“Why thank you. I think.” He slid an arm around her waist, gently, put his other hand over hers that held the stem of her glass. He surprised her by moving her into a very smooth dance. “You have to use your imagination with Mavis’s . . . style,” he decided. “But this one could almost be considered romantic.”
Eve lifted a brow and tuned in to Mavis’s voice rising over clashing brass. “Yeah, it’s a real old-fashioned, sentimental tune. I’m a lousy dancer.”
“You wouldn’t be if you didn’t try to lead. I decided since you weren’t going to sit down and rest that battered body of yours, you could lean on me awhile.” He smiled down at her. “You’re starting to limp again, just a bit. But you do look almost relaxed.”
“The knee’s a little stiff,” Eve admitted. “But I am pretty relaxed. I guess it was listening to Mavis babble. She’s throwing up now.”
“Lovely.”
“It’s just nerves. Thanks.” She went with impulse and gave him one of her rare public kisses.
“You’re welcome. For?”
“For making sure we’re not eating soy dogs and veggie hash.”
“My pleasure.” He drew her closer, keeping his arms easy. “Believe me, it’s my pleasure. Well, Peabody wears basic black and a mild concussion well,” he noted.
“What?” Jerking back, Eve followed his gaze and spotted her aide just coming through the wide double doors and snagging a flute off a tray. “She should be flat on her back,” Eve muttered and pulled away from Roarke. “Excuse me while I go put her there.”
She stalked across the room, eyes narrowing as Peabody tried out a toothy smile. “Some party, Lieutenant. Thanks for the invite.”
“What the hell are you doing out of bed?”
“It’s just a bump on the head, and all they were doing was poking at me. I wasn’t going to let a little thing like an explosion keep me from doing a party at Roarke’s.”
“Are you on meds?”
“Just a couple of regulation pain blockers, and—” Her face fell when Eve snatched the champagne out of her hand. “I was just going to hold it. Really.”
“Hold this,” Eve suggested and shoved her water into Peabody’s hand. “I ought to cart your butt right back to the health center.”
“You didn’t go,” Peabody muttered, then lifted her chin. “And I’m off duty. On personal time. You can’t order me back.”
However much she sympathized and admired determination, Eve held firm. “No liquor,” she snapped out. “No dancing.”
“But—”
“I hauled you out of that building today, and I can haul you out of here. By the way, Peabody,” Eve added. “You could lose a few pounds.”
“So my mother’s always telling me.” Peabody huffed out a breath. “No liquor, no dancing. Now, if you’ve finished with the restrictions, I’m going to go talk to somebody who doesn’t know me.”
“Fine. Oh, Peabody?”
Peabody turned, scowling. “Yes, sir?”
“You did good today. I won’t have to think twice about going through the door with you.”
As Eve walked away, Peabody gaped after her. It had been simply, even casually said, but it was the finest professional compliment she’d ever been given.
Socializing wasn’t Eve’s favorite pastime, but she did her best. She even resigned herself to dancing when she couldn’t slide her way out of it. So she found herself being steered—it was the way she thought about dancing—around the floor by Jess.
“Your pal William?” Jess began.
“More Roarke’s pal. I don’t know him well.”
“Anyhow, he had some interesting input on designing an interactive to go with this disc. Bring the audience into the music—into Mavis.”
Brow lifted, Eve glanced back to the screen. Mavis was swiveling her barely covered hips and shrieking about burning up in the fire of love while red and gold flames spurted around her.
“You actually think people would want to go in there?”
He chuckled, let his voice cruise deeper south. “Sugar, they’ll trample each other to get in. And pay big for the chance.”
“And if they do,” she said, turning back to him, “you get a nice fat percentage.”
“That’s standard on development deals like this. Check with your man. He’ll tell you.”
“Mavis made her choice.” She softened, noting that several guests were absorbed in the screen show. “I’d say she made a good one.”
“We both did. I think we’ve got a hit,” he told her. “And when we give them a taste of the show live and in the flesh—well, if the roof wasn’t already off, we’d blow it off.”
