Memory in Death (In Death #22)(22)

She sucked in a breath as the rest came to her. "Because I knew I could. Because I knew, somewhere in the stupidity, that you'd forgive me for it. You didn't go behind my back or betray any trust, or any of the things I tried to convince myself you had. You just did what needed to be done."

"Don't give me too much credit." Now he sat on the bench. "I'd like to have killed her. I think I'd have enjoyed it. But you wouldn't have cared for that, not at all. So I settled for convincing her that's just what I'd do, and very unpleasantly, should she try to put her sticky fingers on either of us again."

"I sort of wish I could've seen it. How much did she figure I was worth?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'd like to know."

"Two million. A paltry sum considering, but then, she doesn't know us, does she?" His eyes—a bold, impossible blue that saw everything she was—stayed on her face. "She doesn't know we wouldn't give her the first punt. She doesn't know there's no limit on your worth to me. It's only money, Eve. There's no price on what we have."

She went to him then, dropping into his lap, wrapping arms and legs around him.

"There," he murmured. "There we are."

She turned her face, pressed it to his throat. "What's a punt?"

"A what? Oh." He gave a baffled laugh. "It's an old word for an Irish pound."

"How do you say 'I'm sorry' in Gaelic?"

"Ah... ta bron orm," he said. "And so am I," he added when she'd mangled it.

"Roarke. Is she still in New York?" When he said nothing, she leaned back, met his eyes. "You'd know where she is. It's what you do. I made myself feel stupid. Don't make me feel incapable on top of it."

"As of the time I left the office, she hadn't yet checked out of her hotel, nor had her son and his wife."

"Okay, then tomorrow... No, tomorrow's the thing. I'm not forgetting the thing, and I'm going to do... whatever."

And whatever the whatever was that went into preparing for a major party would be her penance for bitchy idiocy.

"Somebody'll have to tell me whatever it is I should do for the thing." She framed his face with her hands, spoke urgently. "Please don't let it be Summerset."

"There's nothing you have to do, and the thing is called a party."

"You do stuff. Coordinate stuff, and approve it, blather with the caterer and that kind of thing."

"I never blather, not even with the caterer, but if it'll make you feel better you can help supervise the decorating up in the ballroom."

"Am I going to need a list?"

"Several. Will that help with the guilt you're feeling?"

"It's a start. On Sunday, if Lombard's still here, I'm going to see her."

"Why?" Now he framed her face in turn. "Why put yourself through that, or give her any sort of an opening to stab at you again?"

"I need to make it clear to her she can't. I need to do it face-to-face. It's—and this is embarrassing enough that I'll have to hurt you if you repeat it—but it's about self-esteem. I hate being a coward, and I stuck my head in the sand on this."

"That's an ostrich."

"Whatever, I don't like being one. So, we do what we've planned to do tomorrow—because she's not worth putting on the list—and if she's still here on Sunday, I deal with her."

"We deal."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, okay. We deal." She pressed her cheek to his. "You're all sweaty."

"I used my temper constructively, as opposed to kicking my desk."

"Shut up, or I might not still feel guilty enough to offer to wash your back in the shower."

"Lips are sealed," he murmured, and pressed them to her throat.

"After." She gripped his tank, yanked it up and off. "After I screw your brains out of your ears."

"Far be it from me to dictate how you should assuage your guilt. Do you have a lot of it?"

She bit his good shoulder. "You're about to find out."

She toppled them both off the bench and onto the mat. "Well, ouch. I take it guilt doesn't bring out your gentler side."

"What it does is make me edgy." She straddled him, planted her hands on his chest. "And a little mean. And since I've already kicked my desk..."

She lowered down, her br**sts skimming his damp chest, her nails raking lightly over his skin on their way to the waistband of his shorts. She tugged again, freed him.

Then her mouth clamped over him like a vise.

"Oh, well then." He dug his fingers into the mat. "Have at it."

His mind switched off, his vision went red, and pulsed. She used her teeth—yes, just a little bit mean—and tore the breath out of him. Muscles he'd tuned and oiled in temper began to quiver, helplessly. And a moment before his world imploded, she released him. Slicked her tongue up his belly.

He started to roll her over, but she scissored her legs, shifted her weight, and pinned him once more.

Her eyes were dark gold and full of arrogance.

"I'm starting to feel a little better."