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“You get started,” Roarke suggested. “We’ll be down shortly.” He waited until Feeney had sauntered out, whistling at the thought of eggs Benedict and blueberry pancakes. “You haven’t much time, I know.”
“I have enough, if you have something to say.”
“I do.” It was rare for him to feel awkward. He’d almost forgotten the sensation until it swamped him. “What Feeney just pointed out to you, about his opinion on the capabilities here. The fact that it’s unlikely for the subject to be influenced to act out of character, to do something abhorrent.”
She saw immediately where he was going and wanted to curse. “Roarke—”
“I’ll finish this. I’ve been the man who took you last night. I’ve lived in that skin, and it hasn’t been so long ago that I’ve forgotten him. I turned him into something else because I wanted to. And I could. Money helped, and a certain need for . . . polish. But he’s still there. He’s still part of me. I was reminded of that rather violently last night.”
“Do you want me to hate you for it, to blame you for it?”
“No, I want you to understand it, and me. I came from the kind of man who hurt you last night.”
“So did I.”
That stopped him, had emotion swimming back into his eyes. “Christ, Eve.”
“And it scares me. It wakes me up in the middle of the night, the wondering just what’s inside me. I live with it every single day. I knew where you came from when I took you on, and I don’t care. I know you’ve done things, broken laws, lived outside them. But I’m here.”
She huffed out a breath, shifted her feet. “I love you, okay? That’s it. Now, I’m hungry, and I’ve got a full day ahead of me, so I’m going down before Feeney cleans us out of eggs.”
He stepped in front of her before she could storm out. “One more minute.” He framed her face with his hands, lowered his mouth to hers, and turned her scowl into a sigh with a kiss so tender it made her throat ache and her toes curl.
“Well,” she managed when he eased back. “That’s better, I guess.”
“Much better.” He linked his fingers with hers. And because he had used it when he’d hurt her, he balanced that out by using it now. “A ghra.”
“Huh?” A line appeared between her brows. “Is that Gaelic again?”
“Yes.” He brought their joined fingers to his lips. “Love. My love.”
“It’s got a nice ring.”
“It does, yes.” He sighed a little. It had been a long time since he’d let himself hear the music of it.
“It shouldn’t make you sad,” she murmured.
“It doesn’t. Just thoughtful.” He gave her hand a friendly squeeze. “I’d love to buy you breakfast, Lieutenant.”
“Talked
me into it.” Comfortable, she tightened her grip. “We got any crepes?”
The trouble with chemicals, Eve thought as she set up for the next interview with Jess Barrow, was that no matter how safe, mild, and helpful they claimed to be, they always made her feel false. She knew she wasn’t naturally alert, that underneath that surging, induced energy, her body was a mass of desperate fatigue.
She kept imagining her system wearing a huge clown’s mask of enthusiasm over a gray, exhausted face.
“Back in the saddle, Peabody?” Eve asked as her aide walked into the white-walled, uncluttered room.
“Yes, sir. I briefed myself via your reports, dropped by your office on the way here. You have a message from the commander on hold, and two from Nadine Furst. I think she smells a story.”
“She’ll have to wait. I’ll relay to the commander during our first break here. Know anything about baseball, Peabody?”
“I played short for two years at the Academy. Golden Glove.”
“Well, warm up. When I toss you a ball, you field it, zing it back. We’re going Tinker to Evers to Chance here, with Feeney coming in before the end of the inning.”
Peabody’s eyes lit. “Hey, didn’t know you were a historian.”
