Page 120 of Festive in Death

“Of course it must be Shipshewana.”

“Then, work your way out to the cities as you gain ground, eliminate the populations.” She took a long, happy drink of wine. “You’d think if they could get here from wherever the hell, they’d be smarter.”

“Lucky for us, for Shipshewana, and the planet, they aren’t.”

“I’ll say. Who wants an implant shoved into the base of your skull to control your thoughts and deeds?”

“Not I.”

“And what do the aliens accomplish?” Wound up, she drilled a finger in his chest. “Sure they level some cities, kill a bunch of people—and there’s always at least one of those people who tries to negotiate with them.”

“Fools.”

“You bet. After they destroy New York or New L.A. or East Washington, because those are usually prime targets, the survivors end up uniting the fractured world, creating heros out of the ordinary, and helping a couple of really pretty, bloodied, and sweaty people to find true love and hot sex.”

“Looking at it that way, we should hope for an alien invasion.”

She set her popcorn bowl aside, shifted over a little onto her hip. “We don’t need one. We found all that already without them.”

“And I didn’t have to risk being vaporized to get you here.”

“True, but that’s not a bad way to go, right? Getting vaporized is quick. You wouldn’t even know it, just ppsssht! Gone. Better than getting run over by a maxibus or barely surviving an air crash, or getting bitten in half by a shark. Then there’s—”

“Quiet.” He stopped her mouth with his, added a dance of his fingers along her ribs to make her laugh.

He rolled her over, then under him, pleased himself by ravishing her neck, her throat.

Galahad squawked, then hit the floor with a sharp ring of collar bells.

Sinking, she slid her bare foot up and down Roarke’s leg, angling her head to give him freer access before turning back again to offer her lips.

She twined and twisted her fingers in his hair, felt lazy and loose. Wine fogged her brain; pleasure misted it. She embraced both, embraced him.

The screen switched to its holding hum as the vid credits ended. Now she heard the quiet pop and crackle of the fire, the whisper of their movements in the nest of the sofa.

The tree’s lights shimmered as the short day slipped into the long night.

He peeled off her sweater, slid down to possess her breasts with his mouth, his hands. As those mists thickened and swirled, she pressed up, stirring more heat. Moaning with it, she tugged at his shirt.

“Off, off. Too many clothes.”

She found his mouth with hers again as she fought off the shirt.

She had her teeth on his shoulder; he had her trousers halfway down her legs. Her communicator beeped.

“Ah, bloody hell” was his breathless and bitter response.

“I didn’t hear anything. Don’t stop—” It beeped again. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit.”

She dragged herself from under him, stumbled toward the table as she struggled to yank up her trousers.

“Block video,” she ordered. “Fuck. Fuck. Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

She muttered, “Why?” Then with her trousers still unsecured, sat on the table.

“Report to 18 Vandam. One person dead, another injured. Possible homicide.”

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