“The goddess,” she called out. “Because she might have gone for, what’s it? Irony. Maybe she amused herself with the twenty-four/seven clerk. I’ll start the runs in the car on the way, have Peabody meet me at the first address.”
“You could simply contact each of these by ’link.”
“Face-to-face is better. If there’s a face to—ha—face. If we hit, one of those faces is in the morgue and unavailable for interview. Why are there so many clothes in here? It makes me clothes-blind.”
He got up, walked to where she stood in a pair of slate-gray trousers and a support tank and a look of baffled frustration. Tapping a drawer on one of the built-ins, he glanced at the contents, pulled out a sweater with a modest V-neck.
“Try this.”
She stared suspiciously. “I was working toward black.”
He tossed the aubergine cashmere to her. “Shock the world and go for a bit of color.”
“You should talk.”
“I might be wearing red boxers as we speak.”
“Yeah?” She dragged the sweater on. “Let’s see.”
Smiling, eyebrows arched, he reached for his belt buckle. “Well now, there’s plenty of room in here, isn’t there?”
“Never mind.” She stared at the line of jackets in the gray section, decided to just save time. Waved her hand at them.
Roarke stepped over,
plucked one out that had thin cuffs of leather that matched the sweater. She might have bitched, but she had that weakness for leather, and he knew it.
He strolled to the boots, lifted a pair the precise color of the sweater. Then laughed at her horrified expression.
“It was worth it. If you never wear them, it was worth having them made just for the look on your face.”
“They’re purple.”
“Aubergine,” he corrected.
“Auber my ass, those are fricking purple boots.”
“And would look very well on you, but…” He exchanged them for a pair in more acceptable murder-cop gray.
She snatched them, carried them and the jacket out to strap on her weapon harness, to fill pockets with her daily paraphernalia.
It wasn’t until she sat to pull on the boots that it struck her. “‘Made’? Made for me? You have the boots made?”
“Someone has to.”
“I mean, specifically?”
“Why wouldn’t I? My cop walks miles on any given day, and often runs after bad guys. As we already discussed, her feet are rather precious to me.”
“Precious feet,” she grumbled. “You’re a madman.” Standing, she rolled from heel to toe and back again. “I gotta go.” On impulse, she linked her arms around his neck, finished it off with a long, deep kiss. “Catch you later.”
He held her in place a moment. “Take care of my cop.”
“I’ve got the boots for it.”
She jogged downstairs, grabbed her outdoor gear, and stepped out into the sharp jaws of February.
They really needed to work on eliminating February from the calendar, she thought as she bulleted to her car—heater already running. There had to be a way; they must have the technology.