Reunion in Death.

By J. D. Robb.

CHAPTER 1

Murder was work. Death was a serious chore for the killer, the victim, for the survivors. And for those who stood for the dead. Some went about the job devotedly, others carelessly.

And for some, murder was a labor of love.

When he left his Park Avenue condo for his regular morning stroll, Walter C. Pettibone was blissfully unaware he was in his last hours of life. He was a robust sixty and a canny businessman who'd increased his family's already considerable fortune through flowers and sentiment.

He was wealthy, healthy, and just over a year before had acquired a young, blonde wife who had the sexual appetite of a Doberman in heat and the brains of a cabbage.

His world, in Walter C. Pettibone's opinion, was just exactly so.

He had work he loved, two children from his first marriage who would one day take over the business he'd taken over from his own father. He maintained a reasonably friendly relationship with his ex, a fine, sensible woman, and his son and daughter were pleasant, intelligent individuals who brought him pride and satisfaction.

He had a grandson who was the apple of his eye.

In the summer of 2059, World of Flowers was a major intergalactic enterprise with florists, horticulturists, offices, and greenhouses both on and off planet.

Walter loved flowers. And not just for their profit margin. He loved the scents of them, the colors, the textures, the beauty of both foliage and blossom and the simple miracle of their existence.

Every morning he would visit a handful of florists, to check the stock, the arrangements, and just to sniff and chat and spend time among the flowers and the people who loved them.

Twice a week, he was up before dawn to attend the gardener's market downtown. There he would wander and enjoy, order or critique. It was a routine that rarely varied over the course of a half- century, and one he never tired of. Today, after an hour or so among the blooms, he'd go into the corporate offices. He'd spend more time there than usual in order to give his wife the time and space to finish preparations for his surprise birthday party.

It made him chuckle to think of it.

The sweetheart couldn't keep a secret if she stapled her lips together. He'd known about the party for weeks, and was looking forward to the evening with the glee of a child.

Naturally he would act surprised and had practiced stunned expressions in his mirror only that morning.

So Walter went through his daily routine with a smile at the corners of his mouth-having no idea just how surprised he was going to be.

Eve doubted she'd ever felt better in her life. Rested, recharged, limber and loose, she prepared for her first day back on the job after a wonderfully undemanding two-week vacation where the peskiest task facing her had been whether to eat or sleep.

One week at the villa in Mexico, the second on a private island.

And in both spots there had been no lack of opportunities for sun, sex, and snoozing.

Roarke had been right again. They'd needed the time together. Away.

They'd both needed a period of healing. And if the way she felt this morning was any indication, they'd done the job.

She stood in front of her closet, frowning at the jungle of clothes she'd acquired since her marriage. She didn't think her confusion was due to the fact that she'd spent most of the last fourteen days naked or near to it. Unless she was very much mistaken, the man had managed to sneak more clothes in on her.

She yanked out a long blue gown in some material that managed to sizzle and sparkle at the same time. "Have I ever seen this before?"

"It's your closet." In the sitting area of their bedroom, Roarke scanned the stock reports on the wall screen while he enjoyed a second cup of coffee. But he glanced over. "If you're planning to wear that today, the criminal element in the city's going to be very impressed."

"There's more stuff in here than there was two weeks ago." "Really?

I wonder how that happened."

"You have to stop buying me clothes." He reached over to stroke Galahad, but the cat turned his nose in the air. He'd been sulking since their return the night before. "Why?"

"Because it's embarrassing." She muttered it as she dived inside to find something reasonable to wear.

He only smiled at her, watching as she hunted up a sleeveless top and trousers to slip over that long, lean body he never quite stopped craving.

She'd tanned herself to a pale gold, and the sun had teased out blonde streaks in her short brown hair. She dressed quickly, economically, with the air of a woman who never thought about fashion. Which was why, he supposed, he could never resist heaping fashion on her.

She'd rested during their time away, he thought. He'd seen, hour by hour, day by day, the clouds of fatigue and worry lift away from her.

There was a light in her whiskey-colored eyes now, a healthy glow in her narrow, fine-boned face.

And when she strapped on her weapon harness, there was a set to her mouth-that wide and generous mouth- that told him Lieutenant Eve Dallas was back. And ready to kick some ass.

"What is it about an armed woman that arouses me?"

She shot him a look, reached in the closet for a light jacket. "Cut it out. I'm not going to be late my first day back because you've got some residual horniness."

Oh yes, he thought, rising. She was back. "Darling Eve." He managed, barely, not to wince. "Not that jacket." "What?" She paused in the act of shoving her arm in a sleeve. "It's summer weight; it covers my weapon."

"It's wrong with those trousers." He stepped to her closet, reached in, and plucked out another jacket of the same weight and material as the khaki trousers. "This one is correct."

"I'm not planning on doing a video shoot." But she changed it because it was easier than arguing.

"Here." After another dip into her closet, he came out with a pair of half-boots in rich chestnut brown leather. "Where'd those come from?"

"The closet fairy."

She frowned at the boots suspiciously, poked a finger into the toes.

"I don't need new boots. My old ones are all broken in." "That's a polite term for what they are. Try these."

"Just gonna mess them up," she muttered, but sat on the arm of the sofa to pull them on. They slid onto her feet like butter. Which only made her eye him narrowly. He'd probably had them hand-tooled for her in one of his countless factories and they surely cost more than a New York murder cop made in two months. "How about that. The closet fairy seems to know my shoe size."

"An amazing fellow."

"I suppose it's useless to tell him that a cop doesn't need expensive boots that were probably sewn together by some little Italian nun when she's clocking field time for hoofing it or knocking on doors."

"He has a mind of his own." He skimmed a hand through her hair, tugged just enough to tip her face up to his. "And he adores you."

It still made her stomach flop-hearing him say it, seeing his face as he did. She often wondered why she didn't just drown in those eyes of his, in all that wild, wicked blue.

"You're so damn pretty." She hadn't meant to say it aloud, nearly jolted at the sound of her voice. And she watched his grin flash, fast as fire across a face that belonged in a painting or carved into stone with its strong, sharp bones and seductive poet's mouth.

Young Irish God, she supposed it would be titled. For weren't gods seductive and ruthless and cloaked in their own power? "I have to go." She got quickly to her feet, and he stood his ground so their bodies bumped. "Roarke."

"Yes, it's back to reality for both of us. But..." His hands stroked down her sides, one long, possessive move that reminded her, all too clearly, just what those quick and clever fingers were capable of doing to her body. "I think we can take a moment for you to kiss me goodbye."

"You want me to kiss you good-bye?"

"I do, yes." There was a lilt of both amusement and Ireland in the tone that had her cocking her head.

"Sure." In a move as fast as his grin, she took handfuls of the black hair that nearly skimmed his shoulders, fisting, tugging, then crushing her mouth against his.

She felt his heart jump even as hers did. A leap of heat, of recognition, of unity. And on his sound of pleasure, she poured herself into the kiss, took them both fast and deep with a little war of tongues, a quick nip of teeth.

Then she jerked him back, stepped nimbly out of reach. "See you, ace," she called out as she strode from the room. "Have a safe day, Lieutenant." He blew out a long sigh, then sat back on the couch. "Now," he said to the cat, "what will it cost me for the two of us to be friends again?"