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They walked in together, then separated as Roarke went back to his station and Mira crossed to Eve.
“Give me an assignment,” Mira said. “Anything.”
“We’re contacting these women.” Eve explained the list, the approach, then gave Mira a list of names.
Wearing black-tie, he settled into his box in the Grand Tier of the Metropolitan Opera House. He richly anticipated the performance of Rigoletto. His newest partner was secured and sleeping. As for Gia…well, he didn’t want to spoil his evening dwelling on that disappointment.
He would end that project tomorrow, and he would move on.
But tonight was for the music, the voices, the
lights, and the drama. He knew he would take all of that home with him, relive it, reexperience it while he sipped a brandy in front of the fire.
Tomorrow, he would stop the clock.
But now, he would sit, tingling with pleasure, while the orchestra tuned up.
He ordered a freaking deli, was all Eve could think when the food began to roll in. There were trays and trays of meats, bread, cheese, side salads, sweets. Added to it, she saw two huge bags—distinctly gold—of the coffee (real coffee) he produced.
She caught his eye, and hers was distinctly hairy. He only shook his head.
“No lip,” he said.
She pushed her way through the schoolyard rush to his station. “A word.”
She moved out of the room, and when he joined her the din from the war room was a clear indicator no one else objected to the possibility of corned beef on rye.
“Listen, I went along with the pizza parlor, but—”
“I have to do something,” he interrupted. “It’s little enough, but at least it’s something. It’s positive. It’s tangible.”
“Cops can spring for their own eats, and if I clear an order in, I’ve got a budget. There are procedures.”
He turned away from her, turned back again with frustration simply rolling off of him. “Christ Jesus, we’re buried in shagging procedures already. Why would you possibly care if I buy some fucking sandwiches?”
She stopped herself when she felt the teeth of her own temper in her throat. “Because it’s tangible.” She pressed her fingers into her eyes, rubbed hard. “It’s something to kick at.”
“Can’t you take an hour? Look at me. Look at me,” he repeated, laying his hands on her shoulders. “You’re exhausted. You need an hour to stretch out, to turn off.”
“Not going to happen, and by the way, you’re not looking so perky yourself.”
“I feel like my brain’s been used as a punching bag. It’s not the time, or even the lack of sleep so much. It’s the unholy tedium.”
That made her frown—and put her back up again, a little. “You’ve done cop work before.”
“Bits and pieces it comes clear to me now, and that with some challenge and a clear end goal.”
“Challenge? Like risking your life and getting bloody.”
Calmer, he circled his head on his neck and wondered how many years it might take to get the last of the kinks out. “A lot more appealing, sad to say, than sitting in front of a screen or on a ’link for hours on end.”
“Yeah. I know just what you mean. But this is part of it, a big part of it. It’s not all land to air chases and busting in doors. Listen, you can take an hour in the crib. Probably should. I’ll clear it.”
He flicked a finger along the dent in her chin. “Not only does that sound extremely unappealing, but if you’re on, I’m on. That’s the new rule until we’ve finished this.”
Arguing took energy she didn’t have to spare. “Okay. All right.”
“Something else is wrong.” He put a hand under her chin, left it there even when she winced and tried to knock it off. “Shows what happens when your brain’s used as a punching bag that I didn’t see it before. What is it?”
