Eternity in Death by J. D. Robb Page A

would always give. He knew no matter how much he wanted, she would always be there to give, or take, to meet those endless, urgent needs with her own. Her mouth was a fever on his. A moan poured from her as he tugged her shirt apart, then found that warm, trembling flesh with his lips, his teeth.
    The taste of her incited a fresh and mammoth wave of hunger.
    Her hands yanked at the hook of his trousers as his yanked at hers. And she pressed erotically against him, core to core.
    Her eyes were dark when he looked into them and, for one brilliant moment, went blind when he plunged inside her.
    She matched him, beat for frantic beat, riding and racing the violent pleasure as he dragged her arms over her head, as he pinned them there. As he battered them both over the last turbulent crest.
    Her breath whistled in and out; he rested his cheek on her hair as he caught his own. And in sweet opposition to the force of their mating, he brushed his lips at her temple, soft as gossamer wings.
    “I believe I was a bit more than mildly annoyed by having some poster boy for Dracula hit on my wife in front of my face.”
    “Worked for me.” Grateful for the wall behind her, Eve leaned back, managed to focus on Roarke’s eyes. “Feel better?”
    “Considerably, thanks.”
    “Anytime. You know what, I feel like a big, fat hunk of red meat. How about you?”
    He smiled, touched his lips to hers. “I could eat.”
    Six
    She had an enormous hamburger while she backtracked through Dorian Vadim’s criminal record. She burned up the ’link as she ate, as Dorian hadn’t just slithered through the system, but had wound his way around the country and in and out of Europe while he did so. She spoke to detectives and investigators in Chicago, Boston, Miami, New L.A., East Washington, and several European cities.
    She took copious notes, requested files, and made promises to keep other cops in other cities in the loop.
    At some point during the process, Roarke wandered out. She’d set up another murder board, typed up her notes, and was talking to the head of security at Tiara Kent’s building when Roarke wandered back in again.
    She held up a finger.
    “Go back as far as you can. If you see this guy on any of your discs, at any point, I want to know. Yeah, day or night. Thanks.”
    She disconnected. “Gist from the cops I’ve talked to across the frigging globe is Vadim is a smart grifter with the conscience and agility of a snake, an ego as big as…how big is Idaho?”
    “There are bigger,” Roarke considered, “but I’d say that’s big enough.”
    “Okay, we’ll go with Idaho, and an appetite for rich females and illegal substances. I’m damned if he’ll slip through my fingers. Going to wrap him up quick, going to wrap him up tight,” she told Roarke. “If we get him on any of the building’s security discs, it’s one more—ha, ha—nail in his coffin.”
    “Then you might be interested in what I ferreted out, regarding his financials.”
    Her expression went from intent to annoyed. “I don’t have authorization to ferret in his financials, as yet.”
    “Which is why I used the unregistered. I don’t like him,” Roarke said very clearly before Eve could complain.
    “Yeah, loud and clear on that. But I don’t need his financial data at this point, and I can’t use anything you found by illegal means, so—”
    “So don’t use it. And if you’re not as curious as I was, I’ll keep the information to myself.”
    He walked over, opened a wall panel, and got out the brandy. She lasted until he’d poured himself a snifter.
    “Damn it. What did you find?”
    “He’s not officially listed as the owner of the club, but he owns it—such as it is. He’s built several fronts, and is registered as its manager.”
    “Shady,” she commented, “but not strictly illegal.”
    “He’s also sunk quite a bit into the club—more, in my opinion, than makes good business sense on an underground establishment. I’d say