Page 4 of Passions in Death
“You’re right. That sounds right.” She grabbed what came to hand out of her closet. Black trousers, a white tee, a black jacket, belt, boots.
As she pulled on clothes, Roarke stepped in, already dressed, with her weapon harness.
“Thanks.” She strapped it on. “Monday night—it’s Monday night, right?”
“Just tipped over into Tuesday morning.”
“Should be a slow night for the D&D. That’s how I met him.” She rushed out to snag her badge, her ’link, the communicator.
“DB across the street from his place. Nothing to do with his place, or him, but that’s how I met him. Since you’re coming, you drive. I’ll contact Peabody, get her ass up and moving.”
Other than herself, she trusted him most to drive like a wild thing all the way downtown.
As they jogged downstairs, she tried not to resent that he looked as if he’d had eight solid hours of sleep, probably with a massage beforehand. The impossibly blue eyes alert, that black silk mane of hair somehow perfect.
He wouldn’t have given a moment’s thought to the clothes he’d put on, and yet they looked exactly right on that tall, rangy frame.
It could be a pisser to wake up after less than an hour down beside an Irish god.
He’d already remoted her vehicle from the garage, so it waited outside the Irish god’s castle.
After strapping into the passenger seat, she gave another finger swipe to her hair, then pressed the heels of her hands to her long, whiskey-colored eyes.
Everything felt like a pisser, she admitted as he all but flew down the long drive to the gates that opened on his approach.
Coffee would fix that.
She programmed two—strong and black—from the in-dash AutoChef.
At that first life-giving glug, some of the clouds lifted. She reminded herself she’d recently had a long weekend on Roarke’s private island.
Just the two of them and sun, surf, sand, sex.
What did she have to bitch about?
Having a friend report a dead body at not quite one in the morning? Yeah, bitch-worthy, but that was the job.
Plus, she got to give her partner the same treatment.
She drank more coffee, let it perform its miracles, then contacted Peabody.
“Yeah, Peabody. What?”
“Jesus, block video. I don’t need to see your tits.”
“They’re quite lovely,” Roarke commented, and earned the hard eye from Eve.
“Oh, sorry, block video. We got caught up purging and packing for the Big Move. We practically just went down. Who’s dead?”
“Don’t know the who, but the where is the Down and Dirty.”
Eve clearly heard McNab—EDD ace and the second half of Peabody’s “we”—curse.
She supposed there were Friendship Rules just like there were Marriage Rules. She’d have two detectives on scene.
“Is Crack okay?”
“He called it in. Pull it together, get there.”
