• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

At least the PA had agreed to press for it, and that would have to be enough.

If she succeeded there, she was orphaning a young girl, deliberately seeing to it that a five-year-old child was without mother or father. Rising, she walked to the window. But some children were better off, weren’t they, without a certain type of parent?

How the hell did she know. She dragged a hand through her hair, scrubbed them both over her face. She could only do the job and hope when the dust settled, it was right.

It felt right.

She heard her knob turn, then the knock. She’d locked it, pointedly, and now checked the time. Rolling her shoulders, she picked up her cap, set it in place.

When she opened the door she saw the rare jolt of shock on Roarke’s face, then the interest, then the gleam that had color rising up on her neck.

“What are you staring at?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” He stepped in before she could step out, then closed the door behind him.

“We’ve got to go. The ceremony starts in fifteen.”

“And it’s a five-minute walk. Turn around once.”

“I will not.” Another few seconds, she figured, and that damn flush would hit her cheeks. Mortifying her. “You’ve seen a cop in uniform before.”

“I’ve never seen my cop in uniform before. I didn’t know you had one.”

“Of course I’ve got one. We’ve all got one. I just never wear it. But this is . . . important, that’s all.”

“You look . . .” He traced one of her shiny brass buttons. “. . . amazing. Very sexy.”

“Oh, get out.”

“Seriously.” He leaned back to take it in. That long, lanky form did wonders, he thought, for the spit and polish, the crisp formal blues.

Medals, earned in the line of duty, glinted against the stiff jacket. She’d shined her black cop shoes—which he now imagined she’d kept buried in her locker—to mirror gleams. She wore her weapon at her hip, and her cap squared off on her short hair.

“Lieutenant,” he said with a purr in his voice. “You’ve got to wear that home.”

“Why?”

He grinned. “Guess.”

“You’re a sick, sick man.”

“We’ll play cops and robbers.”

“Out of my way, pervert.”

“One thing.” He had fast hands, and had dipped one down her starched collar before she could move. And pulled out, to his delight, the chain that carried the diamond he’d once given her. “That’s perfect, then,” he murmured, and tucked it away again.

“We’re not holding hands. I’m absolutely firm on that.”

“Actually, I was planning to walk a couple steps behind you, so I could see how your ass moves in that thing.”

She laughed, but pulled him out with her. “Update on Renquist if you’re interested.”

“I am.”

“He’s trying for insanity—not unexpected. But he’s giving it a good shot. Using multiple personality disorder. One minute he’s Jack the Ripper, next he’s Son of Sam or John Wayne Gacy. Trips from that to DeSalvo or back to Jack.”

“Do you think it’s genuine?”

“Not for a minute, and Mira doesn’t buy it. He could pull it off though. His defense will hire plenty of shrinks that go along, and he’s good at the game. It may keep him from a cement cage and put him in a padded cell, on the mentally defective floor.”

“How would you feel about that?”

“I want the cage, but you don’t always get what you want. I’m going by the hospital after shift so I can tell Marlene Cox and her family what may happen.”

“I think they’ll be fine with it. They’re not soldiers, Eve,” he said when she looked at him. “They only want him put away, and you’ve done that. It’s payment enough for them, if not for you.”

“It has to be enough for me because it’s over. And there’ll be another to take his place. Knowing that drags some cops under.”

“Not my cop.”

“No.” What the hell, she took his hand anyway as they walked into the meeting room for the ceremony. “It pushes me over. You just find a seat, wherever. I have to be up on the stupid stage.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. “Congratulations, Lieutenant, on a job well done.”

She glanced over, as he did, to where Peabody stood with McNab in the front of the room.