The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [95]
Roarke was standing behind her, leaning back against the wall, hands dipped casually in his pockets.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting you a towel.” Smiling, he reached for one on the warming rack. Then held it out of reach. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah, well enough.”
“I ordered breakfast when I heard the shower running. Full Irish. You’ll like it.”
She dragged her dripping hair out of her eyes. “Okay. Are you going to give me that towel?”
“I’m thinking about it. What time is your appointment with the guarda?”
She’d started to make a grab for the towel, then pulled back, wary. “Who?”
“The police, darling Eve. The Dublin cops. This morning, I imagine. Early. By, what, nine?”
She shifted, crossed her arms over her breasts, but it didn’t help. “I never said I was meeting anyone.” When he only lifted a brow, she swore. “Know-it-alls are very irritating to mortals. Give me that damn towel.”
“I don’t know it all, but I know you. Are you meeting someone in particular?”
“Listen, I can’t have this conversation naked.”
“I like having conversations when you’re naked.”
“That’s because you’re a sick man, Roarke. Give me that towel.”
He held it up by two fingers, and his eyes gleamed. “Come and get it.”
“You’re just going to try to get me back into bed.”
Now his smile spread and he moved toward her. “I wasn’t thinking of the bed.”
“Step back.” She held up a hand, feinted to the right. “I’ll hurt you.”
“God, I love when you threaten me. It excites me.”
“I’ll give you excitement,” she promised. She’d just judged her chances of getting past him and out the door, found them passable, when he tossed the towel in her direction. When she grabbed for it, he caught her around the waist and had her pinned against the wall before she could decide whether to laugh or swear.
“I’m not fighting with you in here.” She blew at her wet hair. “Everybody knows the majority of home accidents involving personal injuries happen in the bathroom. It’s a death trap.”
“We’ll have to risk it.” Slowly he lifted her hands over her head then scraped his teeth along her throat. “You’re wet, and you’re warm, and you’re tasty.”
Her blood fired, her muscles went lax. What the hell, she thought, she had at least two hours to spare. She turned her head and caught his mouth with hers. “You’re dressed,” she murmured. In a lightning move she tipped her weight, shifted, and reversed their positions. Hers eyes laughed into his. “Just let me fix that for you.”
Wild vertical sex was a pretty good way to start the day, Eve decided, and when it was followed by what the Irish called breakfast, it was nirvana.
Eggs creamily scrambled, potatoes fried with onions, sausage and bacon and thick slabs of bread smothered with fresh butter, all topped off with coffee by the gallon.
“Um,” she managed, plowing her way through. “Can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t eat like this every day. Whole country’d waddle to their death.”
It continually satisfied him to watch her eat, to see her stoke up that slim body that burned off fuel with nerves and energy. “It’s a now-and-again sort of thing. A weekend indulgence.”
“Good. Mmm. What’s in this meat stuff here?”
Roarke eyed the blood pudding she shoveled in and shook his head. “You’ll thank me for not telling you. Just enjoy it.”
“Okay.” She paused for breath, flicked a glance at him. Sighed. “I’m meeting Inspector Farrell at nine. I guess I should have told you.”
“You’re telling me now,” he pointed out and glanced at his wrist unit for the time. “That’ll give me enough time to clean up a few details before we go.”
“We?” Eve set down her fork before she ate another bite and did permanent damage. “Farrell is meeting with me—as in me—as a professional courtesy. And you know what? I bet she doesn’t bring her husband along.”
He had his datebook out, checking appointments, and glanced up with an easy smile. “Was that an attempt to put me in my place?”
“Figure it out.”
“All right, and you figure this.” Taking his