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“Okay. I just . . . wanted to tell you.”
“Because you decided it might fall into the rules. I’m probably a few minutes behind you. Where did you get that fetching cap?”
“Crap.” Instinctively, she slapped a hand over the snowflake.
“And those . . . adorable gloves.”
“Crap and crap.” She dropped her hand. “Mr. Mira. I’ve got to go to war with these fucking cabs. Later.”
She clicked off on his laughter, geared up for battle.
When she finally pulled up in front of the house, she decided the drive home had been more exciting than most of her workday. And that just showed how tedious a full building search could be when people lived like droids.
No sex toys, no porn, she thought as she got out, hunched against the sleet as she walked to the door. No cache of money or ill-gotten gains, no illegal weapons. Just one ancient joint.
Really, how did anyone live that way?
She stepped inside, to the cat, to Summerset, wondering just how many interesting things a full house search of her own would turn up, and that didn’t even count Roarke’s private office with the unregistered equipment.
“Well,” Summerset said, “this is new.”
“What? Don’t start.”
“You appear to be wearing a glittering snowflake, and fuzzy gloves.”
“Crap, crap.” She yanked it all off. “They were gifts, so knock it off. The Miras are coming by in about an hour. Not socially. It’s a consult.”
“I believe we can still be cordial and welcoming.”
“I can. You’ll still have all the cordiality of a corpse.”
Since it was the best she could do with her mind so damn crowded, she bolted upstairs, and straight into her office.
She pulled off her coat, tossed it on the sleep chair, then immediately had to lift the cat off it. She should’ve known better.
She picked up the coat, put down the cat, tossed the coat elsewhere.
Coffee, she thought. Please God, some coffee. Programming some, she just stood, drank half the mug, then breathed out.
Setting it aside, she made some minor adjustments to her board. She sat at her desk, cobbled together some notes, made some additions, reordered them.
Then she picked up the coffee, put her boots up, and let her mind clear.
Because it was clear, the first thing that popped in when Roarke stepped inside was: He’s so pretty.
“You couldn’t have been more right or more succinct about the traffic. It was bloody vicious.”
“We won. We’re home.”
“You’re right. That calls for a drink.”
“I guess maybe.”
He came over to her first, put his hands on the arms of her chair, leaned down to kiss her.
She surprised him, undid him, by rising up, wrapping her arms tight around him, and making it much more than a welcome-home kiss.
“Well now, I might arrange for bloody vicious traffic daily.”
