Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(80)

“Ah, you did remember where you live.”

“I keep hoping you’ll forget.”

He merely shifted his attention to Roarke as Eve shrugged out of her coat, and the cat hurried over to rub against her legs.

“Your aunt contacted me to let you know your family will arrive tomorrow as planned. I estimate their ETA here at two P.M. our time.”

“Good. I’ll do what I can to be here for their arrival.”

“I should hope. Richard DeBlass also confirmed. They arrived in New York this evening. The children are very excited.” His eyes pinned Eve now. “Nixie is particularly excited to see you, be here with you.”

“I’ll be here,” Eve snapped back. Sometime. Somehow. God.

And because she could see Nixie as she first had—cowering, covered with her parents’ blood, shaking in the shower where she’d hidden, Eve went straight up the stairs and into her home office with a new weight on her shoulders.

“What am I supposed to do?” she demanded when Roarke came in behind her.

“Exactly what you need to do.” He set the comp down. “And right now? It’s eat dinner.”

“Jesus, lay off, will you? I have work. I need to update my board, check in with Peabody, Baxter, and Trueheart, and the cops I put on various protection details. I need to cross with Feeney and start pushing on hotels because the son of a bitch is somewhere. Add in rental units, property purchases because he’s got a pile of money now and you can bet your ass a spanking new ID. And, oh, while I’m doing that, I’m supposed to stuff food in my face, and worry about a freaking houseful of people and a holiday dinner. I can’t think with everybody crowding me.”

“It must be difficult,” he said in a voice deceptively, dangerously calm, “to be the only one in the city, possibly on the planet who can catch this particular son of a bitch. Or, in fact, so many murdering sons of bitches. Harder yet when so many around you are inconsiderate enough to expect you to eat and sleep and have the occasional conversation. What a burden we are in your world.”

“That’s not what I mean. You know damn well—”

“I know I don’t have to stand here taking slaps because I have friends and family coming to our home. Or because you’re overstressed and jittery. So do as you please.”

He picked the comp up again, walked out.

“Jittery?” Appalled, deeply insulted, she balled her fists, stared down at the cat who stared back at her. “Where does he come off with that crap?”

Galahad turned around, stuck his tail in the air—adding further insult—and strolled out after Roarke.

“Right back at you,” she muttered. She stalked to her desk, kicked it, then ordered her computer to read out her incomings while she updated the board.

She made it nearly two minutes before she swore bitterly. “Computer, stop and save. Goddamn it.”

She started to ask the house system where he’d gone, then knew. He’d taken the evidence comp, so he’d gone to his lab.

Well, he didn’t get to walk away during a fight, and he especially didn’t get to walk away to spend time doing work for her so she’d feel shittier than she already did.

She tracked him down, shoved into his computer lab where he sat, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, a glass of wine in his hand, and his focus on the wiped comp.

“I am not jittery, and that’s a dumbass word.”

“As you like.”

“And you don’t get to do that.” She jabbed a finger at him. “You don’t get to respond in that reasonable voice that’s completely fake so I come off looking unreasonable. It’s fighting dirty.”

He spared her one cool look. “I fight as I like.”

“I don’t have time to fight. I’m trying to do my job because if I don’t somebody else is going to end up on a slab. Morris is going to start charging me rent.”

“Then go do your job, by all means, Lieutenant. I’m not standing in your way.”

“You are, too.” She snatched up his wine, took a gulp. “You’re screwing up my head, making me feel stupid and selfish and—”

“Jittery?” he suggested, and earned a burning, narrowed-eye stare.

“Call me that again, and I swear I’ll punch you.”

He stood. Nose to nose, eye to eye. “Try it. A bloody good brawl might do us both some good.”

She slapped the wineglass down again. “Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“I’d call it more a dare.” He smiled, very deliberately. “Unless you’re too jittery to follow through.”

She didn’t punch him; he’d be expecting that. Instead, she hooked her foot behind his, angled for a takedown. Which he countered, so momentum took them both down.

He tried to turn, take the brunt of the impact, but they both crashed, hard enough to jar bones on the floor of the lab. She scissored her legs, tried a roll that would’ve landed an elbow in his gut, but he’d always been slippery, and blocked it.

He used his superior weight, almost had her pinned. But she was slippery herself, slid clear. And nearly, very nearly, had her knee in his balls.

And she called his tone fighting dirty.

They grappled, rolling and bumping into stools, cabinets, each willing to take or give a few bruises, until he did manage to pin her—and she managed to press her knee, none too gently—against his balls.