Festive in Death (In Death #39)(114)

“It’s the Yeats you gave me our first Christmas together. I reread it every year at this time.”

“You’re such a sap.” But she smiled when she said it because the idea filled her with pleasure. “Do you want to see what you got this year?”

“I do.” He rose, set the book aside. The cat just turned over, stayed on the sofa. “We could leave the gifts from friends for tomorrow,” he suggested, poured them both more wine. “For Christmas Day.”

“Works for me. Then we could finish what we started last night. You know, drink a whole bunch of wine, have crazy sex.”

“That would absolutely work for me. Or.” He cupped a hand behind her neck, kissed her slow. “We could start at the end of that, work back. Crazy sex, lots of wine, gifts.”

“It’s a plan, but—” She pulled back, grabbed a large, clumsily wrapped box. “Open this. I figured it would be the . . .” She threw her hands in the air, made a whooshing sound. “What is it?”

“The explosion.”

“No, no, when the guy who—” With loosely fisted hands she waved her arms in the air. “And the musicians all—”

“The crescendo?” He laughed, sat on the floor with the box. “I do adore you. So, in this case, crescendo first.”

“Yeah. I want to see if I hit the mark. It’s a crappy wrapping job.”

“It’s charming.” He untied the ribbon, tore the paper. When he opened the box, she gauged surprise. But surprise didn’t necessarily mean bull’s-eye.

“You didn’t get yourself a magic coat,” she pointed out.

“I hadn’t gotten to it.”

He drew out the soft black leather, in classic style, and he noted—touched—the buttons held the symbol of Celtic trinity knots.

“You amaze me.”

“You can buy your own clothes—you can buy everybody’s clothes, but this is . . . I want you safe, too.”

“Darling Eve.” When he leaned over, kissed her, she knew she’d hit the mark.

“It’ll fit,” she told him. “I went to your guys—the R&D guys on the lining, and that wasn’t easy. I think I could get into the White House War Room easier. And your tailor.”

He stood to put it on. “It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

And on him, the knee-length, supple black leather was ridiculously sexy. “There’s an add-on. Hidden interior pockets. I figure a guy like you can find them easy enough. For carrying things even an expert civilian consultant isn’t suppose to carry.”

“Is that so?” He did, indeed find them, grinned like a boy.

Double bull’s-eye, Eve thought. On a roll, she started to reach for another gift.

“No, your turn now.” He slipped out of the coat, laid it with hers. “We’ll just stick with the crescendo theme.” He chose a small box. “This one.”

She expected jewelry. He couldn’t help himself. So puzzlement came first when she opened it, found a simple business card. “Master Wu? I don’t get it.”

“You get him. He’ll work with you, at his dojo, or here, in the one we’re having put in beside the gym on the lower level.”

“The what? Dojo. Here?”

“The work starts next week. Master Wu will train you. If and when you’re unable to connect in person, we’ve devised a holographic program.”

“Master Wu will work with me. The Master Wu?” She’d met the martial arts legend briefly on a case, had admired him for years. “You bought me Master f**king Wu?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Holy shit, holy shit!” She jumped up, literally danced around the room, stopping to jab at an imaginary opponent, destroying them with a vicious side-kick. “Master Wu!”

She leaped onto Roarke, bowling him back, kissing him hard when he laughed, and while the cat ran over to see what the hell was going on.

“This is the best. This is the most amazing gift ever in the history of gifts. You know I’m going to be able to seriously kick your ass now.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Master Wu.” She shoved up, pulled him up with her. “You’re putting in a dojo.”

“We are. It’ll be fun, won’t it, for both of us? I’ll show you the design, the plans. Ah now,” he murmured when the insane joy in her eyes clouded with tears.

“You,” she said, and wrapped around him. “You know me, and you love me anyway. I’ll never get over it.”

“And you. My cop put stash pockets in my magic coat. I couldn’t have dreamed you better.”

She sniffled, eased back, pulled another gift from under the tree. “This one. This one needs to come next.”

“I could sit here, with you, under these happy lights, and need nothing else in the world. But since it’s here,” he added, making her laugh as he opened the gift.

She’d framed a photo of them at the preview of The Icove Agenda. Not one of the glitzy red-carpet shots, but one taken after she’d squared off with a killer—after he’d bloodied the bastard’s face.

They stood smiling at each other, his torn knuckles on her bruised cheek.