“You’re not nervous?” She looked at him: confident eyes, cocky mouth. “No, you’re not nervous.”
“I’ve been playing for my supper for too many years. It’s a job.” He smiled at her, walked his fingers casually up her back. “You don’t get nervous tracking killers. Revved, right? Psyched, but not nervous.”
“Depends.” She thought of what she was tracking now, and her stomach fluttered.
“No, you’re steel. I could see that the first time I looked at you. You don’t give, you don’t back off. You don’t flinch. It makes your brain, well your makeup, so to speak, a fascination. What drives Eve Dallas? Justice, revenge, duty, morality? I’d say it’s a very unique combination of all of those, fueled by a conflict of confidence and self-doubt. You’ve got a strong sense of what’s right, and you’re constantly questioning who you are.”
She wasn’t sure she liked the turn of the conversation. “What are you, a musician or a shrink?”
“Creative people study other people; and music is a science as much as an art, an emotion as much as a science.” His silvery eyes stayed on hers as he guided her smoothly around other couples. “When I design a series of notes, I want it to affect people. I have to understand, even study human nature if I’m to get the right reaction. How will this make them behave, make them think, make them feel?”
Eve spared an absent smile as William and Reeanna danced by, absorbed in each other. “I thought it was for entertainment.”
“That’s the surface. Just the surface.” His eyes were excited, gleaming with it as he spoke. “Any music hack can run a theme through a computer and come out with a competent tune. The music business has gotten more and more ordinary and predictable because of technology.”
Brows lifted, Eve glanced toward the screen, and Mavis. “I’d have to say I don’t hear anything ordinary or predictable here.”
“Exactly. I’ve put in time studying how tones, notes, and rhythms affect people, and I know what buttons to push. Mavis is a treasure. She’s so open, so malleable.” He smiled when Eve’s eyes hardened. “I meant that as a compliment, not that she’s weak. But she’s a risk taker, a woman who’s willing to strip herself down and become a vessel for the message.”
“The message is?”
“Depends on the mind of the audience. The hopes and dreams. I wonder about your dreams, Dallas.”
So do I, she thought, but she met his gaze blandly. “I’d rather stick with reality. Dreams are deceptive.”
“No, no, they’re revealing. The mind, and the unconscious mind in particular, is a canvas. We paint on it constantly. Art and music can add such colors, such style. Medical science has understood that for decades and uses it to treat and study certain conditions, both psychological and physiological.”
She angled her head. Was there another message here? “You sound more like a scientist than a musician now.”
“I’ve blended. One day, you’ll be able to pick a song personally designed for your own brain waves. The mood enhancement capabilities will be endless and intimate. That’s the key. Intimacy.”
She sensed he was making a pitch and stopped dancing. “I wouldn’t think it would be cost effective. And research into technology designed to analyze and coordinate with individual brain waves is illegal. For good reason. It’s dangerous.”
; “Not at all,” he disagreed. “It’s liberating. New processes, any sort of real progress usually starts out as illegal. As for the cost, it would be high initially, then come down as the design was adjusted for mass production. What’s a brain but a computer, after all? You have a computer analyze a computer. What could be simpler?”
He glanced over at the screen. “That’s the intro for the last number. I’ve got to check my equipment before my cue.” He leaned in, kissed her cheek lightly. “Wish us luck.”
“Yeah, luck,” she murmured, but her stomach was knotted.
What was a brain but a computer? Computers analyzing computers. Individualized programs designed for personal brain wave patterns. If it was possible, would it be possible to add suggestive programs linked directly with the user’s brain? She shook her head. Roarke would never have approved it. He wouldn’t have taken such a foolish risk. But she made her way through the crowd to him, laid a hand on his arm.
“I need to ask you a question,” she said quietly. “Have any of your companies been doing under-the-table research on designing VR for personal brain wave patterns?”
“That’s illegal, Lieutenant.”
“Roarke.”
