray on one side, and black on the other.

  “This isn’t right,” he muttered. “It must be defective.”

  He stabbed one of the steaks, lifting it off the grill to scowl at it. “This doesn’t appear to be medium rare.”

  When the juice dripping from it sparked another pocket of flame, he tossed it back on the bars.

  More fire spurted, and the machine, as it had a number of times before, issued a dour warning:

  ACTIVE FIRE IS NEITHER ADVISABLE NOR RECOMMENDED. PLEASE REPROGRAM WITHIN THIRTY SECONDS, OR THIS UNIT WILL GO INTO SAFETY MODE AS EXPLAINED IN THE TUTORIAL, AND SHUT DOWN.

  “Bugger it, you bloody bitch, how many times do you need to be reprogrammed?”

  Eve took another hit of champagne, and decided not to point out that bitch was inappropriate as the unit’s voice mode was distinctly male.

  Men, she’d observed, habitually termed the inanimate objects they cursed by uncomplimentary female names. Hell, she did the same herself.

  A couple of lightning bolts popped in the sky, and the thunder rolled closer in one long, menacing growl. Eve felt the first splat of rain in the rising wind.

  She walked over to rescue the bottle of champagne while Roarke stared at the grill.

  “I’m thinking pizza,” she said and started into the house.

  “It’s just a glitch.” Roarke scraped what was left of the food into the unit’s garbage disposal feature. “This isn’t finished,” he grumbled to it, and followed Eve into the house. “I’ll have another look at it tomorrow,” he told her.

  “You know . . .” She crossed to the AutoChef, which was, in her opinion, the sensible way to cook. “. . . it’s sort of nice to see that you can screw up like the rest of us mortals. Get all sweaty and frustrated and curse out inanimate objects. Though I’m not convinced that thing outside is inanimate.”

  “A factory defect, no doubt.” But he was grinning now. “I’ll see to it tomorrow.”

  “Bet you will. You want to eat in here??
??

  “That’s fine. We won’t likely eat in the kitchen much after tonight, with Summerset due home tomorrow.”

  She stopped dead, the glass halfway to her lips. “Tomorrow? That can’t be right. He just left five minutes ago.”

  “Tomorrow, noon.” He walked over to flick a finger over the dent in her chin. “It’s been considerably longer than five minutes.”

  “Make him extend it. Tell him to . . . he should take a trip around the world. In a boat. One of those boats you row by hand. It’ll be good for him.”

  “I offered him more time. He’s ready to come home.”

  “Well, I’m not ready.” She threw up her hands.

  He only smiled, leaned in, and kissed her forehead as he might a child’s.

  She huffed out a breath. “Okay then. Okay. But now we have to have sex on the kitchen floor.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s on my to-do list, and we didn’t get to it yet, so we’ll have to go for it now. Pizza can wait.”

  “You have a to-do list?”

  “It was supposed to be spontaneous, and uncontrolled, but we’ll have to go with what we’ve got.”

  She drained the glass of champagne, set it down, then released her weapon harness. “Go on, strip it off, pal.”

  “A sexual to-do list?” Amused, fascinated, he watched her dump her harness on the counter, then start on her boots. “Was that bout we had last week on the dining room table, and the floor, on your list?”

  “That’s right.” She pried off a boot, kicked it aside.

  “Let me see the list.” He held out a hand, wiggled his fingers.

  Bent over for the second boot, she lifted her head. “It’s what you’d call a mental list.” She tapped her head. “All up here. You’re not stripping.”

  “I love your mind.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s just get this little chore ticked off, then we can—”

  She broke off when he swooped her up, then dumped her butt first on the kitchen counter. Taking her hair in two fists, he yanked her mouth to his, and ravished.

  “Spontaneous enough for you?” he asked when she sucked in a breath.

  “It might be—” The words tumbled back down her throat when he ripped her shirt open.

  “How’s that for uncontrolled?”

  It was a little hard to comment when her mouth was being assaulted again. He yanked what was left of her shirt down to her wrists. Her hands were trapped, tripping an instinctive panic that tangled messily with a spurt of excitement as he tugged the tattered material like a rope.

  Her hands were behind her back now, and the blood was buzzing in her ears. She couldn’t seem to draw a full breath. The champagne she’d drank began to spin giddily in her head, and her thigh muscles quivered.

  “My hands,” she managed.

  “Not yet.” He was mad for her. It seemed he spent his life mad for her. The shape and the scent of her, the taste and the feel of her. And now the sound she made as his hand raced over her.

  He feasted on her skin, the lovely rise of her breast with her heart raging under his mouth. She moaned again, trembled, losing herself, he knew, as he used his tongue, his teeth.

  Let go. There was nothing more arousing to him than when she let go.

  She still couldn’t breathe, but no longer cared. Sensations were storming her, too brutal, too dark, to be called something as mild as pleasure.

  She let him take, would have begged him to take more if she’d had the words. When he yanked her pants down her hips, she opened for him. And those hands, those wonderful hands, drove her over.

  She cried out as she came, as the orgasm flashed through her with such intense heat.

  Her head dropped weakly on his shoulder, and she managed one word. “More.”

  “Always.” His lips were on her hair, her cheek, then on hers again. “Always.”

