In Death 14 - Reunion in Death

her short brown hair. She dressed quickly, economically, with the air of a woman who never thought about fashion. Which was why, he supposed, he could never resist heaping fashion on her.
    She'd rested during their time away, he thought. He'd seen, hour by hour, day by day, the clouds of fatigue and worry lift away from her. There was a light in her whiskey-colored eyes now, a healthy glow in her narrow, fine-boned face.
    And when she strapped on her weapon harness, there was a set to her mouth-that wide and generous mouth- that told him Lieutenant Eve Dallas was back. And ready to kick some ass.
    "What is it about an armed woman that arouses me?"
    She shot him a look, reached in the closet for a light jacket. "Cut it out. I'm not going to be late my first day back because you've got some residual horniness."
    Oh yes, he thought, rising. She was back. "Darling Eve." He managed, barely, not to wince. "Not that jacket."
    "What?" She paused in the act of shoving her arm in a sleeve. "It's summer weight; it covers my weapon."
    "It's wrong with those trousers." He stepped to her closet, reached in, and plucked out another jacket of the same weight and material as the khaki trousers. "This one is correct."
    "I'm not planning on doing a video shoot." But she changed it because it was easier than arguing.
    "Here." After another dip into her closet, he came out with a pair of half-boots in rich chestnut brown leather.
    "Where'd those come from?"
    "The closet fairy."
    She frowned at the boots suspiciously, poked a finger into the toes. "I don't need new boots. My old ones are all broken in."
    "That's a polite term for what they are. Try these."
    "Just gonna mess them up," she muttered, but sat on the arm of the sofa to pull them on. They slid onto her feet like butter. Which only made her eye him narrowly. He'd probably had them hand-tooled for her in one of his countless factories and they surely cost more than a New York murder cop made in two months. "How about that. The closet fairy seems to know my shoe size."
    "An amazing fellow."
    "I suppose it's useless to tell him that a cop doesn't need expensive boots that were probably sewn together by some little Italian nun when she's clocking field time for hoofing it or knocking on doors."
    "He has a mind of his own." He skimmed a hand through her hair, tugged just enough to tip her face up to his. "And he adores you."
    It still made her stomach flop-hearing him say it, seeing his face as he did. She often wondered why she didn't just drown in those eyes of his, in all that wild, wicked blue.
    "You're so damn pretty." She hadn't meant to say it aloud, nearly jolted at the sound of her voice. And she watched his grin flash, fast as fire across a face that belonged in a painting or carved into stone with its strong, sharp bones and seductive poet's mouth.
    Young Irish God, she supposed it would be titled. For weren't gods seductive and ruthless and cloaked in their own power?
    "I have to go." She got quickly to her feet, and he stood his ground so their bodies bumped. "Roarke."
    "Yes, it's back to reality for both of us. But..." His hands stroked down her sides, one long, possessive move that reminded her, all too clearly, just what those quick and clever fingers were capable of doing to her body. "I think we can take a moment for you to kiss me goodbye."
    "You want me to kiss you good-bye?"
    "I do, yes." There was a lilt of both amusement and Ireland in the tone that had her cocking her head.
    "Sure." In a move as fast as his grin, she took handfuls of the black hair that nearly skimmed his shoulders, fisting, tugging, then crushing her mouth against his.
    She felt his heart jump even as hers did. A leap of heat, of recognition, of unity. And on his sound of pleasure, she poured herself into the kiss, took them both fast and deep with a little war of tongues, a quick nip of teeth.
    Then she jerked him back, stepped nimbly out of reach. "See you, ace," she called out as she strode from the room.
    "Have a safe day, Lieutenant." He blew out a long sigh, then sat back on the couch. "Now," he said to the cat, "what will it cost me for the two of us to be friends again?"
    ...
    At Cop Central, Eve hopped on a glide to Homicide. And took a deep breath. Nothing against the cliffside drama of western Mexico or the balmy breezes of tropical islands, but she'd missed the air here: the smell of sweat, bad coffee, harsh cleansers, and above all, the fierce energies that formed from the clash