Calculated in Death (In Death 36)

For everything, he thought as he slipped slowly inside her. For all. Forever.

Because he filled her, lifted her, loved her, she floated away. And linking her hand with his, floated away with him.

BETTER, EVE THOUGHT, WHEN SHE SWITCHED to work mode. She wouldn’t want to go hand-to-hand with a Zeused-up chemi-head, but she could if she had to.

And she was pretty sure, considering the circumstances, she could talk Roarke into pizza and brainstorming at her desk.

In her office she went for caffeine—cold-style in a tube of Pepsi—while he had another glass of wine. And for comfort in one of her oldest T-shirts, a pair of navy flannel pants, and thick socks.

If work didn’t beckon, it was just the sort of thing she’d put on to curl up with Roarke and watch one of his old vids.

But work beckoned.

“So I thought I could bounce some things off you while—”

“Didn’t we just do that in the tub?”

“Perv.” She gestured with her icy tube toward her board. “I’m getting a more rounded picture of some of the players, from your POV. A business guy’s POV. Maybe, using that same POV I can get some more hypotheticals, run more probabilities.”

“We can do that.”

“Great. We can bounce and eat. Let’s keep it simple, just grab some pizza.”

“We can’t do that. I’d say the evening calls for something a bit more nutritious after the day you had.”

“I’m not that hungry.” She felt her cheesy pie slipping out of reach. “I feel okay. Plus, pizza gets a bad nutrition rap.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” With that, he left her for the kitchen.

Probably in there programming gruel or broth, she thought, with a little bitterness. And she felt stuck as he’d taken care of her, and was—as usual—willing to devote a large portion of his evening to her work.

So she’d choke down the stupid gruel.

She went to her board, did some additions, some rearranging.

She couldn’t see, not really, the difference between her top suspects. On the surface, sure, plenty of differences, but she didn’t get them.

She pulled out her pocket ’link when it signaled, noted Peabody on the display. “Yeah?”

“Hey, I’m sending you my notes from the interviews with the exes. I don’t know how much light they shed, but I can tell you I got an earful from Biden’s last ex. Can you spell bitter?”

She glanced over as Roarke brought something out from the kitchen—thought of pizza vs. gruel. “Yeah, I can.”

“Whitestone’s last serious relationship’s mostly sad, a little resentful. It’s the ‘Spent more time at work and with his friends than with me’ routine. Ingersol doesn’t really have a genuine ex. More like several women he sees or stops seeing off and on. The upshot there is fun guy, but commitment phobic.”

“I’ll look at it,” she said as Roarke went out, came in again.

“I didn’t hit up Newton’s fiancée, figuring she’s only going to tell me the good, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try for some juice on him. I tried a couple of her friends.”

“That’s a good angle.”

“I thought it would be—and if happy, in love, suited, perfect for each other, adorable, and so on are what we’re after, it was a great angle. Just no dish in that area.”

“No dish is still information.”

“Okay, I really tagged you to see how you were. Are you okay?”

“I’m good.”