"I really hate when that happens." When he only grinned at her, she blew out a breath. "Anyway, she had the afternoon shift, got off just before five. From what we can tell, she went straight home -- she ran a scan on her AutoChef at six, just about the time the outside camera picked up this bastard going into the building."
Eve stared into her wine. "I'd say she missed dinner, too."
"He's working quickly."
"And having a jolly old time with it. Looks to me like he wants to make his quota by New Year's. I need to run her 'link, her finances, her personal records. I've got to check out the pin. I'm getting nowhere with the Santa suit or the garland. How the hell do I connect a sweet administrative assistant to a lap dancer?"
"I know that tone." With that he turned and moved to his console. "Let's see what we can do."
"I didn't say anything about you running scans."
He flicked a glance in her direction. "It was implied. What was her name?"
"It was not implied. Sarabeth -- one word, noh -- Greenbalm." She walked over to stand with him behind the console. "I was simply running through my thoughts out loud. The address is 23B West One Hundred and Twelve."
"Got it. What do you want first?"
"I can run her 'link in the morning. Go with either personal or financial."
"Financial would take you longer, let's start with that."
"No showing off," Eve warned, then laughed when he snaked a hand around her waist and pulled her against his side.
"Of course I'm going to show off. Subject, Sarabeth Greenbalm," he began, then nuzzled at Eve's throat. "Residing West One Hundred and Twelve." His hand slid up to cup her breast. "All financial records, latest transactions first."
Working. ..
"Now," he murmured, and turned Eve until their bodies meshed. "I should just have enough time to ..." His mouth swooped down, drawing deeply from hers and sending the top of her head spinning somewhere near the lofty ceiling.
Data complete.
"Well." He nipped her bottom lip. "Maybe not quite enough time. Your data, Lieutenant."
She cleared her throat, exhaled. "You're good." Exhaled again. "I mean you're really good."
"I know." And because she was just a bit off balance yet, he sat, pulling her until she tumbled into his lap.
"Hey, I'm working here."
"Me, too." Swiveling her to face front, he began to nibble at the back of her neck. "I'll work on this, you work on that."
"I can't while you're ..." She hunched her shoulders, stifled a chuckle, and tried to concentrate on the data on screen. "Rent's her biggest expense, followed by clothes. She's got most of them marked costume for taxes. Stop it!" She slapped at the clever fingers that had already unbuttoned her blouse to the navel.
"You don't need your shirt to read data," he said reasonably and began sliding it off her shoulders.
"Look, pal, I'm still wearing my clutch piece, so -- " She sprang to her feet, making him mutter an oath. "Shit, shit. There it is. Son of a bitch. There's the link."
Resigned, he tucked away thoughts of seducing her and turned his attention to the screen. "Where?"
"There. Three thousand to Personally Yours by electronic transaction, six weeks ago."
Her eyes were hot now, not with passion but power, as she swung around to face him. "She and Hawley used the same dating service. That's not a coincidence. That's a connection. I need her matches," she murmured, then catching Roarke's inquiring look, she shook her head. "No, we'll do it the right way. By the book. I'll go in tomorrow and get them."
"It wouldn't take me long to access."
"It's not legal." She struggled to keep her face stern when that grin of his beamed at her. "And it's not your job. But I appreciate it."
"How much?"