Then his eyes, wickedly blue, met hers.
“Ah, here’s Eve now.” He pushed back his chair, stood long and lanky, and held a hand out to her. “Darling, come meet Judith and Oliver.”
She didn’t want to meet Judith and Oliver. She didn’t want to talk to strangers with tony Brit accents, or have all attention focused on her coming home late, probably sweaty and with blacktop grime on the knees of her trousers from her altercation with three assholes.
But she could hardly just stand there.
“Hi. Sorry to interrupt.”
Before she could think to stick it in her pocket, Roarke had her hand and pulled her another foot toward the table. “Judith and Oliver Waterstone, my wife, Eve Dallas.”
“We were so hoping to meet you.” Judith sent her a smile, sunny and bright as her hair. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
“Judith and Oliver are old friends of Summerset’s. They’re in New York for a couple of days before they travel back to England.”
“You work murder cases here in New York,” Oliver began. “It must be fascinating and difficult work.”
“It can be both.”
“I’ll get another setting.” Summerset started to rise, but Eve shook her head.
“No, don’t worry about it. I’ve got a few things to deal with.” They were, as far as she could tell, nearly finished with the meal, so what was the point of squeezing her into the party? “I just wanted to let you know I was back. So ... it was nice to meet you. Enjoy your dinner.”
She’d managed to retreat inside before Roarke caught up with her. “Eve.” He snagged her hand again, and this time tugged her in for a welcome-home kiss. “If you’ve caught something hot, I can make my excuses and come up.”
“No.” The fact that he would made her feel smaller, and crankier. “It’s nothing hot. Just—”
“Well then, come out and have some food, some wine. You’ll like these people.”
She didn’t want to like these people. She already had more people in her life than she could keep up with.
“Look, it’s been a long day, and I’m dirty and sweaty on top of it. I said I had things to deal with, so go back to your little dinner party and let me deal with them.”
She strode away, annoyance vibrating from every step. Roarke watched her. “Well then,” he murmured, and went back to his guests.
At Central, Peabody finished and filed her report, completed the murder book—and gave it a little pat.
Case closed, she thought. She’d already tagged McNab, told him she’d be late, so she took a few minutes to organize her work station as she liked to when she had the time.
As she tidied her space, she went over the stages of the investigation in her head, well satisfied, and a little bit smug. Until she remembered the punches Lowe had landed—and Eve’s critique of her hand-to-hand.
“She’s right, too,” Peabody admitted, gently rubbing her sore ear. “Definitely need to sharpen up in that area.” She considered switching bad cop with McNab to hand-to-hand practice.
But they’d just end up hot and sweaty, and having sex. Which would be good—really good—but not if she was serious about sharpening up.
She’d take an hour in the workout area, right there at Central. Set a program that would home in on her weak spots, help her improve them. Then she could grab a shower, change clothes, and be all fresh and shiny when she got home.
For some really good sex.
She headed down to her locker and, after pushing her change of clothes and workout gear into a hand duffle, made a note to remind herself to bring in a new change to replace what she took.
New deal, she told herself. An hour in the gym every day—okay that would never happen. Three times a week.
She could do three times a week. And keep it to herself, or herself and McNab. Then in maybe a month, dazzle Dallas with her light feet and lightning reflexes.
She walked to the gym that served her sector of Central, but with one foot in the door spotted half a dozen cops—buff cops—pumping, running, sparring.
She thought of her workout gear, the baggy shorts, the ugly sports bra she’d bought because it had been cheap. She thought of the size of her ass. And backed out again.