"Robb, J D - In Death 14 - Interlude In Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robb J D)

gently down gleaming walls. The tall cylinders of mood and drying tubes were
surrounded by spills of flowers and foliage, and she imagined that anyone using
one of them would look like a statue in a garden.
A wall of glass offered a view of cloudless sky turned to gold by the tint of
the privacy screen.
He set her down on the soft cushions of a sleep chair and walked to one
of the curved counters that flowed around the walls. He slid open a panel in the
tiles and set a program on the control pad hidden behind it.
Water began to spill into the tub, the lights dimmed, and music, softly sobbing
strings, slid into the air.
"I'm taking a bath?" she asked him.
"Eventually. Relax. Close your eyes."
But she didn't close her eyes. It was too tempting just to watch him as he
moved around the room, adding something frothy to the bath, pouring some pale
gold liquid into a glass.
He was tall and had an innate sort of grace. Like a cat did, she thought. A
big, dangerous cat that only pretended to be tame when it suited his mood. His
hair was black and thick and longer than her own. It spilled nearly to his
shoulders and provided a perfect frame for a face that made her think of dark
angels and doomed poets and ruthless warriors all at once.
When he looked at her with those hot and wildly blue eyes, the love inside her
could spread so fast and strong, it hurt her heart to hold it.
He was hers, she thought. Ireland's former bad boy who had made his life, his
fortune, his place by hook or -- well -- by crook.
"Drink this."
He liked to tend her, she mused as she took the glass he offered. She,
lost child, hard-ass cop, could never figure out if it irritated or thrilled
her. Mostly, she supposed, it just baffled her.
"What is it?"
"Good." He took it back from her, sipped himself to prove it.
When she sampled it, she found that he was right, as usual. He walked
behind the chair, the amusement on his face plain when he tipped her back and
her gaze narrowed with suspicion. "Close your eyes," he repeated and slipped
goggles over her face. "One minute," he added.
Lights bled in front of her closed lids. Deep blues, warm reds in slow, melting
patterns. She felt his hands, slicked with something cool and fragrant, knead
her shoulders, the knotted muscles of her neck.
Her system, jangled from the flight, began to settle. "Well, this doesn't
suck," she murmured, and let herself drift.
He took the glass from her hand as her body slipped into the ten-minute
restorative program he'd selected. He'd told her one minute.
He'd lied.
When she was relaxed, he bent to kiss the top of her head, then draped a silk
sheet over her. Nerves, he knew, had worn her out. Added to them the stress and
fatigue of coming off a difficult case and being shot directly into an off-
planet assignment that she detested, and it was no wonder her system was
unsettled.
He left her sleeping and went out to see to a few minor details for the evening
event. He'd just stepped back in when the timer of the program beeped softly and
she stirred.