In Death 07 - Holiday in Death

vicious dose of jealousy. The woman was practically lapping up every word the guy dropped through his collagen-enhanced lips.
    Women were so pitifully predictable.
    His gaze slid over as Roarke stopped by the table. "She's looking particularly appealing tonight, isn't she?"
    "Most guys find it appealing when a woman has half her tits out of her shirt."
    Roarke grinned, enjoying himself. McNab's eyes were on fire and his fingers were beating a rapid and angry tattoo against the tabletop. "But obviously you're above such things."
    "Wish I were above them," McNab muttered as Roarke moved on. "Those are some superior tits."
    "Keep your eyes off Peabody's tits," Eve ordered. "Your second match is at the door."
    "Yeah." McNab glanced over at a tiny redhead in a spangled skinsuit. "I'm on it."
    Inside the van, Eve frowned at the screen. "Give me the run on the guy with Peabody, will you, Feeney? Something about it seems off to me."
    "Brent Holloway, commercial model. Works for Cliburn-Willis Marketing. Thirty-eight, twice divorced, no kids."
    "Model?" Her eyes narrowed. "On screen? That's sort of like entertainment, right?"
    "Shit. You haven't watched much commercial screen lately. Nothing entertaining about those ads, you ask me. He's originally from Morristown, New Jersey. New York resident since 2049. Current address Central Park West. Income in middle eighties. Shows nothing on yellow sheets -- no arrests. Got a mountain of traffic violations."
    "We saw him -- Peabody and me -- at Personally Yours on our first trip there. How many consults has he had?"
    "This is his fourth match group this year."
    "Okay, why does a guy who looks like that, has credits, a strong career, and a high-dollar address become a dating service addict? Four match groups in a year, five matches per group. That's twenty women, and nothing sticks. What's wrong with him, Feeney?"
    Feeney pursed his lips and studied the screen. "From my view he looks like a conceited asshole."
    "Yeah, but a lot of women aren't going to care about that. He's got looks and bucks. Something should've stuck." She drummed her fingers on the narrow console. "No complaints to the service pop out?"
    "Nope. His sheet there's clean, too."
    "Something's off," she said again an instant before she watched her aide rear back and plow a fist directly in Brent Holloway's perfect nose. "Jesus Christ. Jesus, did you see that?"
    "Busted it," Feeney said placidly as he studied the quick gush of blood. "Nice short-armed jab."
    "What the hell was she thinking? What the hell's going on? Peabody, have you lost your mind?"
    "Son of a bitch stuck his hand up me under the table." Flushed and furious, Peabody was on her feet, hands fisted. "Bastard's talking about the new play at the Universe and he grabs my crotch. Pervert. You pervert, get up."
    "McNab, stay the hell where you are!" Eve shouted as McNab surged to his feet with murder in his eyes. "Stay the hell where you are, or you're off. That's an order. A goddamn order! Maintain. Peabody, for Christ's sake, put that guy down."
    Even as Eve was pulling the hair out of her head, Peabody hauled Holloway to his feet and hit him again. She'd have gone for three, even though his gold eyes were rolling back white, if Roarke hadn't stepped through the excited crowd and pulled the rubber-legged Holloway back.
    "Was this man bothering you, miss?" Coolly, Roarke hauled Holloway out of reach, kept his eyes level on Peabody's glinting ones. "I'm terribly sorry. I'll take care of it. Please, let me get you another drink." With one hand on Holloway, he lifted Peabody's glass with his free one, sniffed. "Blitzer, virgin," he ordered and all three bartenders rushed to comply as he dragged the now struggling Holloway to the door.
    "Get your fucking hands off me. That bitch broke my nose. My face is my living, for Christ's sake. Stupid cunt. I'm suing her crazy ass off. I'm reporting -- "
    The minute they were outside, Roarke slammed him against the side of the building. Holloway's head hit the wall with a sound reminiscent of pool balls cracking on the break.
    The gold eyes rolled back white a second time.
    "Let me give you a clue: This is my place." Roarke accented the information by rapping Holloway's head against the bricks again, while, in the van, Eve could only watch and swear. "Nobody paws a woman in my place and walks away on his own legs. So unless you want to try crawling with your limp dick in your hand, you'll start moving now and thank Jesus