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“Don’t even start on me,” she warned as he opened his bicolored eyes to stare at her. “How would he like it if I had somebody come in here?” She yanked off her coat, tossed it on the bed. “If I just decided, Hey, I’m going to change everything in the bedroom. Yeah, a decorating bug crawled up my ass, so I’m going to toss this all out and haul in something else.
“How do you like that?”
She dragged off her weapon harness, pulled out her ’link, her communicator, her badge, tossed them and the other pocket debris on the dresser.
Galahad, who knew something about moods and timing, kept his own counsel while Eve stripped out of her street clothes, pulled on workout gear.
“You could be next,” she warned Galahad as she strode onto the elevator. “He could get another bug up his ass and dye you pink and dress you in a tux.”
She fumed all the way down to the gym. Definitely not the time for a holo-session with Master Wu. She considered beating the crap out of one of the sparring droids, but thought Roarke would probably enjoy that, so she opted for the tread, programmed it for a hard urban run, with obstacles.
A beach run would have relaxed her, but she wasn’t ready to relax. Instead she pounded the city streets, kicked a little street-thief ass, climbed, leaped, rolled over barriers until she had a solid five miles in.
She switched to weights, pumped until her muscles burned, then finished up with some ab-searing crunches before she stretched it out.
Sweaty, winded, she headed to the tropical wonder of the pool house, stripped off. Dived into the cool, blue water.
Five double laps later, her body begged for a break. And her thoughts snuck back.
Her space. Hers. He didn’t have any business pushing her to change her space, bringing in some fancy redhead because it wasn’t all . . . fancy.
Nothing wrong with her office, she thought as she let herself coast through the water. It was serviceable. It was good enough. Maybe it was a blight, a dumpy box in the grandeur of the house.
But it was her blight, damn it.
She got good work done in there, and he had never complained about it before. He’d made it like that in the first place, completely stunning her with the replica of her apartment, right down to the crappy desk.
Damn it. Damn it. He?
??d turned her heart inside out with that gesture, and now he wanted to change it.
Because she didn’t live in the old apartment with the crappy desk anymore, she thought.
She hissed out a breath, muttered, “Hell,” and let herself sink under the water.
She had herself under better control when she came back up. The mad simmered under it all, but the control skimmed a fine veneer over the rest. She changed into cotton pants, a sweatshirt, skids, then sat down, stroked the cat.
“He wouldn’t dye you pink or dress you in a tux. He likes you fine just the way you are. Sometimes I wonder about me, but you’re good.”
Galahad bumped his head against her arm, so she stroked him into ecstasy. It only took a couple of minutes, making her think cats were a hell of a lot easier to live with than people.
He followed her out and to her office, where Roarke’s door remained shut.
She curled her lip at it.
“He could stay in there, iced over, for days. So let him. I’ve got work. See anything wrong in here?” she asked the cat.
Galahad looked at her, then jogged over to leap onto her sleep chair.
“See? Everything we need. Except my damn board.”
She found it, neatly stowed in the storage area, hauled it back.
She updated it, got coffee, studied it, circled it, made a couple changes, then went to her desk—suitably crappy for her—and reviewed her notes.
She barely glanced up when Roarke walked in. He went to the wall panel, chose a bottle of wine.
Uncorked it.
