In Death 16 - Reunion In Death by J.D. Robb

Author:J.D. Robb [Robb, J.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-04-29T04:00:00+00:00

He ignored her request to head straight to the central police station and drove to the hotel, one he did own, and where the owner's suite was prepared for them.

The fact that she was too tired to argue told her he was right, again. She needed time to pull herself together.

She went through the enormous parlor into the equally sumptuous master bedroom and left Roarke to deal with the bellman. She was already stripping when he came in.

"I need a shower. I need to... I need to get clean."

"You'll need some food when you're done. What would you like?"

"Wait on that, will you?" She was in sudden, desperate need for floods of hot water, for waves of clean, fragrant soap. "Let me think about it."

"I'll be just in the other room then."

He left her alone as much for himself as for her. The rage he'd managed to chain down was threatening to snap free. He wanted to use his fists on something. Pound them until his arms screamed for rest.

She'd shower, he thought, with water that was brutally hot, because once she'd been forced to wash in cold. He never wanted her to be cold again, to shiver as she had shivered in that room where the ghosts, the viciousness of them, had been so tangible he'd seen them himself.

Watching her relive that night, as she too often did in dreams, had ripped him in two. It had left him helpless, useless, and with a violence borne of fury he had nowhere to vent.

To have birthed and bred her, beaten and raped her all for selling her to other scum. What god made such creatures as that and set them to prey on innocents?

Riding on rage, he stripped off his shirt as he strode into the small workout area. He yanked the speed bag into place. And attacked it, bare-fisted.

With each punch his anger grew, spreading through him like a cancer. The bag was a face he didn't know. Her father's. Then his own father's. He battered at it with a concentrated rage that bloomed into hate. Pounded, pounded, as the black haze of that hate narrowed his vision. Pounded, pounded, as his knuckles went raw and bloomed with blood.

And still he couldn't kill it.

When the bag snapped off its tether, plowed into the wall, he looked around for something else to hammer.

And saw her standing in the doorway.

She'd wrapped herself in one of the white hotel robes. Her cheeks were nearly as pale.

"I should have thought how this would make you feel. And I didn't." His torso gleamed with sweat. His hands were bleeding. When he saw her there his heart shattered.

"I don't know what to do for you." His voice was thick with emotion, with the accent that took over when his defenses were most compromised. "What to say to you."

When she took a step toward him, he shook his head, stepped back. "No, I can't touch you right now. I'm not myself. I might break you in half.

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