Festive in Death (In Death #39)(49)

“I’m glad we agree.”

“Where do you get the elves?”

“Each must find one’s own.” He walked over, caught her face in his hands, kissed her. “Hello, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, hey. Let me ask you something else.”

“I’m here to serve.”

“What’s the first thing you’d do if you found out I’d cheated on you with . . . an elf. A sexy, buff elf.”

“The first thing?”

“Yeah, go with the gut.”

“I’d toss you out on your ear, naked as I’d have burned all your clothes along with the rest of your belongings.”

Reasonable, she thought.

“What if things were reversed, financially, and the big bulk of the dough was mine.”

He flicked a finger over the dent in her chin. “What difference does that make? You’d be naked on the street, weeping as you begged for forgiveness that would never come.”

“Harsh, but fair.”

Amusement lived in those wild blue eyes, but she seriously wanted that gut instinct.

“Okay. What if you found out I’d been duped, slipped an illegal so the elf could bang me without my consent, but without my objection as I was under the influence?”

“I would beat the elf into elfin ooze immediately and mercilessly, then . . . acid, I believe,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Acid would be the final touch, poured liberally over the ooze.”

“Nice. With your fists—the beating into ooze part?”

“Do I love you?”

“Yeah, you do.” She gave his chest a light punch. “Sap.”

“Then it has to be my fists. He put his hands on you. Mine have to be on him.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” She sat, pulled off her boots. “Yeah. They love each other.”

“Who are they?”

“The Schuberts—Martella and Lance. The vic dosed her, and he’s on my list. But he’s down the bottom because, yeah, I think he’d have confronted Ziegler if he’d known. I think he’d have hunted him down like a sick dog, and I think he’d have gotten physical. But not the grab-a-blunt-object physical. If he’d known she’d rolled with Ziegler, whether or not he’d known about the date-rape drug—he’d have used his fists. That’s how he strikes me. Still, I have to consider.”

She got up to dig out thick socks. “She’s the sister of another of Ziegler’s marks—though the sister—Natasha Quigley—was willing, and paid for sex. I don’t like the husband—Quigley’s. He’s got a wussy, entitled thing that rubs me wrong. I can’t tell if it’s just that or if he’s sending off bells. But I want a good dig on his financials.”

“Ah. Playtime for me.”

“It would help me out, if you’ve got time for it.”

“Why don’t we have a drink, some food, and you can tell me more about it?”

Her first thought was to get everything down, write it out, then she realized she might have it more concise after rolling it around with him.

“Works for me. Oh, I nearly forgot. We got a Christmas present.”

She dug into her coat pocket, took out the box. “From Feeney. He warned me his wife’s made us a bowl, but this is from him to both of us.”

“I find his wife’s pottery charming.”

“Yeah, I know, since you actually find places for it instead of accidently breaking it or hiding it in some dark closet. Go figure. But I think you’re really going to like this.”

He opened the box, took out the glass, and simply stared at it.

“I had the same reaction. He said he wanted us to have it, to remember, to be able to see it when things got heavy. He said he was really proud of us. And like that. I didn’t really know what to say.”

“It means a great deal,” Roarke murmured. “A very great deal that he’d do this, think of doing it.”

“I know. And he got that. He said he thought we should keep it at home, because if I put it in my office, it was sort of like bragging.”

Roarke’s lips curved. “Trust Feeney.”

“I figure he’s right, that it should stay here. And I thought, not my office, not yours, because it’s ours together. I thought maybe it should stay in here because this is our space. Especially ours, I mean.”

“Yes. Especially ours.” After a glance, Roarke moved over to a table in the sitting area, set the gift down. “How’s that?”

“It’s good.”

She joined hands with him, started out. The cat raced ahead, ringing cheerfully. “Did Summerset put that stupid bell on him?”

“I put that stupid bell on him.”

“You?” She shot him a stunned glance. “Seriously?”

“It was a weak moment,” Roarke admitted. “Give him a bit of the festive, I thought. And now he’s ringing like a mad thing, most of it on purpose to my mind. He’s enjoying it.”

“The bow, too?”

“I said it was a weak moment. I had to put in several short appearances at a number of office parties today. Obviously, it lowered my resistance.”

“How much did you drink?” she wondered.