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“Hello, darling.” He never took his eyes off the duo of silver balls that raced and ricochetted under the glass. “You’re home early.”
“Only temporarily. I want to talk to you.”
“Mmm-hmm. One minute.”
She opened her mouth to object, then nearly jumped as bells began to clang and lights shot like lasers. “What the hell is this thing?”
“Antique—prime condition. Just—fucker—just got it in today.” He bumped the machine lightly with his hip. “It’s a pinball machine, late-twentieth century.”
“Cops and Robbers?”
“How could I resist?” The machine ordered him to “Freeze!” in menacing tones, and Roarke responded by zipping his remaining ball up a chute where it banged and bumped against a trio of diamond shapes, then slid into a hole.
“Free ball.” He stepped back, rolled his shoulders. “But that can wait.” As he leaned down to kiss her, she slapped a hand on his chest.
“Hold on, ace. What do you mean by calling Feeney?”
“Offering my assistance to New York’s finest,” he said easily. “Doing my duty as a concerned citizen. Give us a bite of this.” So saying, he drew her against him and nipped at her lower lip. “Let’s play a game.”
“I’m primary.”
“Darling, you most certainly are.”
“On the case, smart guy.”
“That, as well. And as such, you’d have requested the data from the theater’s files and funneled it to Feeney. Now it’s done. Your hair’s damp,” he said and sniffed at it.
“It’s sleeting.” She wanted to argue but didn’t see the point when he was exactly right. “Why do you have deep background and extensive data on everyone involved with The Globe and this production?”
“Because, Lieutenant, everyone involved with The Globe and this production works for me.” He eased back, picked up the bottle of beer he’d set beside the machine. “Had an annoying day, have you?”
“Mostly.” When he offered the bottle, she started to shake her head, then shrugged and took a small swig. “I wanted to take a couple of hours to clear my mind.”
“Me, too. And I’ve the perfect method. Strip pinball.”
She snorted. “Get out.”
“Oh well, if you’re afraid you’ll lose, I’ll give you a handicap.” He smiled when he said it, knowing his wife very well.
“I’m not afraid I’ll lose.” She shoved the beer back at him. Struggled. Lost. “How much of a handicap?”
Still smiling, he toed off both his shoes. “That, and five hundred points a ball—seems fair, as you’re a novice.”
She considered, studying the machine. “You just got this in today, right?”
“Just a bit ago, yes.”
“You go first.”
“My pleasure.”
And as he enjoyed watching her fume, compete and lose herself in the moment, it proved to be. Within twenty minutes, she’d lost her boots, her socks, her weapon harness, and was currently losing her shirt.
“Damn it! This thing is rigged.” Out of patience, she threw her weight against the machine, then hissed when her flippers froze. “Tilt? Why does it keep saying that to me?”
“Perhaps you’re a bit too aggressive. Why don’t I help you with this,” he offered and began unbuttoning her shirt.
She slapped his hands away. “I can do it. You’re cheating.” While she tugged off her shirt, she scowled at him. She was down to a sleeveless undershirt and her trousers. “I don’t know how, but you’re cheating.”
