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“I thought you were in London,” Eve said when she was enveloped in color and scent and joy.
“We couldn’t miss a party! We’ll go back tomorrow. Trina stopped off to talk to Summerset.
Eve felt her skin chill. “Trina . . . ”
“Don’t worry, she’s here to party, not to give you a treatment. She did Bella’s hair—isn’t it mag?”
A half a zillion sunny curls surrounded the baby’s happy face. Every single one bounced with tiny pink bows.
“Yeah, it’s—”
“Oh, everybody who counts is here! I’ve got to give out squeezes. Here, hold Bellamisa a minute.”
“I’ll get us a drink.” Leonardo patted Eve’s head with his huge hand, then glided away in his calf-baring red crops.
“I—” As Eve’s arms were immediately loaded with bouncing, gooing baby, the protest ended on a strangled gulp.
“Got some weight to you these days,” Eve managed, then scanned the crowd for a sucker to pass the load to. Bella squealed, sending Eve’s heart rate soaring, then grabbed a fistful of Eve’s hair, tugged with surprising force.
And planted a wet, openmouthed kiss on Eve’s cheek. “Slooch!” said Bella.
“What does that mean? Oh God.”
“Smooch,” Mavis called out, gesturing with a frothy pink drink. “She wants you to kiss her back.”
“Man. Okay, fine.” Gingerly, Eve pecked her lips at Bella’s cheek.
Obviously pleased, Bella let out a laugh so like Mavis’s, Eve grinned. “Okay, kid, let’s go find someone else for you to slooch.”
Two
Nobody ate like cops. Priests didn’t do half bad, Eve observed, and doctors held their own, she decided as Louise, Morris, and Mira chowed down on burgers. But against a horde of cops, a ravaging pack of hyenas would fall short.
Maybe it was all the missed meals, the clichéd donut grabbed on the fly. But when cops sat down to free food, they did so with single-minded focus.
“This is nice.” Nadine stepped over, tapped her wineglass to Eve’s beer bottle. “A nice day, a nice group, a nice chance to just relax and hang. Which is why I’m waiting until Monday to nag you into coming on Now to discuss the Dudley-Moriarity murders.”
“It’s wrapped.”
“I know it’s wrapped—I have my sources. If I hadn’t been out of town doing publicity for the book, I’d have been in your face before this.”
Nadine smiled. She wore her sun-streaked hair longer and looser and had chosen a sleeveless, floating tank over pants cropped short to show off an ankle chain—but the camera-ready reporter was still in there.
“But I’ll stay out of it today,” Nadine added, and took another sip of wine. “You know what I like when you have one of these gatherings, Dallas?”
“The food and alcohol?”
“It’s always first-rate, but beyond that. It’s always such an interesting mix of people. I know I can sit down next
to anyone here and not be bored. You’ve got a talent for collecting the diverse and the interesting. I was just talking with Crack,” she added, referring to the six and a half foot, tattooed sex club owner. “Now I think I’m going to sit down next to the shy and strapping Officer Trueheart and the pretty young thing he’s with.”
“Cassie from Records.”
“Cassie from Records,” Nadine repeated. “I think I’d like to find out just what’s going on between those two.”
Eve wandered toward the grill, where Roarke had passed the torch to Feeney, under the supervision of Dennis Mira. They were sort of an odd pair—diverse, as Nadine had said—the lanky, dreamy-eyed professor and the rumpled cop with his explosion of ginger hair.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
