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He found Eve where he’d expected to. Her head was on her desk, pillowed on her forearm. He noted the murder boards, the pair of them, the discs, the handwritten notes, the comp-generated ones.
The half cup of coffee, not quite cold—and the cat curled in her sleep chair.
He moved to Eve, lifted her out of the chair. She muttered some complaint, stirred, and shifted.
“What?”
“Bed,” he said as he carried her toward the elevator.
“Time is it? Jeez.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I must’ve conked.”
“Not for long, your coffee was still warm. We need to shut down, both of us.”
“Briefing at eight.” Her voice slurred with fatigue. “Need to be up by six. Need to organize first. I didn’t—”
“Fine, fine.” He stepped out of the elevator into the bedroom. “Go back to sleep, six will come soon enough.”
“You get anything?”
“Still running.” He set her on the bed, seeing no reason she couldn’t sleep in her sweats. Apparently neither did she as she crawled under the duvet as she was.
“Is there any data I can use? Anything I can work in?”
“We’ll see in the morning.” He stripped off his shirt, his pants, slid into bed with her.
“If there’s any—”
“Quiet.” He drew her against him, brushed her lips with his. “Sleep.”
He heard her sigh once—it might’ve been annoyance. But by the time the sigh was done, she was under.
7
IT WAS SO UNUSUAL FOR HIM NOT TO BE UP before her that Eve just stared into the Celtic blue eyes when he woke her by stroking her hair.
“You think of something?”
“Apparently, I inevitably think of something when I’m in bed with my wife.”
“Being a man—and you—you probably think of sex when you’re crossing the street.”
“And aren’t you lucky that’s true?” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But thinking’s as far as we’ll get this morning. You wanted to be up at six.”
“Oh, yeah. Shit. Okay.” She rolled onto her back and willed her body clock to accept morning. “Can’t you invent something that pours coffee into the system just by the power of mind?”
“I’ll get right on that.”
She climbed out of bed, stumbled her way over to the AutoChef. “I’m going to go down, swim a few laps. I think that’ll wake me up and work out the kinks.”
“Good idea. I’ll do the same. Give me some of that.”
She thought, crankily, he could easily get his own damn coffee, but she passed the mug to him, along with a scowl. “No water polo.”
“If that’s a euphemism for pool sex, you’re safe. All I want’s a swim.” He passed her back the coffee.
They rode down together, she bleary-eyed, him thoughtful.
The pool house was lush with plants, sparkling with blue water. Tropical blooms scented the warm, moist air. She would have liked to indulge herself with a strong twenty-minute swim, followed by more coffee and a soak in the bubbling curve of the hot tub.
