She reached for him.

"I'm not neurotic," she managed to say.

He laughed first, delighted with her, delirious for her. "Of course not." He closed his hands over hers and drove into her.

He watched her come at the first thrust, those golden brown irises blurring, that slim torso arching up. The shocked pleasure strangled in her throat then shuddered out on his name.

"Take more." His hands were less gentle than he intended as he lifted her hips, went deeper. "Take all of me."

Through the stunning waves of sensation she understood he wanted acceptance, finally and fully, for both of them.

She took all of him.

Later they shared soup in her office. By the second bowl, her head was clear enough to deal with the business at hand.

"I'm going to be working here for the most part for a while."

"I'll lighten my schedule so I'll be available for you."

She broke open a roll, buttered it thoughtfully. "We're going to have to contact the Dublin police. Your name's bound to come up." She ignored the quick grin he flashed her and bit into the roll. "Should I expect any surprises?"

"They don't have any more hard data on me than your records show."

"Which is next to nothing."

"Exactly. There's bound to be a few members of the guarda with long memories, but there shouldn't be anything too embarrassing. I've always been careful."

"Who investigated Marlena's murder?"

The amusement died out of Roarke's eyes. "It was an Inspector Maguire, but I wouldn't say he investigated. He went through the motions, took the bribes offered, and called it death by misadventure."

"Still, his records might be of some use."

"I doubt you'll find much, if any. Maguire was one of the many cops in the pocket of the cartel whose territory I trespassed on." He took the other half of Eve's roll. "The Urban Wars started later and lasted longer in that part of the world. Even when I was a boy there were pockets of it still being waged, and certainly the results of the worst of it were still in evidence."

He remembered the bodies, the sound of gunfire screaming through the night, the wails of the wounded, and the sunken eyes of the survivors.

"Those who had," he-continued, "had in abundance. Those who didn't, suffered and starved and scavenged. Most cops who'd been through the hell of it went one of two ways. Some dedicated themselves to maintaining order. Most took advantage of the chaos and profited."

"Maguire decided to profit."

"He was hardly alone. I took plenty of kicks from a beat cop if I didn't have the payoff in my pocket. When you're down to your last punt, you'd as soon have the kick and keep the pound."

"Did you take any from Maguire?"

"Not personally. By the time I was working the grift and the games, he was riding a desk. He used uniforms as his runners and muscle and collected in comfort." Roarke sat back with his coffee. "For the most part I outmaneuvered him. I paid my shot when I couldn't get around it, but I usually stole it back. Cops are easy marks. They don't expect to have their pockets picked."

"Hmm" was all Eve could say to that. "Why was Maguire brought in on Marlena?"

"When she was killed, Summerset insisted on calling in the police. He wanted to see the men who had… he wanted to see them punished. He wanted a public trial. He wanted justice. Instead he got Maguire. The bastard came sniffing around, shaking his head, clucking his tongue. 'Well, well,' he said, 'seems to me a father should keep a closer eye on a pretty young girl. Letting her run wild like that.' "

As the old fury crawled back, Roarke shoved away from the table to rise and pace. "I could have killed him on the spot. He knew it. He wanted me to try it, then and there while he had six cops around him who'd have broken me to pieces at the first move. His conclusions were that she was an incorrigible, that there were illegals in her system and she'd fallen in with a bad lot who'd panicked and killed her when they'd done with her. Two weeks later he was driving a new car around Dublin Town and his wife had a new haircut to show off her diamond earrings."

He turned back. "And six months later, they hooked him out of the River Liffey with enough holes in him for the fish to swim through."

Her throat had gone dust dry, but she kept her gaze steady. "Did you kill him?"

"No, but only because someone beat me to it. He was low on my list of priorities." Roarke came back, sat again. "Eve, Summerset had no part in what I did. He wasn't even aware of what I planned to do. It wasn't his way – isn't his way. He ran cons, bilked marks, lifted wallets."

"You don't need to defend him to me. I'll do my best for him." She let out a breath. "Starting now by ignoring regulations, again, and using your unregistered equipment to run names. Let's start on those lists."

He got to his feet, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. "It's always a pleasure working with you, Lieutenant."

"Just remember who's in charge."

"I've no doubt you'll remind me. Regularly." He slipped an arm around her waist when she stood. "Next time we make love, you can wear your badge. In case I forget who's in charge."

She eyed him narrowly. "Nobody likes a smart-ass."

"I do." He planted a kiss between her scowling eyes. "I love one."

Eve stared at the list of names on the wall screen in Roarke's private room. The equipment installed there was every hacker's wet dream. He'd indulged himself in aesthetics in the rest of the house, but this room was all business.

Illegal business, she thought, since all its information, research, and communications devices were unregistered with CompuGuard. Nothing that went in or came out of that room could be tracked.

Roarke sat at the U-shaped console, like a pirate, she thought, at the helm of a very snazzy ship. He hadn't engaged the auxiliary station with its jazzy laser fax and hologram unit. She imagined he didn't think he required the extra zip, just yet.

She stuck her hands in her pockets, tapped her boot on the glazed tile floor and read off the names of the dead.

"Charles O'Malley. Murder by disembowelment, August 5, 2042. Unsolved. Matthew Riley. Murder by evisceration, November, 12, 2042. Donald Cagney. Murder by hanging, April 22, 2043. Michael Rowan. Murder by suffocation, December 2, 2043. Rory McNee, murder by drowning, March 18, 2044. John Calhoun, murder by poisoning, July 31, 2044."

She let out a long breath. "You averaged two a year."

"I wasn't in a hurry. Would you like to read their bios?" He didn't call them up, simply continued to sit, staring at the viewing screen across the room. "Charles O'Malley, age thirty-three, small-time thug and sexual deviant. Suspected of raping his sister and his mother. Charges dismissed through lack of evidence. Suspected of torture-murder of an eighteen-year-old licensed companion whose name no one bothered to remember. Charges dismissed through lack of interest. A known free-lance spine cracker and debt collector who enjoyed his work. His trademark was shattering kneecaps. Marlena's knees were broken."

"All right, Roarke." She held up a hand. "It's enough. I need you to run their families, friends, lovers. With luck we can find a computer jock or communications freak among them."

Because he didn't want to say their names again, he typed in the request manually. "It'll take a few minutes. We'll bring up the list of contacts I had on viewing screen three."

"Who else knew what you were doing?" she asked as she watched names begin to scroll on screen.

"I didn't pop into the pub after and brag about it over a pint." He moved his shoulders dismissively. "But word and rumor travel. I wanted it known in any case. I wanted to give them time to sweat."