Interlude in Death (In Death 12.50)

“Can I have that wine or whatever the hell it is?”

“Sure.” Obliging, he carried it over, set it on the wide lip behind her head.

“Thanks. I’ve gotta say, this is some…” She trailed off, pressed her fingers to her temple.

“Eve? Headache?” He reached out, concerned, and found himself flipping into the water with her.

When he surfaced, she was grinning, and her hand was cupped possessively between his legs. “Sucker,” she said.

“Pervert.”

“Oh, yeah. Let me show you how I finish off this little restorative program, ace.”

Restored, and smug, she took a quick spin in the drying tube. If she was going to live only a few more days before crashing into a stray meteor and being burned to a cinder by exploding rocket fuel on the flight back home, she might as well make the best of it.

She snagged a robe, wrapped herself in it, and strolled back into the bedroom.

Roarke, already wearing trousers, was scanning what looked like encoded symbols as they scrolled across the screen of the bedroom tele-link. Her dress, at least she assumed it was a dress, was laid out on the bed.

She frowned at the sheer flow of bronze, walked over to finger the material. “Did I pack this?”

“No.” He didn’t bother to glance back, he could see her suspicious scowl clearly enough in his mind. “You packed several days’ worth of shirts and trousers. Summerset made some adjustments in your conference wardrobe.”

“Summerset.” The name hissed like a snake between her lips. Roarke’s major domo was a major pain in her ass. “You let him paw through my clothes? Now I have to burn them.”

Though he’d made considerable adjustments to her wardrobe in the past year, there were, in his opinion, several items left that deserved burning. “He rarely paws. We’re running a little behind,” he added. “The cocktail reception started ten minutes ago.”

“Just an excuse for a bunch of cops to get shit-faced. Don’t see why I have to get dressed up for it.”

“Image, darling Eve. You’re a featured speaker and one of the event’s VIPs.”

“I hate that part. It’s bad enough when I have to go to your deals.”

“You shouldn’t be nervous about your seminar.”

“Who said I’m nervous?” She snatched up the dress. “Can you see through this thing?”

His lips quirked. “Not quite.”

Not quite” was accurate, she decided. The getup felt thin as a cloud, and that was good for comfort. The flimsy layers of it barely shielded the

essentials. Still, as her fashion sense could be etched on a microchip with room to spare, she had to figure Roarke knew what he was doing.

At the sound of the mixed voices rolling out of the ballroom as they approached, Eve shook her head. “I bet half of them are already in the bag. You’re serving prime stuff in there, aren’t you?”

“Only the best for our hardworking civil servants.” Knowing his woman, Roarke took her hand and pulled her through the open doorway.

The ballroom was huge, and packed. They’d come from all over the planet, and its satellites. Police officials, technicians, expert consultants. The brains and the brawn of law enforcement.

“Doesn’t it make you nervous to be in the same room with, what, about four thousand cops?” she asked him.

“On the contrary, Lieutenant,” he said laughingly. “I feel very safe.”

“Some of these guys probably tried to put you away once upon a time.”

“So did you.” Now he took her hand and, before she could stop him, kissed it. “Look where it got you.”

“Dallas!” Officer Delia Peabody, decked out in a short red dress instead of her standard starched uniform, rushed up. Her dark bowl of hair had been fluffed and curled. And, Eve noted, the tall glass in her hand was already half empty.