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The room was silent as a tomb as Flang left.
“If anyone else believes their judgment is better than mine, or that following orders is optional, there’s the door.” She waited two beats, let the silence hum. “Now, we’re going to go over every step of this clusterfuck from every angle, then we’ll outline, streamline, refine and re-refine the op for tomorrow.
“Feeney. Security.”
21
WELL INTO THE EVENING, WITH EVERY POSSIBLE contingency addressed, dissected, and readdressed, Eve walked through the doors of home with Roarke.
Summerset, looming as usual, cocked an eyebrow. “I see you’ve had your monthly facial, Lieutenant.”
“Trina will be here tomorrow. Maybe she can decorpse yours.”
Eve scowled her way up the steps. “Damn it, that was weak. His was better. His was good. Just one more thing to be pissed about.”
“I’m surprised you have the energy to bicker. I want an hour in the whirlpool.”
She rolled her tense shoulders, and winced as the movement sent something new throbbing. “That sounds good. I’ve got aches making themselves known all over.”
“Start the tub, why don’t you, and we’ll both have a whirl. I’m getting us both a very big glass of wine.”
“We covered it all.” She went into the bathroom to order on the water, the temperature. As the wide scoop of tub began to fill, she went over the steps and stages of tomorrow’s operation.
“I can’t think of anything we left out. It’s a smaller space, more controlled. No excess civilians.
As long as Mrs. Mimoto holds her own, just long enough to get him inside . . . Better, better for the case if he drops the mickey, but we can take him before that if she looks shaky. We have enough.”
Today’s botch, he thought, had shaken her confidence, had her second-guessing. “Put it aside for a bit. You’ll overthink it.” He came in with two glasses of wine—very large.
“The contingency op was always the better scenario. I wanted to take him today, shut him down, but . . .” Her mouth dropped open when Roarke shed his shirt. “Holy shit. I didn’t know you got hit.”
“Mmm.” He glanced at the mirror, and the symphony of bruises along his ribs. “My second favorite face avoided any violent contact, but a good deal of the rest of me feels like it’s been ten rounds with the champ, and the worse for it. It was a bloody madhouse in there.”
“We’re lucky nobody had to make use of the facilities.” She stripped off her own shirt, and Roarke traced his fingertips over her bruises.
“Ouch.”
“That’s exactly right.” After peeling off the rest of her clothes, she sank into the hot water. “Oh God. Thank you, Jesus.”
“When we’re done with this, we’ll play doctor.” He stepped in, cursed. “Bloody hell, Eve, it’s hot enough to flay the skin.”
She opened one eye to peer up at him. “It’ll feel good when you’re all the way in. Jets on. Oh, mama!”
He had to laugh as he slid in the wide tub beside her. Maybe losing a few layers of skin—especially the bruised and battered layers—wasn’t such a bad idea. In any case, sharing a tub of hot (next to bloody boiling) churning water with his wife at the end of the day made up for quite a bit.
He picked up his wine, took a long sip. “I might feel next to human once I finish this.”
“Come on, tough guy. Dublin street rat. You’ve had your ribs pounded before.”
“Older now, aren’t I?” He closed his eyes, let the hot water beat and froth over the aches.
“But not softer.” To prove it, she trailed her hand down his chest, found him, stroked him. “Nope, not softer.”
His lips curved. “So, you’re wanting to stir up more than some hot water.”
“Figure I owe you.” She shifted positions until she straddled him, watched amusement and lust light in his eyes. “How many times do you figure I’ve gotten you bruised or bloody since we met?”
“I stopped counting long ago.” His hands stroked down her back as she opened, took him in. “Ah, there now. Better than the wine for making me forget my troubles.”
