Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(53)

“He’s got no business walking into an operation,” she said to Feeney.

“It’s his place.” Feeney hunched his shoulders, an automatic defense against a marital tiff.

“Right, he came by to check the liquor levels at the bar. Fuck.” She dragged both hands through her hair, then made low, feral sounds in her throat as she watched Roarke wander over to Peabody’s table.

“Enjoying your drink, miss?”

“Um, yeah, I… Shit, Roarke” was the best Peabody could manage.

He only smiled, leaned down. “Tell your lieutenant to stop swearing at me. I won’t get in her way.”

Peabody’s eye twitched as Eve’s voice exploded in her ear. “Uh, she suggests you get your fancy ass out of here. She’ll, um, kick it for you later.”

“Looking forward to it.” Still smiling, he lifted Peabody’s fingers, kissed them. “You look fabulous,” he told her, then strolled away while the equipment in the van reported a sharp spike in her blood pressure and pulse rate.

“Down, Peabody,” Eve warned.

“I can’t control an involuntary physical reaction to outside stimuli.” Peabody blew out a breath. “Sure does have a fancy ass. Respectfully, sir.”

“Match Two approaching. Pull it together, Peabody.”

“I’m ready.”

She glanced toward the door, her company smile ready. One of the perks for the operation, as far as she was concerned, had just walked in. She remembered him from her first visit to Personally Yours. The trim bronzed god who’d caught her attention — then given his own to his pocket mirror.

He was going to be a pleasure to look at for the next hour.

He posed at the door, head up, profile turned to the room as he scanned tables. His eyes, a tawny gold that matched his hair, flickered, then settled on Peabody. His mouth turned up as he gave a quick, practiced head toss to allow his hair to flow. He crossed directly to her table.

“You must be Delilah.”

“Yes.” Great voice, she thought with an inward sigh. Better in person that on his video profile. “And you’re Brent.”

Across the room it was McNab’s turn to scowl. The man preening for Peabody was all plastic, he decided, with a thick layer of spray gloss. Probably just her type.

Asshole had his face tailor-made, McNab decided. Body, too. He doubted there was an inch on the man that hadn’t been paid for.

And just look! Just look at the way she’s fawning all over him, McNab thought in disgust, tinged with a vicious dose of jealousy. The woman was practically lapping up every word the guy dropped through his collagen-enhanced lips.

Women were so pitifully predictable.

His gaze slid over as Roarke stopped by the table. “She’s looking particularly appealing tonight, isn’t she?”

“Most guys find it appealing when a woman has half her tits out of her shirt.”

Roarke grinned, enjoying himself. McNab’s eyes were on fire and his fingers were beating a rapid and angry tattoo against the tabletop. “But obviously you’re above such things.”

“Wish I were above them,” McNab muttered as Roarke moved on. “Those are some superior tits.”

“Keep your eyes off Peabody’s tits,” Eve ordered. “Your second match is at the door.”

“Yeah.” McNab glanced over at a tiny redhead in a spangled skinsuit. “I’m on it.”

Inside the van, Eve frowned at the screen. “Give me the run on the guy with Peabody, will you, Feeney? Something about it seems off to me.”

“Brent Holloway, commercial model. Works for Cliburn-Willis Marketing. Thirty-eight, twice divorced, no kids.”

“Model?” Her eyes narrowed. “On screen? That’s sort of like entertainment, right?”

“Shit. You haven’t watched much commercial screen lately. Nothing entertaining about those ads, you ask me. He’s originally from Morristown, New Jersey. New York resident since 2049. Current address Central Park West. Income in middle eighties. Shows nothing on yellow sheets — no arrests. Got a mountain of traffic violations.”

“We saw him — Peabody and me — at Personally Yours on our first trip there. How many consults has he had?”

“This is his fourth match group this year.”

“Okay, why does a guy who looks like that, has credits, a strong career, and a high-dollar address become a dating service addict? Four match groups in a year, five matches per group. That’s twenty women, and nothing sticks. What’s wrong with him, Feeney?”

Feeney pursed his lips and studied the screen. “From my view he looks like a conceited ass**le.”

“Yeah, but a lot of women aren’t going to care about that. He’s got looks and bucks. Something should’ve stuck.” She drummed her fingers on the narrow console. “No complaints to the service pop out?”

“Nope. His sheet there’s clean, too.”

“Something’s off,” she said again an instant before she watched her aide rear back and plow a fist directly in Brent Holloway’s perfect nose. “Jesus Christ. Jesus, did you see that?”

“Busted it,” Feeney said placidly as he studied the quick gush of blood. “Nice short-armed jab.”

“What the hell was she thinking? What the hell’s going on? Peabody, have you lost your mind?”