“No. There was a time when I would have ventured into any number of not essentially legal areas in business. That wouldn’t have been one of them. And no,” he added, anticipating her. “That VR model is universally, not individually designed. Only the programs can be personalized by the user. What you’re talking about is cost prohibitive, logistically tangled, and simply too damn much trouble.”
“Okay, that’s what I figured.” Her muscles relaxed. “But can it be done?”
He paused a moment, then lifted his shoulder. “I have no idea. You’d have to have the individual’s cooperation or access to a brain scan. That also involves personal approval and consent. And then . . . I have no idea,” he repeated.
“If I can get Feeney alone—” She swiveled her head, trying to find the electronics detective in the whirling crowd.
“Take the evening off, Lieutenant.” Roarke slipped an arm around her. “Mavis is about to get her spotlight.”
“Okay.” She forced herself to push the worry to the back of her mind as Jess settled at his console and gave an introductory riff. Tomorrow, she promised herself and led the applause as Mavis spun onto the floor.
Then the worry was gone, melted away by the blast of Mavis’s energy and her own wild pleasure as lights, music, and showmanship combined in a dizzy kaleidoscope.
“She’s good, isn’t she?” She was unaware she’d gripped Roarke’s arm like a mother with a child in the school play. “Different, weird, but good.”
“She’s all of that.” The clashing edge of notes, sound effects, and vocals would never be his music of choice, but he found himself grinning. “She’s caught the crowd. You can relax.”
“I’m relaxed.”
He laughed and hugged her closer. “If you were wearing buttons, you’d pop them.” He didn’t mind the fact that he had to put his mouth on her ear for her to hear him. And since he was there, anyway, he added an inventive suggestion for after the party.
“What?” She went hot all over. “I believe that particular act is illegal in this state. I’ll check my code book and get back to you. Cut it out.” She hunched up her shoulder in reaction as his teeth and tongue got busy on her earlobe.
“I want you.” Lust prickled over his skin like a rash, instant, itchy, immediate. “Right now.”
“You can’t be serious,” she began, but she found he was, fiercely, when his mouth closed over hers in a wild and urgent kiss. Blood thudded her pulse to vibrant life and the muscles in her thighs went limp. “Get ahold of yourself.” She managed to ease back a half inch and was breathless, shocked, and very near blushing. Not everyone’s attention was focused on Mavis. “We’re in the middle of an event here. A public one.”
“Then let’s leave.” He was hard as rock, painfully ready. There was a wolf inside him, poised to lunge. “There are a lot of private rooms in this house.”
She would have laughed if she hadn’t felt the need vibrating from him. “Get a grip, Roarke. This is Mavis’s big moment. We’re not running off into a closet like a couple of randy teenagers.”
“Yes, we are.” Half blind, he pulled her through the crowd and out of it while she babbled in stunned protest.
“This is nuts. What are you, a pleasure droid? You can damn well hold yourself in check for a couple of hours.”
“The hell with it.” He yanked open the closest door and shoved her inside what was indeed a closet. “Now, goddamn it.” Her back rapped up against the wall, and before she could so much as gasp, he pulled up her skirts and drove himself into her.
She was dry, unprepared, shocked. Ravaged, was all she could think as she bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. He was rough, careless, and sent the bruises singing as he rammed her, over and over, into the wall. Even as she shoved at him, he pounded into her, his hands hiking up her hips, digging in and ripping a startled cry of pain from her throat.
She could have stopped him, her training was thorough. But training had dissolved into sheer feminine distress. She couldn’t see his face, wasn’t sure she’d recognize it if she could.
“Roarke.” It was shock, bone deep, that quavered in her voice. “You’re hurting me.”
He muttered something, a language she didn’t understand and had never heard, so she stopped struggling, gripped his shoulders, and shut her eyes to what was happening to both of them.
Still he plowed into her, hands digging into her hips to keep her open for him, his breath whistling in her ear. He took her brutally, and with none of the finesse or control that was such an innate part of him.
