“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.”
“Damn straight. It took considerable champagne consumption, but I held up my end.”
He gave her ass a light pat. “Beautifully.”
She held up her end, if she said so herself, through the leave-taking where entirely too many people insisted on hugging her. Because they were slightly more than half lit, and it was simple, Summerset poured Peabody and McNab into one of the guest rooms he’d prepped, and that was fine with her.
As she expected, Baxter and the blonde left together, and with twin gleams in their eyes.
When the last straggler was out the door, Eve hobbled to the bedroom, pried her abused feet out of the shoes, winced her way into the bathroom to use the gunk Trina had left her to take off the gunk Trina put on her.
She stripped off the jewelry, remembered the hair thing, fought it out, dragged and raked her fingers through her hair until it felt normal. She stripped off the dress, the thong, grabbed a long, baggy T-shirt and fell into bed.
“What time is it? No, don’t tell me. Yes, tell me.”
“It’s about half three.”
“God.”
The cat walked up the bed, jingling, sniffed at her, climbed over her, and made himself a nest in the small of her back.
Roarke slid in, kissed her between the eyebrows.
“Did my part,” she said, words slurring. “Not so bad.”
And dropped away to sleep like the dead.
• • •
She woke alone, which was no surprise—and even less of one when she checked the time. After ten? Ten?