Connections in Death (In Death #48)(27)

“Okay. And I don’t want you clamping any weird toys on my nipples.”

“I can agree to that.”

“Okay then. We’re good.”

“We’re very good.” He kissed her again. “Lights out.”

“I’m not eating frog, either.”

“Off the menu. Go to sleep.”

He smiled into the dark, stroking her back until he felt her drift off. And thought again they were very good.





6

When she woke, Roarke, in his usual spot in the sitting area, was watching the financial reports on mute. The cat was sleeping in front of the fire that simmered low.

She smelled coffee and thought the scent, the view of Roarke in one of his business god suits, and the cat snoring by a low fire equaled a pretty solid way to wake up.

She rolled out of bed, headed straight to the AutoChef because the smell of coffee wasn’t enough.

“Good morning.”

She gulped coffee, glancing toward the window. “Might be. Nothing’s falling out of the sky yet.”

“And not forecasted to,” Roarke told her. “You should be cheered to know the forecast included a good hint of spring. It’s a chilly start, but due to climb into the sixties this afternoon.”

“Huh.” That perked her up nearly as much as the coffee.

“And as they’re calling for a few days, at least, of this warming trend, they’ll start excavation on the pond today.”

“‘The pond’?” It took her a minute to remember the walk they’d taken on the grounds months before. Somehow they’d decided to put in a little pond, picked the spot. “We’re really doing that?”

“It’ll be pleasant, won’t it, when spring decides to come and stay awhile to wander out and sit by the water.”

“Yeah, it will. When does the whole thing about March happen?”

“Which thing is that?”

She circled a finger in the air as she gulped more coffee. “The one about the sheep lying down with the lion.”

“Lamb. The lion lies down with the lamb.”

“A lamb’s a sheep, and the lion’s lying down to eat the stupid sheep. I don’t get what it has to do with March.”

“Because it has nothing to do with it. I think you mean March comes in like a lion and goes out like a sheep. A lamb,” he corrected, dragging his fingers through his hair. “It’s a bloody lamb.”

“Yeah, it would be if it’s hanging around with a lion.”

He watched her walk into the adjoining bath and thought, Well, she has a point.

He had breakfast waiting under warming domes when she came out. When he lifted the domes, she cocked her head.

“No oatmeal?”

“To celebrate the warming trend.”

“Let’s hear it for spring.”

He had gone for a full Irish because who knew when or if she’d take time for a decent meal during the day. In lieu of the black pudding which she disliked intensely, he’d selected a small yogurt and fruit parfait.

She sat, dug in. “So after your predawn ’link or holo or whatever meetings, you’re probably headed out for more.”

“I have a thing or two.”

“You’ve got that revised what’s-it report you ordered up yesterday.”

“Signed off this morning. And you, I expect, will be on the hunt.”

“Yeah.” Curious, she studied a bite of sausage. “Why do you call them bangers?”

“I’m not entirely sure, something about how they sound when they’re being fried up. I think.”

“Huh. Well, good whatever they’re called.” She ate the sausage, continued, “Anyway, I can hope we get a hit from the BOLO on Duff. Either way, I’m heading to the morgue this morning. I want a conversation with the sleazy ex-lawyer at some point, and a closer look at the Banger Duff was banging.”

“Bolt,” Roarke recalled. “He has killer in his eyes.”

“Yeah, he does. I also need a conversation with whoever’s riding cases on the Bangers. I should probably talk to Lyle’s brothers, his grandmother. He might have said something to them he didn’t say to Rochelle.”

She crunched into bacon. “If he was going to meetings, earned his second-year chip, he probably has a sponsor. Another conversation. I’ve got to set up the board and book, write up a report on the visit to the Banger HQ, the underground.”

“On the hunt,” he repeated.

“Yeah, and I won’t be slogging through snow or crap rain doing it.”

Thinking of it, when she finished breakfast, she took a simple white shirt out of her closet. No need for a sweater. Then she stopped, abruptly flummoxed by the rails of pants, of jackets, the shelves of boots.

She’d gotten so used to hauling out cold-weather clothes, she wasn’t quite sure what to grab.

She wasn’t going to ask Roarke or use the closet comp (he’d hear that, wouldn’t he?) She knew how the hell to dress herself. It was just . . . long winter.

She grabbed pants. Brown. Not Feeney’s shit brown, but a chocolate brown that reminded her to check the ceiling tile in her office, make sure the candy bar she’d booby-trapped was still there. Then she snagged a navy jacket because it had that brown leather piped at the cuffs and down the side seams.