He couldn’t stop. Even as part of his brain stepped back, appalled at what he was doing, he simply couldn’t stop. The need was like a cancer eating at him and he had to sate it to survive. There was a voice somewhere in his head, greedy and gasping. Harder. Faster. More. It drove him, pushed him, until with one final vicious thrust, he emptied.
She held on. It was that or slide to the floor. He was shuddering like a man with a fever and she didn’t know whether to soothe him or belt him.
“Goddamn it, Roarke.” But when he pressed a hand to the wall to keep balance as he swayed, she lost any sense of insult in worry.
“Hey, what is it? How much have you had to drink, anyway? Come on, lean on me.”
“No.” With the violent need met, his mind cleared. And remorse was a hot weight in his belly. He shook off the dizziness and eased himself back. “Good God, Eve. Good God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Okay. It’s okay.” He was sheet white. She’d never seen him look even remotely ill and was terrified. “I should get Summerset, somebody. You’ve got to lie down.”
“Stop it.” He very carefully nudged away her stroking hands and stepped back until they were no longer touching. How could she bear to have him touch her? “For Christ’s sake. I raped you. I just raped you.”
“No.” She said it firmly, hoping the tone of her voice would be as effective as a slap. “You did not. I know what rape is. What you did wasn’t rape, even if it was a little overenthusiastic.”
“I hurt you.” When she reached out, he held up his hands to stop her. “Goddamn it, Eve, you’re bruised from head to foot, and I shoved you against the wall in some fucking closet and used you. Used you like a—”
“Okay.” She stepped forward, but he shook his head. “Don’t back away from me, Roarke. That’s what will hurt. Don’t do that.”
“I need a minute.” He rubbed his hands over his face. He still felt light-headed and queasy, and worse, slightly out of himself. “Christ, I need a drink.”
“Which brings me back to my question. How much have you had?”
“Not enough. I’m not drunk, Eve.” He dropped his hands and looked around. A closet, was all he could think. For God’s pity, a closet. “I don’t know what happen
ed, what came over me. I’m sorry.”
“I can see that.” But she still couldn’t see the whole picture. “You kept saying something. Weird. Like liomsa.”
His eyes darkened. “It’s Gaelic. Mine it means. I haven’t used Gaelic in . . . not since I was a boy. My father used it often when he was . . . on a drunk.”
He hesitated, then he reached out to graze his fingertips over her cheek. “I was so rough with you. So careless.”
“I’m not one of your crystal vases, Roarke. I can take it.”
“Not like that.” He thought of the whimpers and protests of the alley whores that had come through the thin walls and haunted him when his father had bedded them. “Never like that. I never thought of you. I didn’t care, and there’s no excuse.”
She didn’t want him humble. It unnerved her. “Well, you’re too busy beating yourself up for me to bother, so let’s go back.”
He touched her arm before she could open the door. “Eve, I don’t know what happened. Literally. One minute we were standing there, listening to Mavis, and the next . . . it was overpowering, vicious. Like my life depended on having you. Not just sex, but survival. I couldn’t control it. That’s not excusing what—”
“Wait.” She leaned back against the door a moment, struggled to separate woman from cop, wife from detective. “You’re not exaggerating?”
“No. It was like a fist around my throat.” He managed a very weak smile. “Well, perhaps that’s the wrong portion of the anatomy. There’s nothing I can say or do to—”
“Eject the guilt a minute, will you, and think.” Her eyes were cold now, hard as agate. “A sudden and irresistible urge—more a compulsion. One you, a very controlled man, couldn’t control? You just pounded yourself into me with all the finesse of a sweaty celibate breaking fast with a rented sex droid.”
He winced at that, felt the tear of guilt. “I’m all too aware of that.”
“And it’s not your style, Roarke. You’ve got moves, I can’t keep up with all of them, but they’re all slick, practiced. You may get rough, but never mean. And as one who’s made love with you in about every way that’s anatomically possible, I can certify that you’re never selfish.”