‘Right. Know what does it?’
‘Food,’ she ordered from the server droid. ‘Any kind and lots of it. Table three. What does what, Peabody?’
‘What does it. It. What you and Roarke got, that’s what does it. Connection. Inside connections. Sex is just the extra.’
‘Sure. You and Casto having problems?’
‘Nope. Just don’t have much connection now that the case is closed.’ Peabody shook her head and lights exploded in front of her eyes. ‘Jesus, I’m plowed. Gotta use the john.’
‘I’ll go with you.’
‘I can do it myself.’ With some dignity, Peabody nudged Eve’s hand from her arm. ‘I don’t care to vomit in front of a superior officer, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Suit yourself.’
But Eve watched her like a hawk as she toddled across the floor. They’d been at it nearly three hours, she judged. And though fun was fun, she was going to get some food into her little playmates and see that they all got transport home.
Smiling, she leaned on the bar herself, watching Nadine, still wearing purple briefs, sitting at the table having an earnest discussion with Dr. Mira. Trina had her head on the table now and was probably communing with the Dhali Lama.
Mavis, eyes shining, was onstage, screeching out an impromptu number that had the dance floor rocking.
Damn it, she thought as she felt her throat burn. She loved the whole snockered lot of them. Peabody included, she decided, and opted to take a short peek into the toilet to make sure her aide hadn’t passed out or drowned.
She made it nearly halfway across the club before she was grabbed. As it had been happening on and off all evening as hopeful clubgoers trolled for partners, she started to shake off good-naturedly.
‘Try again, ace. Not interested. Hey!’ The quick pinch on her arm annoyed more than hurt. But her vision was already wavering as she was muscled through the hooting crowd and shoved into a privacy room.
‘Goddamn it, I said I wasn’t interested.’ She started to reach for her badge, missed her pocket completely. At a gentle nudge, she spilled backward onto a narrow bed.
‘Take a rest, Eve. We have to talk.’ Casto dropped down next to her and crossed his feet at the ankles.
Roarke wasn’t in a partygoing mood, but as Feeney had gone to some trouble to create a monstrously hedonistic atmosphere, he played his part. It was a hall of sorts, crowded with men, many of whom were surprised to find themselves participating in such a pagan ritual. Still, Feeney, with his electronic expertise, had ferreted out some of Roarke’s closer business associates, and none had wanted to risk offending someone of Roarke’s stature with a refusal.
So there they were, the rich, the famous, and the scrambling, pressed into a badly lit room with life-size screens flickering with naked bodies in various, imaginative acts of sexual frenzy, a trio of live strippers already entertainingly naked, and enough beer and whiskey to sink the Seventh Fleet and all its crew.
Roarke had to admit it had been a nice gesture and was doing his best to live up to Feeney’s expectations as a man on his final night of freedom.
‘There you are, boy-o, another whiskey for you.’ After several of the Irish himself, Feeney had slipped comfortably into the brogue of the country he’d never seen - that indeed his great-great-grandparents had never set foot on. ‘Up the rebels, eh?’
Roarke cocked a brow. He himself had been born in Dublin and had spent most of his youth wandering its streets and alleys. Yet he couldn’t claim the sentimental attachment Feeney did for a land and its rebellions. ‘Slainte,’ he said to please his friend, and sipped.
‘There’s a lad. Now you see here, Roarke, the ladies among us are for looking purposes only. No touching for you now.’
‘I’ll do my best to restrain myself.’
Feeney grinned and slapped Roarke on the back hard enough to stagger him. ‘She’s a prize, isn’t she? Our Dallas.’
‘She’s . . .’ Roarke scowled into his whiskey. ‘Something,’ he decided.
‘Keep you on your toes, she will. Keeps them all on their toes. Got a mind like a fucking shark. You know, focused on one thing till the thing’s done. Tell you straight, this last case had her bug-shit.’
‘She hasn’t let it go,’ Roarke murmured, and smiled coolly when a naked blonde sidled up to rub her hands up his chest. ‘You’ll have better luck with that one,’ he told her, gesturing to a glaze-eyed man in charcoal gray pinstripes. ‘He owns Stoner Dynamics.’
When she looked blank, Roarke gently disengaged the hands that were gliding cheerfully toward his crotch. ‘He’s loaded.’
She shimmied off, leaving Feeney gazing wistfully after her. ‘I’m a happily married man, Roarke.’
‘So I’ve been told.’