In Death 14 - Reunion in Death

is the patron saint of police."
    "You're kidding? Cops have their own saint?"
    "They have Jude, who also happens to be the patron saint of lost causes."
    She laughed as she held it up to the light. "Covering all your bases, aren't you?"
    "I like to think so, yes."
    "So what we've got here are like... talismans. Good luck pieces." She draped St. Jude over her head. "I like the idea. Adding luck to those brains and grit you mentioned the other day."
    This time she got up, skirted the table. She bent down to kiss him. "Thanks. These are really good baubles."
    "You're welcome. And now if you want to clear the table..."
    "Just hold on, ace. You're not the only one who can give a present. But I have to go get it. Sit tight."
    She hurried out in such a way that made him realize she'd forgotten about the sheerness of the robe. Grinning, Roarke poured more champagne and hoped, for the sake of everyone's physical health, she didn't run into Summerset along the way.
    Since she came back quickly, and with no rantings, he decided she'd made the round trip without incident. She handed him a package covered with recycled brown paper.
    He identified it by shape as some sort of painting or picture. Curious, as Eve was no art critic, he tore the wrappings.
    It was a painting, of the two of them as they stood under the blooming arbor where they'd been married. Her hand was in his, their eyes on each other's. He could see the glint of new rings, new vows on her finger and on his.
    He remembered the moment, remembered it perfectly. And the one just after when they had leaned into each other and exchanged that first kiss as husband and wife.
    "It's wonderful."
    "I had it done from the disc of the wedding. I just liked this moment, so I froze, printed and got this artist Mavis knows. He's actually a real artist and not one of the guys she knows who just does body painting. You probably could've got somebody better, but-"
    She broke off when he looked up at her, when she saw his raw emotions flash his stunned pleasure. It was tough going to stun the man with anything-including a steel bat. "I guess you like it."
    "It's the most precious gift I've ever been given. I liked this moment, too. Very much." He rose, set the painting carefully aside. Then slid his arms around her and drew her in, rubbed his cheek over her with the kind of exquisite tenderness that had her heart spilling out of her chest. "Thank you."
    "That's okay." She sighed against him. "Happy anniversary. I need a minute to settle here, maybe one more drink. Then I'll clear that table."
    He stroked a hand over her hair. "That's a deal."

CHAPTER 22
    Eve might not have given two credits about fashion, but she'd chosen her outfit carefully for the operation. She was already wired, in more ways than one.
    Energy was pumping through her, too fast, too hot. That, she knew, would have to be chilled before she stepped out of the door. Feeney had already fixed the transmitter to her chest, and the receiver in her ear.
    Standing naked in her bedroom, she studied herself critically and could barely see the change of skin tones between her breasts where the mike rested.
    Not that it would matter. The outfit wasn't designed to show a lot of skin.
    Which was a good thing, as some of it was still bruised. Not too bad, she thought as she pushed a finger at the discoloring on her hip. And it only ached a little if she forgot to sit down often enough.
    The face? She turned her head, wiggled her jaw. You could hardly notice, and she'd break down and slap on some enhancements to cover what still showed.
    That process took her about ten minutes and caused some nominal frustration with the lip dye. Silly stuff never looked right on her, she thought as she went back to the bedroom to dress.
    She'd chosen black. The glinting silver threads sparkling through the modified skin suit didn't interest her. The easy give of the fabric was key. Her primary weapon nestled in the small of her back, holstered there by what looked like a decorative silver belt. She'd tagged Leonardo for that little accessory. He'd come through fast and efficiently. And she supposed stylishly but it was tough to prove those things by her.
    As she preferred the side to the back draw, she practiced for a few minutes until the movement smoothed out and became more natural.
    Satisfied, she shot a clutch piece into an ankle holster, slid a small combat knife into an ankle sheath. Over these she slid soft black boots, then again