—wait. Three. The downstairs loo as well as the kitchen.
As the world tilted and spun, she realized that Veck had picked her up. Good plan. She didn’t think she could walk—and what a way to air-dry.
In her bedroom, he laid her out on her duvet and covered her with half of it. “I’ll be right back.”
She wasn’t alone long, however, because he moved fast, going downstairs, rifling around in what sounded like the kitchen, coming back quickly. He canned the overhead light as he reentered, and at first she thought it was for her modesty—not that she needed it, considering what he’d done to her at that counter—but then she saw him put something on the bedside table.
His gun.
No, there were two. He’d brought hers as well. From where they’d disarmed at the table before dinner.
How romantic.
The stark reminder of the night before chilled her, but he took care of that, covering her with his hot, hard body.
“Don’t think about it,” he whispered. “Not now. There’ll be plenty of time when we’re through.”
She touched his face and wished they were on vacation somewhere far, far away from the kind of work they did and the reason they had been brought together.
“You’re right,” she said. “And I don’t want to wait a moment longer.”
He nodded, and produced that last foil square he’d kept in his wallet. When he was finished taking care of things, he mounted her again, and as she spread her legs further, she felt the shift in him, in herself: everything slowed down.
As he entered her on a gentle glide, she welcomed him not just with her sex, but her soul, kissing him deeply.
Without words, without hesitations, without any reservations, they moved together, building momentum, gathering intensity. When the end came, it was at the same time, and they held on to each other, she with her nails digging into his back, he with his arms under her and squeezing.
It was the most perfect union. And afterward, even though he had to pull out and did, they lay together in the dark as close as they could get, their bodies forming a critical mass of warmth in the center of the bed.
“Will you let me stay the night?” he asked.
“Yes. Please, yes.”
“I’ll be right back. You get under the covers.”
Good idea. Because as soon as he was up off of her, the cold rushed in and goose-pimpled her all over.
A few minutes later he came back from the bath and joined her. “Did I take your side?”
“Ah . . . no. I’m over here at night.”
“Good.”
She rolled over and they faced each other, heads on her pillows, bodies warming up under the weight of the blankets.
He brushed his fingertip down her cheek . . . across her jaw . . . to her lips. “Thank you . . .” he whispered.
God, she couldn’t find her breath at this moment. “For what.”
There was a pause. “The pizza. It was just the way I like it.”
Reilly laughed. “Smart-ass.”
“Come here. I need to hold on to you.”
She felt the same way. And when there was no distance between them, it was like coming home.
With her head on his chest over his thumping heart, and his arms around her, and her leg thrown over his, she wasn’t just comfortable; she was safe.
While he idly smoothed her hair, she closed her eyes. “This is just perfect.”
She could hear the smile in his voice: “Which is how I want it to be for you. I want to make everything perfect for you.”
As Reilly drifted off to sleep, her last thought was . . . she couldn’t wait to do it all over again. And not just the sex. This lovely, invaluable quiet was even better than the making love part.
Although that hadn’t been half-bad, either.
CHAPTER 34
The following morning, as Veck walked into HQ, his number one priority was not grinning like a motherfucker.
Tough to pull off.
He was an hour late, because he and Reilly had engaged in acts that, had he had any more condoms, would have been termed “foreplay.” As it stood, given that they’d been completely surrounded by no amount of latex, what went down was better than the best sex he’d had with anyone else—by about five thousand miles.
And he’d already hit a Walgreens and stocked up on the way into work.
As he strode through the lobby, he nodded to people, keeping it professional even though his inner sixteen- year-old had its swagger on like he’d won the Super Bowl, the World Series, and the Stanley Cup all in one night.
When he got to the top of the stairs, he prayed like hell that Britnae didn’t morning-coffee him. That girl had nothing on his Reilly, and it was time to break her of the habit of coming on to him. He didn’t need to worry, though. One of the night guys, who worked intake, was at her desk. Veck didn’t know the officer all that well, but he was looking different somehow. Kind of like he’d gotten his Hugh Jackman on, in spite of the fact that on the surface he had more in common with Homer Simpson. And Britnae? Eating it up.
Which proved that what was inside was what counted—and who knew a girl like that would figure it out?
Down in Homicide, he sat at his desk and fired up his computer. And then struck by a romantic notion that was as unfamiliar as it was undeniable, he went into his e-mail, got Reilly out of his contacts, and got ready to send her something.
Lot of space to fill. Looooot of space.
In the end, he typed only a few words. And he hit
Afterward, he just sat there and stared at his screen, wondering if he’d done the right thing . . . until he realized he was looking at his in-box, and the report on Sissy Barten was already in from the ME.
Clearly, the guy had burned the midnight oil to do the autopsy.
Veck read through it all and looked at each one of the twenty or so photographs of the body. There was nothing in any of them that he hadn’t seen for himself at the quarry, and when he got to the last shot of the ritualistic markings on the torso, he sat back, and tapped his forefinger on his mouse.
If Kroner didn’t kill her, who did?
“Mail call.”
Veck glanced up at the administrator with his rolling cart of envelopes and boxes. “Thanks, man.”
Three pieces. Two interdepartmental. One U.S. mail . . . that happened to have a cancellation stamp from Connecticut. Return address? The federal corrections institution he had avoided for the past ten years.
Looking at the envelope, he felt like he’d gotten shrinkwrapped in broken glass.
His first impulse was to throw the thing out, but the pull of what might be inside made that impossible—and didn’t that make him hate the mental power his father had always had over him.
Why Jim Heron’s voice was in his head as he tore open the flap was nothing he was going to waste energy on.
Inside was a sheet of paper with three lines handwritten in an elegant, flowing script that was more the image of wealth that his father had sported than the guy’s roots in the Midwest.