  His arms came around her, and once freed, hers around him. She locked her legs around his waist and struggled to speak as her breath came in short, strained pants. “We’re not on the floor.”

  “We’ll get there.” He nipped at her shoulder, her throat, wondered how he could stop himself from simply eating her whole.

  He hitched her off the counter, taking her weight as their mouths fused again, as heartbeat slammed against heartbeat. Her hands had worked their way under his shirt, her short nails scraping over his damp skin.

  Then she tugged it up, tugged it off, and fixed her teeth on his shoulder. “God, your body. Mine, mine, mine.”

  They were on the floor, pulling at clothes, pulling in air as lungs threatened to burst. And this time when her legs locked around him, he buried himself inside her.

  Hot, so viciously hot, she trapped him there, rising up to take more of him, dragging him down to follow her. His hands slid off her slick skin, then found purchase on her hips. They dug in while he plunged.

  Chapter 12

  They were lying on their backs on the floor in a sweaty heap. Her throat was wild with thirst, but she wasn’t entirely sure she could swallow. Just breathing took all the energy she had left.

  As far as spontaneous, uncontrolled sex went, she thought they had a winner. She felt his fingers brush hers, and gave him top marks for recovery.

  “Is there anything left on your to-do list?” he asked softly.

  “No.” Her breath whistled in, whistled out. “That cleans it up.”

  “Thank God.”

  “We have to get up from here, before noon tomorrow,” Eve warned.

  “I think it has to be sooner. I’m starving.”

  She thought it over. “So am I. I don’t suppose you could pull one of your macho routines and carry me.”

  “I don’t suppose. I was hoping you’d carry me.”

  “Well.” They lay where they were another full minute. “Maybe we can try this together.”

  “On three then.” He counted it off. On three, they managed to pull each other to sitting positions, then just sat there, grinning.

  “That was really good. My idea,” she reminded him.

  “And one for the record books. We’d better try to stand up.”

  “Okay, but let’s not rush it.”

  They staggered to their feet, swayed, then held each other up like a pair of drunks.

  “Wow. I’d say I got a little trashed watching you lose a round to that grill, but that’s not it. You trashed me. Appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure.” He rested his head on hers. “Just hold a minute, until the blood starts circulating again.”

  “Your blood has a tendency to circulate straight to your dick, and I need pizza. And a shower,” she realized. “A shower, then pizza, because, pal of mine, we are a mess.”

  “All right. Let’s get what’s left of these clothes.”

  She found the rag of her shirt, what used to be her underwear, and other assorted apparel. Together, they carried the evidence out of the kitchen.

  “And don’t think you’re going to nail me again in the shower. We’re done.”

  He nailed her again in the shower, but only because she’d brought it up in the first place.

  They ate pizza in the sitting area of the bedroom. By the time she was working on the third piece, she felt the hollow in her belly might just fill again.

  “What did you do today?” she asked him.

  “About what?”

  She cocked her head. “Every now and again, I like to touch base with what it is you do. It reminds me you’re not just a pretty sex object.”

  “Ah, I see. I had meetings.” He lifted his shoulders as she continued to stare at him. “Most often, when I explain what it is I do, you get this glassy look in your eye, or fall into unconsciousness.”

  “I do not. Well, okay, the glassy look maybe, but I’ve never lost consciousness.”

  “I had a meeting with my broker. We discussed current market trends and—”

  “I don’t need every minute detail. Broker meeting—stocks and bonds
and blah blah. Check. What else?”

  His lips twitched. “A conference regarding the Olympus Resort. Two new areas are ready to open. I’m expanding the police and security force. Chief Angelo sends her regards.”

  “Right back at her. Any trouble up there?”

  “Nothing major.” He washed down pepperoni pizza with champagne. “Darcia wondered when we might be coming back for a visit.”

  “The next time I pass out and can be dragged into a space shuttle.” She licked pizza sauce off her finger. “What else?”

  “Internal staff meeting, a number of security checks. Routine. Discussion of preliminary reports on a sheep farm in New Zealand I’m considering buying.”

  “Sheep? Baa-baa?”

  “Sheep, wool, lamb cutlets, and other by-products.” He passed her a napkin and that made her think of Mrs. Parksy. “I had an extended business lunch with a couple of developers and their rep, who’d like me to come aboard their project. A massive indoor recreation center in New Jersey.”

  “Will you?”

  “Doubtful. But it was entertaining to hear them out, and eat on their expense account. Is that enough for you?”

  “That was just through lunch?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a busy guy. Is it harder for you to handle all this stuff out of New York than it was when you traveled?”

  “I still travel.”

  “Not like you used to.”

  “It used to hold more appeal for me. Before I had a wife who invited me to nail her on the kitchen floor.”

  She smiled, but he knew her too well. “What’s troubling you, Eve?”

  She nearly told him about her dream, her memory, but pulled back from it. The subject of mothers had to be sensitive for him yet. Instead she used work. It wasn’t an evasion. Work did trouble her.

  “My gut knows who he is already, has from the first time I saw him. But I can’t see him, so I don’t know for sure. Not in my head. He changes, and he’ll change again, so I can’t see him. Not his type, or even his mind. Because that changes, too. He’s good at what he does because he changes. Because he assumes the personality of what he imitates. I don’t know if I can stop him.”