New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

He watched her storm around the room and wondered if she knew she was gloriously naked, and absolutely shining with outrage. And watching her he felt more at peace than he had since she’d walked into his office in New York days before.

“I’m not putting up with this,” she continued. “You can’t even go out and buy up a solar system without worrying I’ll fall apart. How are you supposed to get anything done?”

“Actually, I’m not in the market for a solar system right at the moment.”

“Bad things happen, who knows better? Bad, unspeakable, ugly things happen whether you deserve them or not. Your father was a bastard, and he put you through hell, but you don’t sit around whining about it.”

“No. Neither do you.”

“That’s right.” She jabbed a finger at him. “That’s fucking-A right, and it’s just more crap that needs to be flushed. I am not a whiner. I’m not weak and stupid. I’m a goddamn cop.”

“To the bone.”

“Damn straight, so this subconscious shit better latch the hell on because I’m done letting it kick me around. I’m done letting it put that look on your face. I’m a goddamn cop, and it doesn’t matter why I am or how I am. What matters is doing the job, doing it right, doing it smart, doing it all the way through. What matters is you and me. What matters is you, because I fucking love you.”

“I fucking love you, too.”

“Bet your ass, you do, and you wouldn’t have fallen for some sniveling coward.”

“I wouldn’t,” he agreed. “I didn’t.”

“So.” She took her first clear breath. “That’s it. That’s settled.”

She slapped her hands on her hips, then looked down with a frown as flesh met flesh. “I’m naked.”

“Are you really?” He felt a laugh in his chest, a marvelous sensation. “Well, so you are. I don’t mind a bit.”

“I bet.” She snatched up the robe he’d obviously laid at the foot of the bed before he’d gone off to try to work. She punched

her arms through the sleeves. “I’m so pissed off.”

“Is that a fact?”

She went to the AutoChef, programmed two coffees. Then, studying the cat, who studied her, added a bowl of milk. She set the bowl on the floor, carried the coffee to Roarke.

“Thanks.”

“I’m not saying you can’t worry. Worry’s part of the deal, I get it. But I don’t want to be responsible for worry weighing you down like it has since we got here.”

“You’re not responsible.”

“I let it screw me up, so it screwed you up. I’ve got to get a handle on it. My mommy didn’t love me, well boo-frigging-hoo.”

He drew her down beside him. “We both know it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Whatever, I’m not letting her get me so tangled up I can’t think straight. I keep you on edge. And no more guilt. If you’re going to be guilty it’s going to be about something I want to punch you for, not for getting some work done one flight up.”

“What matters is you—as you said to me. But I’ll try not to feel guilty unless it’s a punchable offense.”

He draped an arm around her as they sat drinking coffee. “You slept well,” he commented, “until the last.”

“Credit the full spaghetti-and-meatballs treatment. Who won the game?”

“I haven’t a clue. I was right behind you.”

“So we both got some sleep, that’s a good start. Let’s make a deal. Let’s get this son of a bitch and go home.”

“Gladly.”