"You're breaking the law, Lieutenant," Roarke said mildly. He was rock hard again, like a teenager cruising on hormones.

The woman who prided herself on never abusing her badge muttered, "Bending it."

Roarke reached over, cupped her breast. "Bend it more."

"Oh Jesus." She could already imagine what he'd feel like inside her, so she punched the accelerator and shot like a bullet down Park.

A glide-cart operator flipped up her middle finger as Eve screamed around a curb and headed east. Cursing lightly, Eve switched on her duty light, popped up the red and blue globe, and had it flashing.

"I can't believe I'm doing this. I never do this."

Roarke slid his hand down to her thigh. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"

She gave a hoarse laugh, swallowed hard. "Don't tell me, for God's sake. I'll kill us."

Her hands were glued to the wheel and trembling, her body vibrating like a string already plucked. Her breath was already hitching. Clouds slipped past the moon and freed its light.

"Hit the remote for the gate," she panted. "Hit the remote. I'm not slowing down."

He coded it quickly. The iron gate eased majestically open, and she burst through with inches to spare. "Excellent job. Stop the car."

"Just a minute, just a minute." She rocketed up the drive, flying past the gorgeous trees and musical fountains.

"Stop the car," he demanded again and pressed his hand to her crotch.

She came instantly, violently, barely managing to keep from steering into an oak. Gasping for air, she pulled the vehicle to a stop, fishtailing and ending in a drunken diagonal across the drive.

She flew at him.

They tore at clothes, fighting to find each other in the narrow confines of the car. She bit his shoulder, yanked his trousers open. He was cursing, she was laughing, when he dragged her out of the car. They fell on the grass in a tangle of limbs and twisted clothing.

"Hurry up, hurry up." It was all she could manage through the unbearable pressure. His mouth was on her breast through her torn shirt, teeth scraping. She pulled at his trousers, dug her fingers into his hips.

His breathing was fast, rough, the raw need clawing through him as urgently as her nails clawed at his back. He could feel his blood roaring, a tidal wave through his veins. His hands bruised her as he rocked her legs back, drove deep inside her.

She screamed, a wild, savage sound of pleasure, her nails raking his back, her teeth fixing on his shoulder. She could feel him pulsing inside her, filling her with each desperate thrust. The punch of the orgasm was painful and did nothing to lessen the monstrous need.

She was wet, hot, her muscles vising over him like teeth with each pump of hips. He couldn't stop, couldn't think, and plunged again and again like a stud covering a mare in heat. He couldn't see her through the red haze that clouded his vision, he could only feel her, racing with him, pistoning her hips. Her voice buzzed in his ears, all whimpers and moans and gasps.

Each sound beat in his blood like a primal chant.

It shattered without warning, beyond his control. His body simply peaked like an engine on maximum power, battered into hers, then erupted. The hot wave of release swamped him, swallowed him, drowned him. It was the only time since he'd first touched her that he didn't know if she had followed him over the edge.

He collapsed, rolled weakly away to try to find air for his overtaxed lungs. In the glowing moonlight, they sprawled on the grass, sweaty, half-dressed, shuddering, like the lone survivors of a particularly vicious war.

With a groan, she rolled over on her stomach, let the grass cool her burning cheeks. "Christ, what was that?"

"Under other circumstances, I'd call it sex. But…" He managed to open his eyes. "I don't have a word for it."

"Did I bite you?"

A few aches were making themselves known as his body recovered. He twisted his head, glanced at his shoulder, and saw the imprint of her teeth. "Someone did. I think it was probably you."

He watched a star fall, shooting silver from sky to earth. It had been much like that, he thought, like plunging helplessly to oblivion. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. I have to think about it." Her head was still spinning. "We're on the lawn," she said slowly. "Our clothes are torn. I'm pretty sure I have the imprint of your fingers dented into my butt."

"I did my best," he murmured.

She snickered first, then chuckled, then broke into fits of giddy, hiccupping laughter. "Jesus, Roarke, Jesus Christ, look at us."

"In a minute. I think I'm still partially blind." But he was grinning as he shifted. She was still shaking with laughter. Her hair stuck up at odd angles, her eyes were glassy, and there were grass stains as well as bruises on her pretty ass. "You don't look much like a cop, Lieutenant."

She rolled to sit up as he had, angled her head. "You don't look much like a rich guy, Roarke." She tugged on his sleeve – it was all that was left of his shirt. "But it's an interesting look. How are you going to explain that to Summerset?"

"I'll simply tell him my wife is an animal."

She snorted. "He's already decided that for himself." Blowing out a breath, she looked toward the house. Lights glimmered on the lower level to welcome them home. "How are we going to get into the house?"

"Well…" He found what was left of her shirt, tied it around her breasts, and made her giggle helplessly. They managed to tug on ruined slacks, then sat looking at each other. "I can't carry you to the car," he told her. "I was hoping you'd carry me."

"We have to get up first."

"Okay."

Neither of them moved. The laughter started again, continued as they grabbed onto each other like drunks and staggered to their feet. "Leave the car," he decided.

"Uh-huh." They limped off, weaving. "Clothes? Shoes?"

"Leave them, too."

"Good plan."

Snickering like children breaking curfew, they stumbled up the steps, shushing each other as they fell through the door.

"Roarke!" Shocked tones, rushing feet.

"I knew it," Eve muttered dourly. "I just knew it."

Summerset rushed out of the shadows, his normally set face alive with shock and worry. He saw tattered clothes, bruised skin, wild eyes. "Was there an accident?"

Roarke straightened up, kept his arm around Eve's shoulders as much for balance as support. "No. It was on purpose. Go to bed, Summerset."

Eve glanced over her shoulder as she and Roarke helped each other up the stairs. Summerset stood at the base, gaping. The picture pleased her so much, she snickered all the way to the bedroom.

They fell into bed, exactly as they were, and slept like babies.

At shortly before eight the next morning, a bit sore and fuzzy-brained, Eve sat at her desk in her home office. She considered it more of a sanctuary than an office, really, the apartment Roarke had built for her in his home. Its design was similar to the apartment where she had lived when she'd met him, which she'd been reluctant to give up.

He'd provided it so that she could have her own space, her own things. Even after all the time she'd lived there, she rarely slept in their bed when he was away. Instead, she curled into the relaxation chair and dozed.

The nightmares came less often now, but crept back at odd moments.

She could work here when it was convenient, lock the doors if she wanted privacy. And as it had a fully operational kitchen, she often chose her AutoChef over Summerset when she was alone in the house.

With the sun streaming through the view wall at her back, she reviewed her caseload, juggled legwork. She knew she didn't have the luxury of focusing exclusively on the Fitzhugh case, particularly since it was earmarked a probable suicide. If she didn't turn up hard evidence in the next day or two, she'd have no choice but to lower its priority.