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He’d hoped for rage, had searched for it. But he hadn’t found it.
He didn’t turn when Eve came in, but the worst of the ache eased because she was home.
“You’ve put in a long day, Lieutenant.”
“So have you.” She’d worried, all through the hours she’d had to leave him to himself. She opened her mouth, shut it again. No, she couldn’t offer the empty, standard line and tell him she was sorry for his loss. Not to Roarke, not for this.
“Michel Gerade has been charged with murder, first degree. He can scream diplomatic immunity until he chokes. It won’t save him.”
When Roarke didn’t respond, she dragged a hand through her hair, tugged at her borrowed shirt. “I can break him,” she continued. “He’ll roll on the Napleses. He’d roll on his first-born if he thought it would help him.”
“Naples is under, and he’ll go deep and stay there.” He turned now. “Did you think I wouldn’t have checked already for myself? We’ve lost him. This time, at least, we’ve lost him and his bastard of a son. They’re as out of reach as Yost is—burning in hell.”
She lifted her hands. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He crossed to her now and, in the soft half-light, cupped her face in his hands. “For what?” he repeated, kissing her cheeks, her brow. “For doing everything that could be done, and more than that? For, at the last, giving my friend, who was none of yours, the very shirt off your back? For being there for me when I needed you most?”
“You’re wrong. Anyone who saves your life is a friend of mine. He helped us so that we went into that op fully prepared. And when we get Naples and his bastard of a son, he’ll have had a part in that, too. You were right about him. There was no taste for bloodshed in him. And in the end, he stood up for you.”
“He’d have said that wasn’t so much of a thing altogether. I’ll want to take him back to Ireland, and bury him among friends.”
“Then we will. He was a hero, and the NYPSD is issuing him a posthumous citation that says so.”
Roarke stared at her, took one step back. Then to Eve’s utter shock, threw back his head and roared with laughter. Deep, rich, from-the-belly laughter. “Oh Jesus, if he wasn’t dead already, that would kill him for certain. A citation from the fucking cops as his epitaph.”
“I happen to be a fucking cop,” she reminded him between her teeth.
“No offense, no offense, my gorgeous and darling lieutenant.” He plucked her off her feet, swung her around. And knowing just how Mick would have enjoyed it all, Roarke felt the worst of the weight of grief lift. “He’ll have a great laugh over it, wherever he might be.”
She could have said it wasn’t a joke, but an honor. One of the highest and most serious it was in her power to arrange. But she was so relieved to see the glow back in Roarke’s eyes, she shrugged. “Well, ha-ha. Now put me down. I want to catch some sleep before I go back in. With this auction coming off as planned tomorrow night, it’s going to be another long one.”
“Let’s sleep later. We’re young yet.”
He gave her a last spin. They would, he thought, start the day with a celebration of life, not a mourning of death.
Capturing her mouth with his, he stepped onto the wide platform and tumbled her onto the bed.
• • •
