Page 109 of Festive in Death

“Absolutely not. Don’t you have a date or something?”

“A man can’t bring a date to this kind of shindig. It’s too symbolic of serious business this close to Christmas. And it prevents him from trolling the single females.”

“So that’s actually true, on both sides of the line. Huh?”

“Since it’s a party, and also true, I’m gonna tell you you look incendiary. Love the ass tat.”

“What are you doing looking at my ass, Detective?”

“Because it’s there,” he said, unrepentant. “All wrapped in pretty gold, and we’re off duty and it’s a safe ass to look at as it’s married.”

“Oddly, I find those all reasonable answers, but stop it and look at someone else’s ass.”

“Yes, sir. Want some of this?” He took a flute off a passing tray.

“Why the hell not?” As she sipped, she spotted Roarke, smiling as he leaned down to kiss Mavis.

“It’s nice,” Baxter said with an easy, contented sigh, “when the family gets together.”

She glanced up at him. A damn good cop, she thought, and not nearly as superficial as he liked to pretend.

“One dance,” she decided. “And keep your hands off my ass.”

•••

She did see Feeney dance, as promised. It amused her to see him hold his own with the ridiculously energetic Peabody and McNab. When he shed his suit coat for a second round, Eve picked it up, checked the size.

“I want to get him a magic coat,” she said to Roarke. “I should’ve thought of it before. Maybe he’s not in the field much like he used to be, but he should have one. Shit brown because he wears a lot of shit brown, so he must like it. Can we get him a magic coat?”

“Of course we can. Forty-two regular in shit brown.”

“Good.” She slipped an arm around his waist, let her head rest lightly against his shoulder. “My feet are fucking killing me.”

“A number of the ladies have shed their shoes. You could do the same if you didn’t have this naked-feet-in-public phobia.”

“Feet are personal. I don’t know why nobody gets that.”

Amused, in love, he brushed his lips over her temple. “The crowd’s thinning a bit. We can find a table, sit for a while, till it thins more.”

“It’s okay. They’re past the if-I-can-just-sit-down stage. It’s like family, like Baxter said to me before. Some of them are your family, some mine, some ours, but luckily, for tonight, they’re all getting along fine. Plus, they’re intermixing, so we’ll see how that goes. Santiago might end up playing ball with one of your guys. Baxter’s going to end up sleeping with that blonde over there from your R&D. Caro and Mira had their heads together like sisters or whatever. Lots of that kind of thing going on tonight.”

“How do you feel about that intermixing?”

“I’m okay with it. Wasn’t sure, but I’m okay with it. Still, after tonight, I don’t want to talk to anybody but cops, suspects, wits, and you. Not in that order, but that’s pretty much it for me. For as long as possible.”

“Understood. We could whittle that down considerably. Do I have to negotiate with you to convince you to take a post–New Year’s break. You, me, an island.”

“I’m there. As long as—”

“Also understood. Cases cleared, no pursuit of some mad killer in progress.”

“Being married to a cop sucks.”

“You’re entirely wrong.”

Because she knew he meant it, she smiled. “Do you think McNab could be a genuine freak of nature? Nobody should be able to move or twist that way if they have actual bones and a spine. Maybe I should ask DeWinter. Who’s not involved romantically with Morris, which is good, but is his friend, which is also good. Plus, I learned tonight you’re not supposed to date over the holidays unless you’re deadly serious because of the symbolism and madness, and Santiago played shortstop. And Trueheart and his girlfriend must be serious because they had their tongues down each other’s throats during the holidays, and you have some guy, some exec, who considers knitting his religion.”

“My, my, Lieutenant. You’ve mingled.”

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