Reunion in Death (In Death #14)(2)

"What?" She paused in the act of shoving her arm in a sleeve. "It's summer weight; it covers my weapon."

"It's wrong with those trousers." He stepped to her closet, reached in, and plucked out another jacket of the same weight and material as the khaki trousers. "This one is correct."

"I'm not planning on doing a video shoot." But she changed it because it was easier than arguing.

"Here." After another dip into her closet, he came out with a pair of half-boots in rich chestnut brown leather.

"Where'd those come from?"

"The closet fairy."

She frowned at the boots suspiciously, poked a finger into the toes. "I don't need new boots. My old ones are all broken in."

"That's a polite term for what they are. Try these."

"Just gonna mess them up," she muttered, but sat on the arm of the sofa to pull them on. They slid onto her feet like butter. Which only made her eye him narrowly. He'd probably had them hand-tooled for her in one of his countless factories and they surely cost more than a New York murder cop made in two months. "How about that. The closet fairy seems to know my shoe size."

"An amazing fellow."

"I suppose it's useless to tell him that a cop doesn't need expensive boots that were probably sewn together by some little Italian nun when she's clocking field time for hoofing it or knocking on doors."

"He has a mind of his own." He skimmed a hand through her hair, tugged just enough to tip her face up to his. "And he adores you."

It still made her stomach flop-hearing him say it, seeing his face as he did. She often wondered why she didn't just drown in those eyes of his, in all that wild, wicked blue.

"You're so damn pretty." She hadn't meant to say it aloud, nearly jolted at the sound of her voice. And she watched his grin flash, fast as fire across a face that belonged in a painting or carved into stone with its strong, sharp bones and seductive poet's mouth.

Young Irish God, she supposed it would be titled. For weren't gods seductive and ruthless and cloaked in their own power?

"I have to go." She got quickly to her feet, and he stood his ground so their bodies bumped. "Roarke."

"Yes, it's back to reality for both of us. But..." His hands stroked down her sides, one long, possessive move that reminded her, all too clearly, just what those quick and clever fingers were capable of doing to her body. "I think we can take a moment for you to kiss me goodbye."

"You want me to kiss you good-bye?"

"I do, yes." There was a lilt of both amusement and Ireland in the tone that had her cocking her head.

"Sure." In a move as fast as his grin, she took handfuls of the black hair that nearly skimmed his shoulders, fisting, tugging, then crushing her mouth against his.

She felt his heart jump even as hers did. A leap of heat, of recognition, of unity. And on his sound of pleasure, she poured herself into the kiss, took them both fast and deep with a little war of tongues, a quick nip of teeth.

Then she jerked him back, stepped nimbly out of reach. "See you, ace," she called out as she strode from the room.

"Have a safe day, Lieutenant." He blew out a long sigh, then sat back on the couch. "Now," he said to the cat, "what will it cost me for the two of us to be friends again?"

...

At Cop Central, Eve hopped on a glide to Homicide. And took a deep breath. Nothing against the cliffside drama of western Mexico or the balmy breezes of tropical islands, but she'd missed the air here: the smell of sweat, bad coffee, harsh cleansers, and above all, the fierce energies that formed from the clash of cop and criminal.

Her time away had only honed her senses for it-the low roar of too many voices talking at once, the steady yet discordant beeps and buzzings of 'links and communicators, the rush of people all having something important to do somewhere.

She heard someone screaming obscenities so fast they tumbled together into one vicious stew of words that was music to her ears.

Motherf*cklng*copbastards.

Welcome home, she thought happily.

The job had been her home, her life, her single defining purpose before Roarke. Now even with him, or maybe because she had him, it remained an essential part of who and what she was.

Once she'd been a victim-helpless, used, and broken. Now, she was a warrior.

She swung into the detectives' bullpen, ready to fight whatever battle lay ahead.

Detective Baxter glanced up from his work, let out a low whistle. "Whoa, Dallas. Hubba-hubba."

"What?" Baffled, she looked over her shoulder, then realized Baxter's leering grin was for her. "You're a sick man, Baxter. It's reassuring to note some things don't change."

"You're the one who's all slicked up." He pushed himself up, skirted around desks. "Nice," he added, rubbing her lapel between his thumb and finger. "You're a frigging fashion plate, Dallas. Put the rest of us to shame."

"It's a jacket," she muttered, mortified. "Cut it out."

"Got yourself tanned, too. Would that be a full-body job?"

She bared her teeth in a fierce smile. "Do I have to kick your ass?"

Enjoying himself, he wagged a finger. "And what's that on your ears?" As she reached up, confused, he blinked as if in surprise. "Why, I believe those are called earrings. And they're real pretty, too."