In Death 07 - Holiday in Death

the room, McNab erupted with delighted laughter that ran along Peabody's nerve endings like a dull razor. While Oscar guzzled the last of his third ripper, she glanced over, and caught the quick, eyebrow wiggle McNab sent her.
    It made her want to do something cool and mature. Like sticking out her tongue.
    With great relief, she parted ways with Oscar, making vague plans to hook up again.
    "When they sell iced rippers in hell," she muttered and winced as she heard Eve's voice in her earpiece.
    "Maintain, Peabody."
    "Sir." Peabody hissed the word, covering it by lifting her own virgin blitzer. She sighed, noting by her wrist unit that she had ten minutes before the next meet.
    "Goddamn it!"
    Peabody jolted when Eve's voice exploded in her ear. "Sir?" she said again, choking.
    "What the hell is he doing here? Damn it!"
    Baffled, one hand sliding down to where her weapon was snug inside her left boot, Peabody scanned the room. And caught herself grinning widely as Roarke strolled in.
    "Now, that's a match made in heaven," Peabody murmured. "Why can't I get one of those?"
    "Don't talk to him," Eve ordered in a snap. "You don't know him."
    "Okay, I'll just stare and drool, like every other woman in the place."
    She chuckled out loud at Eve's snarling string of curses, and the couple at the next table glanced over. Peabody cleared her throat, lifted her drink again, and settled back to admire her lieutenant's husband.
    He walked by the bar, and the bartenders came to attention like soldiers on parade for the general. He stopped by a table to speak briefly with a couple. Leaned down to brush his lips over the woman's cheek, then moved to the end of the bar to lay a friendly hand on a man's shoulder.
    Peabody wondered if he moved just that beautifully in bed, then flushed. It was a damn good thing, she decided, that the wire wasn't transmitting her thoughts to the surveillance van.
    Outside, Eve scowled at the screen that projected the view from the micro-camera in Peabody's collar button. She watched Roarke work the room, very casual, very easy, and vowed to pound him into dust at the first opportunity.
    "He's got no business walking into an operation," she said to Feeney.
    "It's his place." Feeney hunched his shoulders, an automatic defense against a marital tiff.
    "Right, he came by to check the liquor levels at the bar. Fuck." She dragged both hands through her hair, then made low, feral sounds in her throat as she watched Roarke wander over to Peabody's table.
    "Enjoying your drink, miss?"
    "Um, yeah, I... Shit, Roarke" was the best Peabody could manage.
    He only smiled, leaned down. "Tell your lieutenant to stop swearing at me. I won't get in her way."
    Peabody's eye twitched as Eve's voice exploded in her ear. "Uh, she suggests you get your fancy ass out of here. She'll, um, kick it for you later."
    "Looking forward to it." Still smiling, he lifted Peabody's fingers, kissed them. "You look fabulous," he told her, then strolled away while the equipment in the van reported a sharp spike in her blood pressure and pulse rate.
    "Down, Peabody," Eve warned.
    "I can't control an involuntary physical reaction to outside stimuli." Peabody blew out a breath. "Sure does have a fancy ass. Respectfully, sir."
    "Match Two approaching. Pull it together, Peabody."
    "I'm ready."
    She glanced toward the door, her company smile ready. One of the perks for the operation, as far as she was concerned, had just walked in. She remembered him from her first visit to Personally Yours. The trim bronzed god who'd caught her attention -- then given his own to his pocket mirror.
    He was going to be a pleasure to look at for the next hour.
    He posed at the door, head up, profile turned to the room as he scanned tables. His eyes, a tawny gold that matched his hair, flickered, then settled on Peabody. His mouth turned up as he gave a quick, practiced head toss to allow his hair to flow. He crossed directly to her table.
    "You must be Delilah."
    "Yes." Great voice, she thought with an inward sigh. Better in person that on his video profile. "And you're Brent."
    Across the room it was McNab's turn to scowl. The man preening for Peabody was all plastic, he decided, with a thick layer of spray gloss. Probably just her type.
    Asshole had his face tailor-made, McNab decided. Body, too. He doubted there was an inch on the man that hadn't been paid for.
    And just look! Just look at the way she's fawning all over him, McNab thought in disgust, tinged with a