The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [493]
Eve let out a heavy sigh. He’d hit her exactly where she lived. “I understand codes. Living by them, living up to them. I also understand mistakes. I know you didn’t do it on purpose, and you’d probably bite off your own tongue before you discussed this with anyone but me. But I barely know you, and it’s hard having someone who’s practically a stranger look at me and see that kind of . . . ugliness.”
“Do you think I see ugliness when I look at you?” His hand came out of his pocket, started to reach for her, then retreated. “I don’t. I saw the ugliness of a memory, the horror no child should know exists much less experience. I’m not a violent man, by nature or creed, but I wish I could . . .”
He trailed off, his face flushed with fury, the hand at his side balled into a fist that looked oddly capable.
“I wish I could do what any father should do.” He steadied himself, opened his fist again. “But when I look at you I see strength and courage and purpose beyond anything I’ve ever known. I see my daughter’s friend, a woman I trust with my child’s life. I know you’re going back there tomorrow. Roarke said you were going to Dallas. I’ll pray for you.”
She stared at him. “Does anyone manage to stay pissed-off at you?”
His smile was slow, tentative. “Phoebe manages it for short spaces of time.”
“Then she’s tougher than she looks. We’ll put it away,” she said, and held out a hand.
When she walked inside, she saw Summerset polishing the newel post while the cat sat like a furry Buddha on the bottom step. They both gave her a long, gimlet stare.
“Your bag is packed for your trip. Roarke indicated a single day’s supply of clothing would be sufficient.
“I’ve told you, I pack for myself. I don’t want you poking your bony fingers through my things.” She stepped over the cat, who studiously ignored her, froze. Then her hand whipped out and latched on the end of Summerset’s polishing rag. “That’s my shirt.”
“I beg to differ.” He’d counted on her making the ID. “While this may, at one time very long ago, have masqueraded as an article of clothing, it is now a rag. One which had somehow found its way into your bureau and has been removed and put to its only possible use.”
“Give me my goddamn shirt, you pruny, skinny-assed cockroach.”
She tugged. He tugged back.
“You have a number of perfectly respectable shirts.”
“I want this shirt.”
“This is a rag.” They yanked at opposite ends, and the cloth ripped handily down the middle. “Now,” he said with satisfaction, “it’s two rags.”
Eve snarled, and balling what was left of an ancient NYPSD T-shirt in her fist, stomped up the stairs. “Stay out of my drawers, you pervert, or I’ll bite your fingers off at the knuckles.”
“There now,” Summerset addressed to the cat. “Isn’t it nice to know the Lieutenant will go off on this difficult trip in a good frame of mind?”
She stormed into the bedroom, heaved the ripped cloth just as Roarke stepped out of the elevator. It hit him right on the chin.
“Well then, it’s lovely to see you, too.”
“Look what that son of a bitch did to my shirt.”
“Mmm.” Roarke examined the tattered scrap of material. “Is that what this was?” Idly, he poked a finger through an old hole. “Pity. I heard you and Summerset exchanging your usual words of affection. At the top of your lungs.”
“Why the hell did you tell him to pack for me?”
“I could say because you have enough to do, which is true. But let’s be frank, darling Eve; you’re a miserable packer and never take what you end up needing if left to yourself.”
“I bet he sniffs my underwear.”
Roarke’s lips trembled. “Now that’s quite the image you’ve put in my brain.” He crossed to her, cupped her face in his hands. “You made it up with Sam. I saw you out the window.”
“He was so busy beating himself up I had a hard time