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“Some receivers fall in love. It’s a good LC’s job to walk the line between trust and affection, even a touch of infatuation, and love. A client who falls in love is dangerous, to the LC, to themselves. A knife through the heart?”
He drank again, shook his head. “I’m no cop, so I can’t say, and imagine you see plenty who’ve been stabbed in that area without any love gained or lost, but . . .”
“Yeah, but. Something else to think about. I appreciate it.”
“Absolutely anytime.” He rose, took her hand to walk out with her.
“You and Louise still look pretty shiny.”
“I feel pretty shiny. Marriage is an adventure. And a comfort.”
For some, Eve thought. For others? She thought of Quigley and Copley. For others, maybe a competition.
The music rolled now, and the ballroom throbbed with it, and with people. So many, Eve realized, had arrived in the time she’d been in the salon.
She spotted Feeney—wearing not a monkey suit but a black one she knew he kept for memorials and funerals—by one of the bars chewing the fat with Jenkinson. And Nadine, wearing ice-pick silver, dancing with the damn-near seven-foot Crack. The ace reporter and the sex-club owner looked to be having a hell of a good time.
She’d have to get Nadine in the salon, give out that gift.
And there was Mira and the truly adorable Mr. Mira sitting at one of the tables laughing with Commander and Mrs. Whitney. She probably had to go over there, say something. But she rarely saw her commander yucking it up, so she’d just wait on that.
“And there you are.”
She turned to Roarke. “Yeah, right here. I guess you know Peabody liked the coat.”
“There’s little more satisfying about giving than in seeing the receiver so genuinely happy.”
“Ha, that slides along with my quick talk with Charles about sex. Case-related sex.”
“Naturally.”
“Plus I wanted to give Louise her thing. I need to get Mira and Nadine and the others to give those things. Then I’ll be done.”
“And if you take a few moments to brainstorm—case-related? I’m fine with it. As long as you dance with me.”
“But—”
The music had changed, turned slow, romantic, a little dreamy. Still, she always felt so damn awkward dancing in public. He gathered her in, circled with her, laughed into her eyes.
“You have such interesting areas of modesty. Couples routinely hold each other when they dance slow.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I bet not that many of them have their commanding officer watching.”
“A dance. I’m not taking off your clothes, Eve.”
“I bet you are in your mind.”
“Well, I am now, so thanks for the idea.”
When she laughed at that, he caught her for a quick, light kiss. She responded by linking her arms around his neck.
“What the hell. It’s a Christmas party.”
Eve always felt strange and a little awkward socializing with Commander Whitney. Her strongest image of him would always be of him behind his big desk, New York City rising up in the window behind him. His dark, careworn face sober, his broad shoulders holding the weight of command.
So seeing him dancing (including the booty shake already mentioned by McNab) with his elegant and somewhat scary wife just threw her world out of kilter.
She didn’t have the knack for mingling—not like Roarke, who apparently knew everyone on or off planet, or had the talent to act as though he did. Still she handled the small-talk thing, even with people she didn’t know. Bigwigs from what she thought of as the Roarke Universe, their spouses or dates, research-and-development types, business colleagues.
