Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

“Don’t be so sure of that.”

She shrugged, regretted the movement as her shoulder sang a little tune. “Maybe. And you weren’t around to punch.”

“From the look of the droid, I can be grateful for that.”

She winced, but not from physical pain. “You saw?”

“A glimpse. There, that’s better.”

“It’s not so bad.” She tapped her lip. “Droid’s outfitted with gel gloves, so they cushion it some. Listen, I know they’re supposed to start work on the new dojo in a few days, but—”

“You’re concerned,” he interrupted, “with having anyone who’s not us, or ours, in the house. You needn’t be on this. I know everyone who’ll be on the crew, and have already contacted the job boss, told him no substitutes unless I clear them, personally.”

“Still . . .”

“The men and women who’ll start after the first of the year depend on the job and the pay. Why don’t I give you their names and data, a list of them? You can run them all, satisfy yourself.”

“Which you already have. All screened.”

“I have, yes. But you’d feel better about it doing the same yourself.”

“I would, yeah. On that same note, I’m hoping to use your comp lab later.”

“You?”

She deserved that, Eve thought, considering her comp skills. “Potentially we, but I can handle what I’ve got in mind. But I want that shower first.” She started toward the bathroom, glanced over her shoulder. “You should come wash my back.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“I call it finishing off some physical therapy—and you getting lucky.”

In the bath she peeled out of her tank, wriggled out of her shorts, then stepped into the enormous open shower. She ordered jets on full—and the temperature at 102.

She’d boil his balls, Roarke thought, resigned. Then again, his hot, wet, willing wife would be worth it.

He studied the long, lean length of her back as he undressed. She had a faint bruise at the right kidney, a moderately darker one on her left hip. The way she rolled her shoulder before she lifted her arms to slick back her wet hair told him it gave her some trouble.

Bruised and bloodied, he thought, not in the line, but snug at home and voluntarily.

“Couldn’t find some handy street thief to pummel?” he asked when he stepped in behind her.

“On the holo tread, I did. Two of them. I like the new program.”

“I thought you would.” And as he was nothing if not a considerate husband, he tapped the dispenser, took a palmful of silky liquid soap. “You should try the rural one.”

“Why would I?”

He stroked the soap over her back. “It might break through your baffling fear of cows.”

“I don’t need a breakthrough. They stay where they are, I stay where I am.”

“A psychopath’s taken a family hostage. You have to reach the farmhouse, take him out before he blows it up, and the family with it.”

She angled her head around, intrigued. “Where are the cows?”

“In the fields you have to cross to get to the house.”

“Sneaky.”