“I’m glad to see at least that much hasn’t changed.” Ricker gestured his man back. “But you can hardly expect me to have a drink without some basic precautions.”
“Have one of the sweepers scan me and the booth. If that doesn’t satisfy, fuck yourself. It’s my place now.”
A muscle in Ricker’s cheek jumped, and he felt the rush of heat through his gut. But he nodded. “I never cared for that Irish temper of yours, however colorful. But as you say, it’s your place. For the moment.”
&nbs
p; “All right,” Eve said. “They’re moving to the booth. Feeney, tell me his system’s going to override their scan.”
“It overrode mine. I asked him to show me the design, but he just smiled.” He swiveled toward a secondary monitor. “Look, see, their sweep’s coming up clean, getting just what Roarke said it would get and nothing else. Now we’ll settle us down for a little alcoholic refreshment and conversation.”
“Peabody,” Eve said, reading off the weapons scan. “Your man is left end of the bar, mixed race, black suit. Five-ten, a hundred fifty, shoulder-length black hair. He’s armed with a police-issue laser, waist holster. Got him?”
At Peabody’s nod, she continued. “Everyone keep individual targets in close visual range, but do not move in, do not move in to apprehend or disarm until ordered. Martinez, your man is . . .”
“Your droid squad stays out of the booth,” Roarke said as he stepped into the tube. “I don’t talk business with an audience.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Ricker moved into the privacy dome, sat as the opening whisked shut behind him.
He had what he wanted now, what he’d planned for over the years. Roarke would beg. Roarke would fall. And if he struggled too hard, too long, the laser scalpel up Ricker’s left sleeve would carve considerable regret in that young and handsome face.
“Hell of a view,” he commented as the dancers spun onstage. “You always did have a taste for women. A weakness for them.”
“True enough. As I recall, you just like to knock them around. You put bruises on my wife.”
“Did I?” Ricker asked innocently. Oh, this is what he craved, what he’d been itching for. So very long. “How careless of me. Does she know we’re having this conversation, or does she let you keep your balls now and then?”
Roarke took out his cigarettes, tapping one on the table as he met Ricker’s sneer. An inner struggle showed on his face and made Ricker laugh. Then Roarke turned to the menu. “Whiskey,” he ordered, lifted a brow.
“The same, for old times’ sake.”
“Two whiskeys. Jameson’s. Doubles, and straight up.” Then he sat back, lighted the cigarette. “And I’ll say this straight up, and that’s for old times’ sake as well. My marriage stays out of your reach.”
Roarke’s voice took on an edge; then he paused as if to control it. “You’ve tried for my wife, and she’s tossed what you’ve sent at her back at you.”
“She’s been lucky.” But Ricker’s mouth was tight as he reached for one of the glasses of amber liquid that came through the serving slot. “Luck eventually breaks.”
Roarke’s hand shot out. As if he caught himself at the last moment, he drew it back, glancing out toward the guard who had moved closer, whose own hand had drifted under his coat.
“What do you want in trade for a guarantee of her safety?”
“Ah.” Pleased, Ricker sat back again. “That’s a reasonable question. But why, I wonder, should you think I’d offer a reasonable answer to it?”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Roarke said quickly. Too quickly for pride or business sense.
“That will take some doing.” Thrilled, already desperate to push, he leaned forward. “You see, I find I enjoy hurting your wife.”
“Listen—”
“No, you’ll listen. You’ll shut that arrogant mouth of yours as I should have shut it for you years ago, and you’ll listen. Do you understand?”
“The man must have a death wish.”
Roarke heard Feeney’s voice clearly enough, appreciated the truth of his observation. He fisted both hands on the table, let his breath in and out audibly. “Yes, I understand. Just give me some terms, damn it. We’re businessmen. Tell me what you want.”
“Please.”
Christ, you miserable prick, Roarke thought. Carefully, he cleared his throat, picked up his whiskey. Drank. “Please. Tell me what you want.”