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“There isn’t any Zero quadrant.”
“It’s fictional, my darling, literal-minded Eve.” He snuggled her in, pressing an absent kiss to her head as he watched the action. “Anyway, this planet’s all but out of water. Potable water. And there’s a rescue attempt being made to get the colony there a supply, and the means to clean up what they have. But there’s this other faction who wants the water for themselves. There’ve been a couple of bloody battles over it already.”
Something exploded on screen, a shower of color, an ear-splinting boom of sound.
“Nicely done,” Roarke commented. “And there’s a woman, head of the environmental police—the good guys—who’s reluctantly in love with the rogue cargo captain who’s helping deliver the goods—for a price. It’s about thirty minutes in. I can start it over.”
“No, I’ll catch up.”
She intended to sit with him for a few minutes only, let her mind rest. But she got caught up in the story, and it was so nice, so simple to stay, stretched out in the chair with him while fictional battles raged.
And good overcame evil.
“Not bad,” she said when the credits began to roll. “I’m going to get another hour or two of work in.”
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
“Probably.” She climbed out of the chair, stretched, then blinked like an owl when he turned on the light.
“Well, damn it, Eve, what have you done to your face now?”
“It wasn’t my fault.” Sulking a little, she touched fingers gingerly to her jaw. “Somebody knocked me into this guy’s fist when I was trying to stop him from beating this other guy who was whacking off in the subway to a bloody pulp. I couldn’t blame the guy, the guy with the fist, because he wasn’t aiming it at me. But still.”
“My life,” Roarke said after a moment, “was gray before you walked into it.”
“Yeah, I’m a rainbow.” She wiggled her jaw. “My face anyway. You up for some drone work?”
“I might be persuaded. After we put something on that bruise.”
“It’s not so bad. You know, the transit cop told me that guy’s a regular on that line. They call him Willy the Wanker.”
“That’s a fascinating bit of New York trivia.” He pulled her toward the elevator. “It makes me yearn to ride the subway.”
Chapter 8
In Peabody’s cramped apartment, McNab ran her through a series of intense computer simulations. He’d proven himself, Peabody had discovered in the last few weeks, a strict and fairly irritating instructor.
With her shoulders hunched, she carefully picked her way through a murder scene, selecting her choices and options in a field investigation of a double homicide.
And cursed when her selection resulted in a blasting buzz—McNab’s personal addition to the sim—and a stern-faced figure of a robed judge shaking his finger at her.
Ah-ah-ah—improper procedure, scene contamination. Evidence suppressed. Suspect gets a free walk due to detective investigator’s screwup.
“Does he have to say that?”
“Cuts through the legal mumbo,” McNab pointed out, and stuffed potato chips in his face. “Digs down to the point.”
“I don’t want to do any more sims.” Her face fell into a pout that had McNab’s libido jiggling. “My brain’s going to leak out of my ears in a minute.”
He loved her, enough to mostly ignore the image of peeling her out of her clothes and doing her on the rug. “Look, you’re aces on the written. You’ve got a memory for details and points of law, blah blah. You get thumbs-up on the oral, once your voice settles down from a squeak.”
“It does not squeak.”
“Sort of like how it does when I bite your toes.” He grinned toothily when she scowled at him. “And while I like how it sounds myself, the test team’s going to be less romantically inclined. So you’re going to want to oil the squeaks.”
She continued to pout, then her mouth dropped open in shock when he slapped her hand away from the bag of chips. “None for you until you get through a sim.”
“Jesus, McNab, I’m not a puppy performing for a biscuit.”
