Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(8)

“There you are.”

“How can you tell it’s me? I’ve got so much crap on my face I could be anybody under it.”

“Let’s see.” He stepped over, laid his lips on hers. “There you are,” he said again with that whisper of Ireland in his voice. “My Eve.”

“I don’t feel like your Eve, or mine either. Why can’t I just go around with my regular face?”

“Darling, it’s very much your face. Just partied up a bit. Sexy. And you smell the same.”

“It’s pomegranate, and some other stuff Trina ordered me to use. Why do I let her push me around?”

“I can’t say.” And wouldn’t. “How did it go at the studio?”

“It’s weird, but Durn’s okay. We didn’t stay the whole time because we caught a case.”

“Oh?”

“Caught and closed.”

He grinned. “And I feel I have to say I’m sorry it went so well. Why don’t you tell me about Marlo Durn and the others while I shower?”

“You probably know some of them. You’ve bumped elbows, and more, with the Hollywood crowd.”

“Hmm” was his non-answer as he undressed. “In any case I haven’t bumped anything with Marlo Durn, which should be a relief to all of us as I’ve seen some of the media coverage of her. She could pass for your sister at this point.”

“I guess. And it’s weird.” Hands in the pockets of her robe, she leaned against the door and watched his most excellent ass head for the shower. “The one playing Peabody’s a bitch.”

“Rumor has it,” he called out over the pulse of water. “And also that there’s no love lost between her and Durn. Should be an interesting evening.”

“Maybe they’ll punch each other.” Eve felt her enthusiasm click up a notch at the idea. “That would be fun.”

“We can only hope.”

“The sets are spooky,” she continued. “All that was missing from the bullpen were crumbs on Jenkinson’s desk. That and the smell, but it takes years of cop to get that smell.”

When he stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, she frowned. “That’s it? That’s all you have to do? It’s not right.”

“Some of it should be offset by the fact you’re not required to shave your face.”

“I don’t think that’s enough.”

She stalked over to the closet, opened it. And scowled again.

“What am I supposed to wear? There are too many choices in here. If you’ve got one thing, you don’t have to think about it. You just take it out, put it on. This is too complicated. Peabody hounded me about this until I wanted to pull her tongue out and wrap it around her neck. Between her and Trina my brain’s fried.”

Amused, he walked over, stepped into the closet. “This.” He lifted a dress off the rod.

Short, she noted, with a kind of drape to the skirt from where it was caught at the side of the waist with a flower of the same material and color as the dress. Not really blue, not really green, with a kind of shimmery overcast. She eyed it, the wide scoop of neck, the thumb-width straps.

“How do you know this one?”

“The little black dress is a classic for a reason, but often expected—especially in New York. So you’ll go with color, rich color in a soft sheen. It’s feminine without fuss, sexy without trying to be.”

She took it, turned it around, and lifted an eyebrow at the deep plunge in the back. “Without trying.”

“Very hard. You have shoes to match.”

“I do?”

“You do, yes, and go with diamonds. Leave the color to the dress.”

“Which diamonds? Do you know how many you give me? Why do you do that?”

The aggrieved sound of her voice amused him nearly as much as giving her diamonds. “It’s a sickness. I’ll get them for you once you’re dressed.”

She said nothing, and stood where she was as he selected a dark suit from his forest of suits, a slate-colored shirt, and a stone-colored tie.

“How come you don’t wear color?”

“The better to serve as the backdrop for my beautiful wife.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You had that one ready.”

“The truth is always ready.”

She jabbed a finger at him. “That one, too.”

“Such a cynic.” He gave her a pat on the ass as he passed. She could have found more to say, cynic-wise, but decided to save it. By the time she’d dressed, apologized in advance to her feet, and trapped them in the ice-pick heels, transferred her weapon and badge and communicator to one of the useless bags women were forced to carry to evening events, Roarke had the diamonds laid out.

“All of that?”

“All of that, yes,” he said firmly as he finished his tie.

“You could buy New Jersey for all of that.”

“I’d rather see them on my wife than buy New Jersey.”

“They’ll see me from space,” she muttered as she plugged in the glittery drop earrings, clamped on the bracelet, the fancy wrist unit.

“No, not like that,” he said as she fought with the clasp on the triple-strand necklace. “This way.” He adjusted the chains so they draped front and back.