18
When he felt her stir beside him, Roarke rew her closer, rubbed her back.
“Ssh,” he said. “Ssh now. Hold on to me and sleep.”
She shivered a little, burrowed closer still.
He’d lit the fire before they’d slipped into bed. Now, only a few hours later, it simmered in the hearth and tossed its gold-washed red light into the room.
Quiet, warm, soothing. It’s what he’d wanted for her in sleep.
Yet she clung, anchored to him against the dreams.
He brushed his lips over her hair, wanting to will the tension in her body away, to erase those images and emotions that gave her so little peace.
With his eyes closed, he continued to stroke her back in light, rhythmic movements designed to lull.
In the dark, curled against him, her body seemed so fragile. It wasn’t, he knew. His Eve was strong, tough and athletic. He’d seen her take a punch—more than once—and execute one. He’d been on the receiving end of her fist, so could attest she packed some power.
He’d tended her wounds, as she had his, and knew she healed well, healed fast. His resilient, hardheaded cop.
But there were parts inside that tough, disciplined body that remained fragile—perhaps always would. And those vulnerable places pulled at him to protect, to comfort, to do anything he could to spare her a bruise or blow.
The vulnerability undid him even as the strength brought him pride. And the whole of her brought him love beyond the measuring of it.
Of all he’d craved in his life, all he’d dreamed of having, all he’d fought to gain by fair means or foul, he’d never imagined having such as she as his own. Never imagined himself the man he’d come to be because she was.
Now he felt her begin to relax again, degree by degree, and hoped she drifted toward that quiet and that warmth where there were no bruises or blows. And he let himself drift with her, wrapped around her like a shield.
So when she lifted her face to his, when he lowered his lips to hers, it was another kind of dreaming, as soft and lovely as the firelight playing on the walls.
His heart poured to hers, a murmured stream of Irish while she melted against him.
She knew some of the words; he’d said them before. But there was more now. He always seemed to have more to give her. Now he gave her tenderness when she hadn’t known she’d needed the tender. He gave her unity when alone hurt.
A touch, a taste, all slow, all easy, as if patience and love were one steady heartbeat.
Worries that had dogged her in sleep broke apart, dissolved so there was only the welcome weight of his body, the lazy stroke of his hands, the stirring taste of him on her tongue.
She flowed along that gentle current of sensation, its lazy rise, its graceful fall. Breathing him, touching as she was touched. As if nothing in the world mattered more than the moment. And nothing existed in the moment but them.
When she opened, he filled. When he filled, she surrounded.
As they moved together in the dance of firelight, the tenderness brought tears to her eyes, a catch of them in her breath.
“I love you.” Overwhelmed, undone, he pressed his face to her shoulder. “A ghra. A ghra mo chroi.”
“Love,” she sighed as she rose to peak, light as a feather on a cloud.
“Love,” she repeated when she lay warm against him. She rested her hand on his cheek. He curled his over her wrist.
She slept, in the quiet and warm.
Roarke slept with her.
When she woke to sunlight, it pleased her to see him in the bedroom sitting area, drinking coffee—the cat sprawled over his lap—while he watched the financial reports whiz by on-screen. And fully dressed in one of his god of the business world suits.
Which meant he’d been up an hour, probably more, and tended to some of his realm.
So not as worried about her.
She glanced at the time, grunted, then rolled out of bed to shower. In the drying tube, she closed her eyes as the warm air swirled around her. Time to get your head in the game, she ordered herself.
Who the hell had a head to get in any game before coffee?
She grabbed the robe on the back of the door, shrugged into it as she strode back into the bedroom and straight to the AutoChef.
She drank half the first cup as though her life depended on it, then turned, studied Roarke again.
“Morning.”
“She speaks.”
“And she’s going to have to do a lot more of it.”
She crossed over to the closet, started to reach for clothes at random.
“Not today,” Roarke said from behind her.
“What? I’m not wearing clothes today?”
“Oh, if only. Today, you take a rare moment to think about clothes.”
“I think about them. They keep me from being arrested for indecent exposure. And if I have to tackle some asshole during the course of the day, it prevents him from thinking I’m a sex fiend.”
“Both excellent purposes for wardrobe. Another is presentation. You’re going to be presenting your case—and yourself—to your commander and others.”
“Which is cop work.” She may have been barefoot, but she prepared to dig in her heels. “I’m not fancying up for cop work.”
“There is, Lieutenant, considerable area between indecent exposure/ sex fiend and fancying up. Such as …”
He selected fitted trousers in chocolate brown with a kind of nubby finish, matched them with a three-button jacket in deep, strong blue, then managed to add an Oxford-style shirt with stripes that picked up both tones.
“A clean, confident presentation of someone who’s in charge and prepared to get down to the business at hand.”
“All that?”
“Wear your new boots.” He passed her the clothes. “They’ll work well with that, and with the coat as well.”
“What new boots?” Her eyebrows drew together as he took them off a shelf. “And where did they come from?”
“The boot elves, I assume.”
“The boot elves are going to be pissed when they’re dinged and scuffed inside a week.”
“Oh, I think they’re more tolerant than that.”
“Those elves keep this up I’m going to need a bigger closet.”
But she dressed as advised, then sat to pull on the boots while Roarke programmed breakfast for two.
They slid on like—as Peabody might say—butter. “Okay.” She stood, took some strides. “They’re great. Sturdy—I could definitely kick some teeth in with these.”
“The elves had that as top priority.”
“Huh.” She did a quick squat and rise then paddled her heels. “But they’re not stiff or heavy, so they could handle a serious foot-chase.”
“Second priority. I’ll pass your satisfaction on to the elves.” He set two plates of waffles on the table, gave Galahad a cool, warning stare, then looked Eve up and down. “You look confident, streamlined, and absolutely capable of kicking in those teeth.”
“I like the last part the best.”
“Only one of the myriad reasons I love you.”
She sat, and when he joined her, she laid a hand over his. “I feel confident and streamlined. I woke up that way because you were with me last night, because you loved me. And because you were sitting here this morning, doing what you always do instead of worrying about me.”
“Does that mean you’re going to stop worrying about me worrying?”
“It’s moving that way. We probably just need to have a good fight over something, finish it off. A good fight can work like a good orgasm, and clear things out.”
“Well now, I’m longing for a good fight. We’ll have to schedule one in.”
“Better, I think, when they’re more … organic.”
“Organic orgasm through temper.” He laughed as he passed her the syrup he knew she’d pour on in a flood. “I’m filled with anticipation.”
“Remember that when I piss you off next time.”
She drowned her waffles in syrup.