In Death 13 - Seduction in Death

before Eve cut Peabody loose for the day. Because she knew her job -- she didn't have to like it -- she swung to the curb in front of Peabody's building and asked the question.
    "So, are you having pizza or what?"
    "I don't know." Peabody's shoulders rose and fell. "I think probably not. It'll just get all weird and screwed-up again. He's really an asshole." But she said it wistfully. "He really got hyped and looney about Charles."
    Eve shifted in her seat, wishing she could stem the thin trickle of sympathy for McNab. "I guess it could be rough on a guy to figure he was competing with someone like Charles."
    "We never said we were exclusive. And he can't go around trying to direct my life. He can't just start telling me who I can see, who I can be friends with." Heating up, Peabody turned the glare on Eve. "And if I had been having sex with Charles, which I wasn't, it wouldn't be any of his damn business."
    Whoops, Eve thought. Forget your job for one little minute and take a blast right in the forehead. "Right. Absolutely right. Once an asshole, always an asshole. Good to remember that."
    "So screw him." Peabody huffed out a breath and felt righteous. "He didn't even bother to tag me during the day to see if I was up for it anyway. So screw him."
    "Sideways. We'll interview the last names on the list tomorrow."
    "What?" Peabody brought herself back. "Right. Yes, sir. Tomorrow."
    Thinking she'd done a reasonably decent job of it, Eve shoved the car into crosstown traffic. With luck, she could be home in thirty minutes.
    While she fought her way across and uptown, Roarke sipped a beer, and did his job.
    "I think the pizza's a good approach," McNab said. "She's got a weakness for it. And it keeps it casual-like. Friendly."
    "I'd pick up a bottle of red. Nothing fancy."
    "That's good." McNab's face brightened. "But no flowers or anything."
    "Not this time. If you want to put things back as they were, you need to take her off guard. Keep her guessing."
    "Yeah." Roarke, in McNab's estimation, was the guru of romance. Anybody who could make Dallas soft was a veritable genius in affairs of the heart.
    "But this deal with Charles," he began.
    "Forget it."
    "Forget it? But -- " McNab stuttered in shock.
    "Set it aside, Ian. At least for now. She's fond of him, and whatever their relationship might be, it's important to her. Every time you take a jab at him, you push her away."
    They were sitting, sharing beer, in some sort of den area McNab hadn't even known existed. There was a pool table, an old-fashioned bar, view screens on opposing walls, and deep leather sofas and chairs the color of good red wine.
    The art on the remaining walls were nudes. But they were classy nudes -- long, streamlined female bodies that looked somehow foreign and refined.
    It was, McNab thought, a real guy room. Away from the work stations, away from the 'links, where the only women were stylized art that didn't drive you crazy. Here there were acres of wood, the smell of leather and tobacco.
    Back to class, McNab thought.
    Charles had class.
    If that was what Peabody was after, he was sunk before he floated.
    "We had some good times, you know? Not just good naked times, I mean. I was sort of getting into that stuff you suggested before. You know, taking her out places, coming up with flowers and shit some times. But when we busted up... It was bad." He gulped beer. "Really bad. I figured the hell with her. But we work together a lot so you've got to have some level, right? Maybe I should just leave it like that, before it gets messed up again."
    "That's an option." Roarke took out a cigarette, lighted it, blew out smoke thoughtfully. "From what I've seen, you're a good detective, Ian. And an interesting man of interesting tastes. If you didn't have a good brain neither Feeney nor Eve would be working with you. However, despite being a good detective with a good brain, and an interesting man of interesting tastes, you're leaving one vital factor out of this current equation."
    "What?"
    Roarke leaned forward, gently patted McNab's knee. "You're in love with her."
    His jaw dropped. The beer in the pilsner slid dangerously toward the edge as it tipped. Roarke righted it.
    "I am?"
    "I'm afraid so."
    McNab stared at Roarke with the expression of a man who'd just been told he had a fatal disease. "Well, hell."
    Fifty minutes, two stops, and a long subway ride later, McNab knocked on Peabody's door. Dressed in her rattiest sweatpants, an NYPSD T-shirt,