Golden in Death(9)

And yes, he looked at her in that way—but she saw relief bloom over it.

“And there she is,” he began, with that wonderful whisper of Ireland in his voice.

“I’m sorry.”

Even as he put the book aside and rose, she walked to him, wrapped around him, held hard. “I’m sorry.”

“For being late?” Now she heard surprise as she burrowed into him. “Come now, Lieutenant, that’s part of the job, isn’t it?”

“For not making a hundred percent sure you knew I was okay. For not making sure you weren’t worried I wasn’t.”

“Ah.” He brushed his lips over the top of her head, drew her back. “That’s part of the job as well. My part. There will be worry, darling Eve. But now…” He skimmed his thumb over the shallow dent in her chin, leaned in to kiss her—long and warm. “You’re home. So sit a moment with the cat, as Galahad’s had some concerns of his own. I’ll get you some wine.”

No bitching, no guilt trips, just wine and welcome. And a fat cat. So she’d sit for a minute, because he didn’t just bring trips to Italy, real coffee, superior sex, and all manner of things into her life.

He brought this, the balance.

She gave the cat some strokes, a belly scratch when he stirred himself to roll over. And took the wine.

“They cleared me right at the scene.”

“So you told me.” Still those wildly, gloriously blue eyes studied her face before he lifted her hand, kissed it. “Have they identified the toxin?”

“I need to check, but not since I checked an hour ago. The body wasn’t discovered until after sixteen hundred when the spouse got home from work. They wouldn’t have started the process until … probably an hour ago. Protocols to follow, and all that.”

“You won’t have eaten.”

“We were pretty busy.”

“I imagine. Let’s have a meal now, and you can tell me about all this.”

“‘Let’s’? Haven’t you had dinner already?”

“I haven’t, no.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “There was worry.”

“Wait.” She tightened her grip on his hands. “I’m going to promise you that I won’t lie or downplay something that happens, if I’m in trouble or something’s really wrong. I’ll be straight with you.”

“All right then.”

She studied that amazing face of his. “And you’ll worry anyway.”

“Yes, of course. But that’s appreciated. Now, I made a bargain with myself—or fate—to your benefit. That when you came home to me, there would be pepperoni pizza.”

She brightened right up. “Really?”

“Such is the depth of my love I’m not insisting you eat a side of good vegetables.”

“If you asked me to, right now, I’d eat them. So, same goes.”

“You could have them on the pizza.”

She shot him a—sincere—horrified look. “You’d ruin a perfectly good pizza?”

“I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He rose, strolled into the kitchen, so she sat another moment indulging the cat before taking their glasses, the bottle of wine over to the table.

She looked out through the glass doors to the little balcony and beyond. And the scent of pizza hit her empty stomach like a fever dream.

“I know if there was only pizza, I’d get tired of it,” she decided. “But it would probably take a couple decades.”

She sat with him, grabbed a slice. “Pretty soon it’ll be warm enough to open those doors when we eat. It’ll be nice.”

Her ’link signaled. “Sorry. Reo?”

“Warrant’s coming through—restricted. No medical records at this time. Is that pizza? Damn it, now I want pizza.”

“Get your own. Thanks for the quick work.”

Eve put her ’link away.

“Your victim was a doctor, I hear,” Roarke said.

“Pediatrician. Married for nearly forty years. His husband found him. Private school headmaster. They’ve got kids, grandkids.”

She picked up her wine. “Messed up my crime scene. He tried to revive him. The victim had been dead since morning, and he didn’t die pretty, but the husband tried to bring him back before he called for help.”

“Would you blame him?”

“No.” She looked up, into that face carved by clever angels on a particularly generous day, into those magic blue eyes. “Maybe I would have a few years ago. Not now. They loved each other. You could see it, all over the house, see it in the survivor’s grief. You have to step back from it. It can still put a crack in your heart, but you’ve got to step back.”

“How was it delivered? The toxin.”

“Global Post and Packages, overnight A.M.”

“A package? That’s … bold. You have the delivery person?”

“She’s not in it. She’s clean, and she liked them. That came across. Their neighbors liked them. The canvass turned up nothing except some shock, some fear, some grief. Everything so far points to the victim being a nice man, a good neighbor, somebody who kept fit—he ran, lifted—and was apparently on his way out when the package came. So he took it inside, back in the kitchen, opened it.”