Born in Death (In Death #23)(50)

“I keep hearing that.”

“God knows you need a bigger office.”

“Works okay for me. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a ride home. A little business upstairs,” he continued when she only frowned at him. And when her frown deepened, he stepped over, flicked a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “It’s done, and everyone’s as satisfied as possible.”

“It sucks.”

“As life so often does. This makes sense to you, I imagine.” He tossed his coat idly over the back of her desk chair before circling the board. “Ah, yes. I see. Links within links. For such a big world there are so many interesting and tight little patterns, aren’t there?”

“What did Whitney say?”

“Officially or unofficially?” Roarke asked as he continued to study her board.

“I know what he said officially.”

“Unofficially then. He said it was all bullshit. That’s a direct quote.” He shifted his gaze to her face, shook his head. “And that’s enough for you, I see. You don’t need him to look you in the eye and tell you he trusts and respects you. To apologize on a personal level.”

“No.”

He moved over, closed the door. “Bullshit it may be, but it’s the sort of thing that keeps you in this broomstick of an office instead of in a captain’s seat.”

“I want to be in the office. Let’s not murk this up with that kind of crap. I’m doing exactly what I want to do, and what I’m good at doing.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t want the bars, Eve.”

“I thought I did.” She pushed a hand through her hair as she shifted her mental gears. “I wouldn’t turn them down if they held them out to me—on my terms. Listen, you’ve got the Irish thing going. Fate, destiny, woo-woo.”

His lips twitched. “You’re the one who exorcised a ghost recently.”

“I cleared a case,” she corrected. “And what I mean is sometimes things are just meant. I’m meant to be in the office, doing this work. I believe that.”

“All right.” The office was so small he had to do little more than reach out to take her arms, to run his hands up and down them. “I’ll add that your commander said to relay to you that he had every confidence you’d close this case in a timely manner.”

“Okay.”

“Should I find myself alternate transportation, or are you heading home soon?”

“I can pick this up there. Give me ten. Hey,” she said when he opened the door. “Maybe you should buy me dinner.”

He smiled. “Maybe I should.”

“But we have to make a stop first. I need a tiara.”

“To go with your scepter?”

“Not for me. Jeez. Mavis. Thing tomorrow. It’s a theme or something. Is a scepter one of those…” She fisted her hand, pumped it up and down in a way that made his eyebrows shoot up as he grinned.

“God, gutter-brain.” But she laughed, shifted her arm well out to the side of her body. “You know, like a staff deal?”

“I believe so.”

“We should find one of those, too. So maybe you could figure out a costume store or something where we can get them on the way to dinner.”

It was remarkably simple to find a rhinestone tiara and plastic scepter, especially when he was shopping with a woman who made a habit of grabbing the first thing that came close to the mark and making an escape.

And since he knew his woman, for the meal he chose Italian in a crowded little trattoria where the atmosphere was simple and the food stupendous. By the time she’d dug into spaghetti and meatballs and hadn’t brought up the case, he let it lie.

“You missed lunch.”

She spun pasta around her fork. “Probably, but I had a donut in there. And I think I forgot to inform you that Peabody and McNab are bunking at our place tonight.”

“Inform me?”

“Summerset. He got pissy because I forgot about a delivery coming in today. Anyway, Peabody wants to decorate for the shower—which I don’t get. You’re getting a party, presents, food. What more do you need?”

“I suppose we’ll find out. That’s handy though. I can pluck McNab up tomorrow, and we’ll go do something manly.”

“Go? Leave?” Absolute panic rushed into her face. “You’re not going to stay for the thing?”

He took a bite of manicotti. “There’s nothing you could do, say, nothing you could possibly offer—including deviant sexual favors—that would induce me to be within a hundred yards of that baby shower.”

“Crap.” She forked up a nice chunk of meatball. “Not even if I combined chocolate sauce with the outfit?”

“Not even.”

“There could be whipped cream. And choreography.”

“An excellent bribe, I grant you, especially for a desperate woman. But no. I’ve already made arrangements to escape with Leonardo. We’ll just add McNab to our happy little troupe.”

“But what if something goes wrong?” She grabbed his arm. “Like the caterer goes whacko, because sometimes they do. Or we lose one of the pregnant women in the house.”

He merely picked up his wine with his free hand.