The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [7]
And he could still annoy her.
She considered him the first and only miracle in her life.
“I’m late. Sorry.” It was more of a challenge than an apology, delivered like a bullet. He acknowledged it with an easy smile and a lifted eyebrow.
“I’m sure it was unavoidable.” He held out a hand. When she crossed the foyer and took it, he found hers stiff and cold. In her aged-whiskey eyes he saw both fury and fatigue. He’d grown used to seeing both there. She was pale, which worried him. He recognized the smears on her jeans as dried blood, and hoped it wasn’t her own.
He gave her hand a quick, intimate squeeze before bringing it to his lips, his eyes steady on hers. “You’re tired, Lieutenant,” he murmured, the wisp of Ireland magical in his voice. “I’m just moving them along. Only a few minutes more, all right?”
“Sure, yeah. Fine.” Her temper began to cool. “I’m sorry I screwed this up. I know it was important.” Beyond him in the beautifully furnished parlor she saw more than a dozen elegant men and women, formally dressed, gems winking, silks rustling. Something of her reluctance must have shown on her face before she smoothed it away, because he laughed.
“Five minutes, Eve. I doubt this can be as bad as whatever you faced tonight.”
He ushered her in, a man as comfortable with wealth and privilege as with the stench of alleys and violence. Seamlessly he introduced his wife to those she’d yet to meet, cued her on the names of those she’d socialized with at another time, all the while nudging the dinner party guests toward the door.
Eve smelled rich perfumes and wine, the fragrant smoke from the applewood logs simmering discreetly in the fireplace. But under it all the sensory memory stink of blood and gore remained.
He wondered if she knew how staggering she was, standing there amid the glitter in her scarred jacket and smeared denim, her short, untidy hair haloing a pale face, accenting dark, tired eyes, her long, rangy body held straight through what he knew was an act of sheer will.
She was, he thought, courage in human form.
But when they closed the door on the last guest, she shook her head. “Summerset’s right. I’m just not equipped for this Roarke’s wife stuff.”
“You are my wife.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m any good at it. I let you down. I should’ve—” She stopped talking because his mouth was on hers, and it was warm, possessive, and untied the knots in the back of her neck. Without realizing she’d moved, Eve wrapped her arms around his waist and just held on.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s better. This is my business.” He lifted her chin, skimming a finger in the slight dent centered in it. “My job. You have yours.”
“It was a big deal though. Some whatzit merger.”
“Scottoline merger—more of a buyout, really, and it should be finalized by the middle of next week. Even without your delightful presence at the dinner table. Still, you might have called. I worried.”
“I forgot. I can’t always remember. I’m not used to this.” She jammed her hands in her pockets and paced down the wide hall and back. “I’m not used to this. Every time I think I am, I’m not. Then I come walking in here with all the megarich, looking like a street junkie.”
“On the contrary, you look like a cop. I believe several of our guests were quite impressed with the glimpse of your weapon under your jacket, and the trace of blood on your jeans. It’s not yours, I take it.”
“No.” Suddenly she just couldn’t stand up any longer. She turned to the steps, climbed two and sat. Because it was Roarke, she allowed herself to cover her face with her hands.
He sat beside her, draped an arm over her shoulders. “It was bad.”
“Almost always you can say you’ve seen as bad, even worse. It’s most always true. I can’t say that this time.” Her stomach still clenched and rolled. “I’ve never seen worse.”
He knew what she lived with, had seen a great deal of it himself. “Do you want to tell me?”
“No, Christ no, I don’t want to think about it for a few hours. I don’t want to think about anything.