In Death 13 - Seduction in Death

remained steady as he poured the second glass of wine.
    He watched and watched carefully as he opened the black bag. He reached in, brought his hand out again with the palm facing his body. And casually, he held his hand over the second glass, tipped.
    She saw, in Roarke's recorder, a thin trickle of liquid.
    "Bingo. He's ready for her. I'm coming in. Take third stage positions. Report any possible sightings of alternate target."
    She moved to the rear doors. "I'm under."
    "Take him down, kid," Feeney said and kept his eyes glued to the screens.
    She stepped out into the sun and warmth. When she caught herself striding, she did her best to saunter. She was barely into the park when a lunch-hour jogger trotted up to her.
    "Hey, beautiful. How about a little run?"
    "How about you back off before I knock you on your pudgy ass?"
    "That's my cop," Roarke said softly in her ear as she kept walking.
    She spotted Baxter under a stringy tangle of dirt-colored hair, a torn T-shirt, and drooping trousers that were both smeared with what looked like egg substitute and ketchup.
    Most park patrons were giving him a wide berth. As she neared him, she caught the whiff of old sweat and stale brew mixed with urine.
    The man really got into character, she thought.
    When she passed him she got a wheezy wolf whistle.
    "Bite me."
    "I dream of it," he said behind his hand. "Night and day."
    In the five minutes it took her to move through the park, she was approached with propositions four times.
    "You might want to take the I'll-kick-your-ass-then-eat-it look off your face, Lieutenant," McNab suggested. "Most guys'd be a little put off by it."
    "I've never been," Roarke commented. "Caviar?" he said to Peabody.
    "Well... I guess."
    Eve fixed what she hoped was a pleasant expression on her face, and thought about the nice little chat she'd be having with her personnel, including her expert consultant, civilian.
    Then the view opened; she saw Kevin. Everything else was set aside.
    He saw her as well. A slow, boyish smile crossed his face, just a little shy at the edges. He got to his feet, hesitated, then walked to her.
    "Make my dreams come true and tell me you're Stefanie."
    "I'm Stefanie. And you're..."
    "Wordsworth." He took her hand, lifted it to his lips. "You're even lovelier than I imagined. Than I hoped."
    "And you're everything I thought you'd be." She left her hand in his. Dating had never been one of her strong suits, but she'd planned carefully how she would behave, what she would say. "I hope I'm not late."
    "Not at all. I was early. I wanted..." He gestured toward the picnic. "I wanted everything to be perfect."
    "Oh. It looks wonderful. You've gone to so much trouble."
    "I've looked forward to this for a long time." He led her to the blanket. She passed within a foot of Roarke. "Caviar!" she said as she sat. "You certainly know how to throw a picnic."
    She leaned over, turned the bottle of wine around so she could see the label. The same he'd used with Bryna Bankhead. "My favorite." She made her lips curve. "It's as if you could read my mind."
    "I've felt that way, ever since we first corresponded. Getting to know you online, I felt as if I knew you. Had always known you. Was somehow meant to."
    "This guy is good," McNab breathed in her ear.
    "I felt the connection, too," Eve said, using Stefanie's words to her as a guide. "The letters, the poetry we shared. All the fabulous stories about your travels."
    "I think... it's fate. 'It is he that saith not Kismet.'"
    Oh, shit, Eve thought. Mind scrambling, she opened her mouth. And Roarke whispered the rest of the quote in her ear. " 'It is he who knows not fate,'" she repeated. "What do you think fate has in store for us, Wordsworth?"
    "Who can say? But I can't wait to find out."
    Give me the damn wine, you worthless, murdering bastard. But instead, he handed her the roses.
    "They're lovely." She made herself sniff them.
    "Somehow I knew they'd suit you best. Pink rosebuds. Soft, warm. Romantic." He lifted his own glass, toyed with the stem. "I've looked forward to giving them to you, to having this time with you. Shall we have a toast?"
    "Yes." She continued to look into his eyes, while she willed him to pick up the glass, to put it into her hand. Trying for flirtatious, she brushed the rosebuds against her cheek.
    And he picked up the glass. He put it into her hand.
    "To fateful beginnings."
    "And even better," she said, "to destined endings." She brought the glass to her lips,