In Death 25 - Creation in Death

made her think of poets, until he used it on her so she couldn’t think at all. Those wild Celt’s eyes that saw just who she was.
    Then you topped it off with all that black silky hair, added that long, lean body, the sexy Irish accent, tossed in brains, wit, temper, and street smarts and you had yourself a hell of a package.
    And he was all hers.
    She intended to make really good use of what was hers for the next thirty-six hours or so.
    On screen a street battle erupted among the rubble with hurled miniboomers and whooshing blasters. The hero—distinguished by the fact he’d kicked the most ass thus far—burst through the mêlée on the back of a jet-bike.
    Obviously caught up, Roarke dug into the popcorn. Then immediately pulled his hand out again and scowled at his own fingers. “Why don’t you just dump salt into melted butter and eat that?”
    “The corn makes a nice vehicle for it. Aw, what’s the matter? You get your pretty hands messy?”
    He wiped his fingers down her face, smiled. “Clean now.”
    “Hey!” She laughed, set the bowl aside. It would be safe, she knew, as even Galahad, the cat, wouldn’t eat it her way. She poked a finger hard into Roarke’s ribs, rolled until she was on top of him.
    Maybe they’d just have a sneak preview of tonight’s second feature.
    “Going to pay for that one, pal.”
    “How much?”
    “It’s going to be the installment plan. I figure we’ll start with…” She lowered her mouth to his, nipped that excellent bottom lip. She felt his hand move over her. Lifting her head, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you feeling my ass or wiping the rest of the butter and salt off your fingers?”
    “Two birds, one ass. About that first payment.”
    “The interest is going to be—ha-ha—stiff.” She went for the mouth again, started to sink in.
    And her communicator signaled.
    “Goddamn it.” She pulled up. “This is crap. I’m not on call.”
    “Why is it in your pocket?”
    “Habit. Stupid. Damn it,” she spurted as she dragged the communicator out, checked the display. “It’s Whitney.” Sighing, she shoved a hand through her hair. “I have to take it.”
    “Pause vid,” Roarke ordered, then rubbed the butter off her cheek. “Lights on, seventy percent.”
    “Thanks.” Eve clicked on. “Dallas.”
    “Lieutenant, report to East River Park, at Second Street and Avenue D, as primary.”
    “Commander—”
    “I understand you were neither on duty nor on call,” he interrupted. “Now you are.”
    The word why went through her head, but she was too well-trained to verbalize it. “Yes, sir. I’ll contact Detective Peabody en route.”
    “I’ll see you at Central.”
    He clicked off.
    “Unusual,” Roarke commented. He’d already turned off the vid. “For the commander to contact you personally, and to yank you in this way.”
    “Something hot,” Eve replied and shoved the communicator back in her pocket. “I’ve got nothing hot open. Not that it would have him tagging me directly when I’m not on the roll. Sorry.” She glanced over. “Screws vid night.”
    “It’ll keep. But as my evening is now open, I believe I’ll go with you. I know how to keep out of the way,” he reminded her before she could object.
    He did, she admitted. And since she knew he’d changed his own schedule, possibly postponing acquiring a small country or planetoid, it seemed only fair.
    “Then let’s get moving.”
     
    H e knew how to stay out of the way when it suited him. He also knew how to observe. What Roarke saw when they arrived at the park were a number of black-and-whites, a small army of uniforms and crime scene techs.
    The media people who had a nose for this sort of thing were there, firmly blocked by part of that army. The barricades had been erected, and like the media and the civilian gawkers, he would have to make his observations from behind them.
    “If you get bored,” Eve told him, “just take off. I’ll make my own way back.”
    “I’m not easily bored.”
    He watched her now, observed her now. His cop. The wind kicked at her long black coat, one she’d need as this first day of March was proving as brutal as the rest of 2060 had been. She hooked her badge on her belt, though he wondered how anyone could mistake her for anything other than a cop, and one with authority.
    Tall and rangy, she moved to the barricades in strong strides. Her hair, short and brown, fluttered a little in that same wind—a wind that