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It was that fucking cop, he decided. Had to be a dyke—she and that brown-eyed partner of hers. Real bitches.
Most women were, you just had to know how to handle them.
And if he knew anything, he knew how to handle women.
Knew how to handle himself. Knew how to handle whatever came along.
He’d handled Craig, hadn’t he? Poor bastard.
No way they were going to hang the poor bastard’s murder on him, especially with Oliver Straffo in his corner.
And wasn’t that lovely, lovely irony? Not that Straffo’s wife had been a particularly exciting lay. But all that guilt and misery had given a certain flavor to the quick bump at the holiday party, and the single nooner at his place.
But God knew, he’d had better.
He wasn’t going to resign over a little sex, that was for damn sure. And if Arnette followed through and began termination procedures, well, he’d warned her. He wouldn’t go down alone.
Once he reminded her of that—again—she’d settle down.
A little winded, he finished his final lap, gripped the edge of the pool as he began to remove his goggles.
He felt a little prick, a little buzz just below the crown of his head. He lifted a hand to swat at it, as if it were a mosquito. His fingers tingled.
His heart began to thud, his throat to close. As his vision blurred he blinked, saw someone. He tried to call out, but his voice was a croak. He tried to pull his body from the pool, but his hands, his arms were already numb. He lost his grip, hit his jaw on the edge.
He felt no pain.
Gasping, he struggled to keep his head above water. He choked, and flailed, ordered himself to float. Just to float until he could think again.
“I’ll help you,” his killer said. And with the long pole of the pool net reached out. Pressing it lightly on his shoulder, pushed him down, held him down with no real effort at all.
Until his struggles stopped.
Eve stepped out of the shower feeling reborn. She’d been off her stride, she admitted, off her feed, and just plain off for a few days. But that was done.
She was grateful only a few people knew she’d let herself obsess over and get turned inside out about some smug, manipulative blonde. Magdelana Percell, she promised herself as the warm air of the drying tube swirled, was officially history.
She snagged a robe and decided she was hungry enough to eat what Roarke called a full Irish. Once she had that and some coffee under her belt, she was heading straight down to Central.
She was going back to the beginning of the Foster investigation with her mind clear. Maybe the personal blur had caused her to miss something.
She stepped out, and Roarke was there, sipping coffee, scanning the last of the financials while the cat bumped his head against Roarke’s arm. As if to say, “Aren’t you going to eat? Where’s breakfast?”
“You feed that lard-ass yet?” she asked.
“I did, yes, though he’ll call me a liar. I, however, was waiting for you.”
“I guess I could choke
something down. Some eggs and whatever.”
“You need some whatever.” He rose, cutting her off before she reached her closet, and gave her ass a deliberate squeeze. “You’ve lost a couple pounds in the last few days.”
“Maybe.”
“My gauge has pinpoint accuracy when it comes to you.” He kissed her between the eyes. “A full Irish is in order, I’m thinking.”
“That’s plenty of whatever.” She went to her closet with a smile on her face. It was good to be back in synch.
