“So who was that pissed off at Average Joe? What was there to gain by his death? Look at his financials. Living within his means, such as they were. Death insurance, sure, but not major. No holdings, no real estate, no fancy artwork. Financial gain is way down on our list here.”

She eased a hip on the edge of her desk, studied the data on her wall screen as she drank her coffee. “And here’s Mirri Hallywell. You could call her an Average Jane. Worked with the vic, hung out with him, had little study sessions with him, and so on. Just friends, though. Now, in your opinion: can two attractive people of the opposite sex, in the same age group, with the same interests who enjoy each other’s company, spend time together and remain only friends? Or will sex, as sex is prone to do, rear its ugly head?”

She glanced toward the adjoining office, annoyed that her line of thinking had circled back around to Roarke and his former playmate.

“It’s possible, sure it’s possible. No sexual spark, maybe. Or the platonic thing is just the level the relationship reaches. Hallywell, however, did have opportunity. As did, naturally, the vic’s wife. Could be the ugly end of an ugly triangle. Just that simple.”

But it didn’tfeel like that.

“Want the guy, kill the wife. That’s what I’d do. There’s the old ‘If I can’t have you no one will’ gambit, but why now?”

She went back to her notes, to the interviews. No one she’d spoken with had mentioned any sort of upset, argument, controversy, or scandal involving the victim.

“Average Joe,” she repeated, looking back at the now snoring cat. “Mr. Clean Machine.”

“If you’re talking to Galahad, you’re wasting your time,” Roarke pointed out.

“He’s taking it into his subconscious.”

“The only thing in his subconscious is a yearning for salmon. How’s it going for you?”

“Circles and dies on me. No motive, no suspects. He’s just not the type to buy it this way. In a mugging, sure. Some random act, absolutely. Everybody’s the type for that. But someone he knew planned this out, set this up, executed it. And no one who knew him has a reason, that I can find, to want him dead.”

Roarke wandered in to take a look at the ID picture of the victim she had on her wall screen. “He wouldn’t be the first to have some secret life tucked under the average.”

“No, and I’m going to keep digging at the surface. Could’ve been banging that one.” Eve lifted her chin toward the wall screen as she brought Mirri Hallywell up.

“Pretty.”

“Yeah, the wife’s prettier. And according to the retired cop who lives below their apartment, the newlyweds were nailing each other every five minutes, so affair seems superfluous. Still, guys never get tired of sex.”

Roarke patted her ass. “Indeed we don’t.”

She split-screened Mirri and Lissette. Opposite types, physically, she thought. “For some, sex is ice cream, and they want a nice variety.”

Roarke only smiled. “I’ve settled on my single flavor.”

“Yeah, but you worked your way through the menu a few times first. Foster was young,” she continued when Roarke laughed. “Hadn’t had a lot of time to experiment. It doesn’t play all the notes for me,” she murmured. “But it’s the only tune I’ve got at the moment.”

He turned now to study her murder board. “Money is, I assume, not in the equation.”

“Not enough of it.”

“Rage?”

“Have to be cold, dead cold. This wasn’t a crime of passion. Poison’s…aloof. Especially if you’re not around to see it do its work. Not discounting rage,” she added. “I just can’t find any. Everybody liked him.”

“That’s what they said about the Icoves,” he reminded her.

She shook her head. “This guy’s nothing like them. The Icoves were lofty, smug, crazy, sure, but rich and privileged and in the spotlight. This guy was happy in the wings. Going to take a look at his apartment tomorrow,” she said. “Go through his files at school. Maybe he wasn’t the one with a secret. If he knew something, suspected something worth being poisoned for…” She shrugged. “I’ll find it.”

“No doubt.” Roarke stepped over, touched his lips to her brow. “And you can start the hunt in the morning. You’ve had a long day of cop work and wifely duties.”

“Guess I have.” She let him take her hand to lead her out. “The Derricks were okay. But I still don’t want to go to Montana.”

“That’s your cow fear talking. We could go out for a couple of days and stay at the resort. Maybe do a little horseback riding.”

“Oh, there’s a lifelong dream. Getting up on some animal that weighs ten times what I do and saying, ‘Giddyup.’”

“It’s surprisingly exhilarating.”

“I’ll stick with chasing down psychopaths for my thrills, thanks.”

She wondered if he’d gone horseback riding with Magdelana. She wondered how many timeshe’d ridden Magdelana.

Goddamn it.

She turned in the bedroom doorway, pushed him back against the jamb and pressed her lips to his in an avid, energetic kiss. “Or that’s good,” she said, and took a quick bite of his lower lip, “as second place on the thrill-o-meter.”

“Second place, is it?”

“Well, psychos are pretty damn thrilling.”

“I’ll just have to try harder, won’t I?” He reversed their positions quickly, had his mouth on hers, his hands under her sweatshirt. “Wouldn’t want my wife seeking out homicidal maniacs just for a bit of a rush, would I?”

“All in a day’s work. But…” She boosted herself up, wrapped her legs around his waist. “I’ve clocked out.”

Their mouths met again, hot and seeking. Then she took hers on a crazed journey of his face, his throat. The taste, his taste-it was everything she craved. He was everything.

She kept her legs locked around him when he lowered her to the bed, wound her arms around his neck. “Tell me you want me.”

“Always. Endlessly.”

“Show me.”

Desire. She could feel it in him. In his hands, in the way they moved over her, in what they took, in what they gave. She could taste it on his lips, that heat.

And still it wasn’t enough. She knew only that she needed more.

For the first time since they’d come together, she wasn’t sure what that more was. She only knew there was a small, cold place inside her that hadn’t been there before. She needed it warmed, she needed it filled.

Desperate, she rolled with him, dragging at his sweater, digging her fingers into flesh and muscle. “Touch me,” she demanded. “Touch me. Touch me.”

Her urgency surprised him. Aroused him. So he feasted on her skin, used his hands to take her over. She moaned his name, a sound of both pleasure and plea. And still she quaked, quivered with needs not yet met.

“Eve.” He lay a hand on her cheek, wanting to see her eyes, to see into them. “Look at me.”

She did what he asked, struggling to let herself fall away. Just fall away. “Inside me. I want you inside me.”

She rose up, not in offer but demand, and guided him to her.

Linked, as only they could be, she told herself. Their rhythm, their heat, their scent. She watched him watch her until her vision blurred. Until there was only speed and movement, the building-frantic and wild-toward that final, sharp-edged release.

When she lay curled against him, her skin dewed from passion, there was still that small, cold place inside her where the heat hadn’t quite reached.

In the morning, he was up and out of bed before she was. But he wasn’t in the sitting area, drinking coffee while he watched the financial reports on screen.

She readied for the day, keenly missing the routine-the conversation, sharing breakfast. Why wasn’t he there, telling her she was wearing the wrong jacket with the wrong pants?

And the night before? Why hadn’t he pushed himself into her work? Why wasn’t he here, right now, nagging her to eat something?

She strapped on her weapon harness with an irritated jerk. It was just fine. He was busy, so was she. She didn’t need or want the man in her pocket every hour of the day.