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“He’s still looking.”
“He’s welcome to. I’m a legitimate businessman. Practically a pillar. Redeemed by the love of a good woman.”
“Don’t make me hit you, too.” She strode out of the elevator, across the sumptuous living area of the suite, and directly outside onto the terrace so she could finish steaming in fresh air. “The son of a bitch. The son of a bitch wants me to help him bring you down.”
“Rather rude,” Roarke said mildly. “To broach the subject on such a short acquaintance, and at a cocktail reception. Why did he think you’d agree?”
“He dangled a captaincy in my face. Tells me he can get it for me, otherwise I’m in the back of the line because of my poor personal choices.”
“Meaning me.” Amusement fled. “Is that true? Are your chances for promotion bogged down because of us?”
“How the hell do I know?” Still flying on the insult, she rounded on him. “Do you think I care about that? You think making rank drives me?”
“No.” He walked to her, ran his hands up and down her arms. “I know what drives you. The dead drive you.” He leaned forward, rested his lips on her brow. “He miscalculated.”
“It was a stupid and senseless thing for him to do. He barely bothered to circle around much before he hit me with it. Bad strategy,” she continued. “Poor approach. He wants your ass, Roarke, and bad enough to risk censure for attempted bribery if I report the conversation—and anyone believes it. Why is that?”
“I don’t know.” And what you didn’t know, he thought, was always dangerous. “I’ll look into it. In any case, you certainly livened up the reception.”
“Normally I’d’ve been more subtle, just kneed that jerk in the balls for getting in my way. But Skinner had gone into this tango about how women shouldn’t be on the job because they’re nurturers. Tagging the balls just seemed too girly at the time.”
He laughed, drew her closer. “I love you, Eve.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But she was smiling again when she wrapped her arms around him.
As a rule, being crowded ass to ass at a table in a club where the entertainment included music that threatened the eardrums wasn’t Eve’s idea of a good time.
But when she was working off a good mad, it paid to have friends around.
The table was jammed with New York’s finest. Her butt was squeezed between Roarke’s and Feeney’s, the Electronic Detective Division captain. Feeney’s usually hangdog face was slack with amazement as he stared up at the stage.
On the other side of Roarke, Dr. Mira, elegant despite the surroundings, sipped a Brandy Alexander and watched the entertainment—a three-piece combo whose costumes were red-white-and-blue body paint doing wild, trash-rock riffs on American folk songs. Rounding out the table were Morris, the medical examiner, and Peabody.
“Wife shouldn’t’ve gone to bed.” Feeney shook his head. “You have to see it to believe it.”
“Hell of a show,” Morris agreed. His long, dark braid was threaded through with silver rope, and the lapels of his calf-length jacket sparkled with the same sheen.
For a dead doctor, Eve thought, he was a very snappy dresser.
“But Dallas here”—Morris winked at her—“was quite some warm-up act.”
“Har har,” Eve replied.
Morris smiled serenely. “Hotshot lieutenant decks legend of police lore’s bodyguards at law enforcement convention on luxury off-planet resort. You’ve got to play that all the way out.”
“Nice left jab,” Feeney commented. “Good follow-through on the kick. Skinner’s an asshole.”
“Why do you say that, Feeney?” Peabody demanded. “He’s an icon.”
“Who said icons can’t be assholes?” he tossed back. “Likes to make out like he put down the Urban Wars single-handed. Goes around talking about them like it was all about duty and romance and patriotism. What it was, was about survival. And it was
ugly.”
“It’s typical for some who’ve been through combat to romanticize it,” Mira put in.
“Nothing romantic about slitting throats or seeing Fifth Avenue littered with body parts.”
“Well, that’s cheerful.” Morris pushed Feeney’s fresh glass in front of him. “Have another beer, Captain.”
