Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(80)

“Jesus Christ.” With ill grace, she stepped into it, wiggled it up.

The material was soft as a waterfall and clung like a lover, the seductive side slashes exposing smooth skin and slender curves.

“Darling Eve.” He took her hand, turning it over to nuzzle the palm in one of the gestures he used to turn her legs to putty. “Sometimes you take my breath away. Here, try these.”

He took a pair of diamond drop earrings from the dresser and handed them to her.

“Were these already mine, or what?”

Now he grinned. “You’ve had them for months. No more presents until Christmas.”

She fastened them on, and decided to take it philosophically when he selected her shoes. “There’s no place in this thing to keep my communicator. I’m on call.”

“Here.” He offered her the ridiculously small evening bag that matched the shoes.

“Anything else?”

“You’re perfect.” He smiled when he heard the beep that signaled the first car arriving at the gate. “And prompt. Let’s go down so I can show off my wife.”

“I’m not a poodle,” she muttered and made him laugh.

Within an hour, the house was full of people and music and light. Scanning the ballroom, Eve could only be grateful Roarke never expected her to have any input into the preparations.

There were huge tables groaning under silver platters of food: honied ham from Virginia, glazed duck from France, rare beef from Montana; lobster, salmon, oysters harvested from the rich beds on Silas I; an array of fresh vegetables picked only that morning and cleverly arranged in patterns. Desserts that would tempt a political prisoner from a hunger strike surrounded a three-foot tree fashioned out of sinfully rich cake and hung with gleaming marzipan ornaments.

She wondered that it could still amaze her what the man she had married could conjure.

A soaring pine decorated with thousands of white lights and silver stars stood at either end of the ballroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed not the nasty sleet that hissed over the city, but a hologram of a dreamy snowscene where couples skated on a silver pond and young children raced down a gentle slope on shiny red sleds.

Such details, she thought, were so utterly Roarke.

“Hey, sweetheart. All alone in this palace?”

She arched a brow when she felt the hand on her bottom and turned her head slowly to stare at McNab.

He went red, then white, then red again. “Christ! Lieutenant. Sir.”

“Your hand’s on my ass, McNab. I don’t think you want it to be there.”

He snatched it away as if scorched. “God. Man. Shit. Beg your pardon. I didn’t recognize you. I mean…” He jammed the hand he sincerely hoped she’d allow him to keep in his pocket. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought… You look…” Words failed him.

“I believe Detective McNab is trying to compliment you, Eve.” Roarke slipped up beside them and, because it was too much to resist, stared hard into McNab’s panicked eyes. “Weren’t you, Ian?”

“Yeah. That is…”

“And if I believed he’d realized it was your ass he was fondling, I’d just have to kill him. Right here.” Roarke reached out and flicked at the strings of McNab’s snazzy red tie. “Right now.”

“Oh, I’d have already taken care of that myself,” Eve said dryly. “You look like you could use a drink, Detective.”

“Yes, sir. I could.”

“Roarke, why don’t you take care of him? Mira just came in. I want to talk to her.”

“Delighted.” Roarke draped an arm around McNab’s shoulder and squeezed just a little harder than comfort allowed.

It took longer than Eve liked to make her way across the room. It amazed her how much people wanted to talk at parties. And about nothing in particular. That was delay enough, but she caught sight of Peabody, looking very un-Peabody-like in sweeping evening pants of dull gold and a trim sleeveless jacket. Her bare arm was tucked comfortably through Charles Monroe’s.

Mira, Eve decided, could wait. “Peabody.”

“Dallas. Wow, the place looks amazing.”

“Yeah.” Eve shifted her gaze and pinned Charles with angry eyes. “Monroe.”

“Fabulous home you’ve got. Lieutenant.”

“I don’t recall your name on the guest list.”

Peabody colored, stiffened. “The invitation said I was free to bring a date.”

“Is that what this is?” she asked, keeping her eyes on Charles’s. “A date?”

“Yes.” He lowered his voice as a flicker of hurt clouded his eyes. “Delia is aware of my profession.”

“Are you giving her the cop’s standard discount?”

“Dallas.” Horrified, Peabody stepped forward.

“It’s all right.” Charles tugged her back. “I’m on my own time, Dallas, and hoping to spend a pleasant evening with an attractive woman whose company I enjoy. If you’d rather I leave, it’s your house, your call.”

“She’s a big girl.”

“Yes, she is,” Peabody murmured. “Just a second, Charles,” she added, then gripped Eve’s arm and tugged her aside.

“Hey!”