Desperation in Death (In Death #55)(25)

Moments later, Roarke walked in the front door.

“The lieutenant seems a bit off-kilter,” Summerset told him.

“I’m not surprised.”

“You’ll straighten that out before your guests arrive.”

As Eve had, Roarke strode straight to the stairs. “And why, I wonder, am I the one always obliged to straighten the lieutenant’s bloody kilter?”

Summerset lifted his eyebrows. Apparently, the lieutenant wasn’t the only one off-kilter.

“Children.” With a shake of his head, he headed back to the kitchen to ensure at least his part of the meal passed muster.

Upstairs, Roarke noted Eve’s work clothes on the bed with Galahad keeping guard.

“Gone down to the gym, has she?” Just like Eve, he gave the cat a scratch and a stroke.

As he loosened his tie, he considered joining her. He could take twenty or thirty minutes to sweat out some of the day’s annoyance.

Stripping off his suit coat, he called for the gym on-screen.

He watched Eve execute a side kick to the sparring droid’s breastbone, pivot, then follow up with a left jab to the jaw.

She’d chosen a beefy female he’d yet to try out himself.

And obviously programmed for full contact, as the droid’s countered right cross slipped by Eve’s guard and connected high on her cheekbone.

“Bloody hell.”

Eve went for a leg sweep that knocked the droid off-balance enough for her to land a body blow and a solid uppercut before the droid’s elbow jab snapped his wife’s head back.

He took two steps to the elevator before he stopped himself.

He could go, shut down the droid, turn Eve’s obvious fury on himself. They could go a round, and Christ knew he wouldn’t plant a fist in his wife’s face.

“Hell with it. Let her do it her way.”

He turned off the screen and took himself off to the shower.

When she came up, he finished buttoning his jeans.

“Your mouth’s bleeding,” he said as he reached for a T-shirt.

She swiped the back of her hand over it. “The droid said it needed some minor repairs and needed about twelve hours to deal with it.”

“Might take you a bit longer,” he said in a voice like a shrug. “You’ve got a black eye coming on, and your jaw’s swelling.”

“It’s got a sneaky left.”

“You might opt for light contact rather than full next time.”

“What’s the point in that? Look—”

“I am, and I take it you feel getting punched in the face multiple times was somehow worth it.”

“I figured it for a better choice than punching you or some innocent bystander.” Planting her feet, she prepared to stand her ground. “How would you react if I came into your office and told you what to do, what not to do?”

He held up a finger, turned, and walked into the bathroom. He came out with several cold packs, tossed them at her.

“First, I didn’t tell you what to do, or what not to do. I asked if you’d consider doing something.”

“That’s a real slippery line.”

“But a line nonetheless. Second, decisions I make in my office don’t affect my emotional health. You’re already exhausted, and now bruised and bloody with it.”

“I’m handling it. If I can’t handle any case I catch, I’ve got no business on the job.”

He just looked at her. “You wouldn’t say that about anyone in your bullpen.”

“My bullpen,” she tossed back, firing up again. “I’m the boss. I’m in charge, and that makes it different. You know that. You know it.”

“And I know this. Every day you strap that on.” He gestured to her weapon harness. “And you walk out the door. I know what you risk, every day, and I accept it, support it, respect it, even admire it. I know what I risk, every day, because you’re my goddamn world, but I stand with you. And you know that. But I question something I can see hurts you, and I have no right? I’m to back off, have no voice, no say, no opinion? Well, bugger that. I’m your husband, not your pet.”

Stunned, she took a step toward him. “I never—”

And he stepped back, very deliberately. “You’ve about a half hour before the Miras get here.”

He walked away from her, left her frustrated, furious, and flummoxed. Okay, so he was a lot more pissed than she’d realized, but that? That, she thought, was bullshit.

“Pet, my ass.” Turning to the cat, she threw up her arms. “What the fuck is that?”

Galahad, apparently opting to stay neutral, stretched out and closed his eyes.

“He questioned my judgment. That’s just what he did, so he can bugger it right back.”

She stalked into the bathroom for a shower, caught sight of herself again. Damn it, she did have a black eye coming on.

She stripped, then slapped one of the cold packs on her eye before stepping into the shower and ordering jets on full.





6





She did what she could toward making herself presentable, even digging into her rarely used makeup to cover the worst of the bruising.

Probably, she admitted, not the best idea to go full-contact sparring before a dinner meeting.