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“Your jacket’s caught fire, Lieutenant.” With admirable calm, Roarke bent over and patted out the spark that burned the leather at her shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Just picking up my wife for our date.” He reached down gently and helped Mira to her feet. “He’s gone,” Roarke murmured, and brushed tears from her cheeks.
“I couldn’t reach him. I tried, for hours after I woke up in that…in that thing. But I couldn’t reach him.” Mira turned to Eve. “You could, in the only way that was left. I was afraid you’d—” She broke off, shook her head. “I was afraid you’d come, and afraid you wouldn’t. I should have trusted you to do what had to be done.”
When she caught Eve in a hard embrace, pressed her cheek against hers, Eve held on, just held on, then eased away, awkwardly patting Mira’s back. “It was a team effort—including this civilian this time around. Go spend New Year’s with your family. We’ll worry about the routine later.”
“Thank you for my life.” She kissed Eve’s cheek, then turned and kissed Roarke’s. And didn’t begin to weep again until she was upstairs.
“Well, Lieutenant, it’s a very fitting end.”
She followed Roarke’s gaze, studied Palmer, and felt nothing but quiet relief. “To the man or the year?”
“To both.” He stepped to the champagne, sniffing it as he drew it from the bucket. “Your team’s on the way in. But I think we could take time for a toast.”
“Not here. Not with that.” She took the bottle, dumped it back into the bucket. On impulse, she took the badge off her shirt, pinned it on his. “Routine can wait. I want to collect on my present.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Just home.” She slid an arm around his waist, moving toward the stairs as cops started down. “Just home, with you.” She heard the crowd erupt with another cheer. “Happy New Year.”
“Not quite yet. But it will be.”
