New York to Dallas

a kid, and soon. But she’ll talk to him, at least I think she will. It’s what she does now. She’s trained. I want to believe she’ll get through this, use that training, keep him from hurting her.”
    He pulled up in front of the hotel, one of those slick, shiny spears in the city’s arsenal. He said, simply, “Roarke,” and handed the key code and what Eve assumed was a hefty tip to the doorman as the man all but bolted to the doors to open them.
    “This isn’t where we stayed last time. But it’s obviously one of yours.”
    “It is, yes, and I thought we’d both want the change.”
    When they walked to an elevator, the security man at the desk came to attention, snapped out, “Sir.”
    Roarke gave him a nod, then swiped a card. When they stepped into the small, muted gold elevator, he said, “Triplex West, top level.”
    “Triplex, as in three floors?”
    “I thought we’d use the third floor as HQ. That way we can lock it off, even from housekeeping if you want. Use a droid there. First level’s living space, second’s bedroom areas. I ordered the top as I thought you’d want to see the setup, leave your file bag. Then I want a bloody drink.”
    “I could use a bloody drink myself, and a bloody shower, and a bloody suspect I can hammer into the ground.”
    He smiled. “Missing New York. How about a bloody meal to go with it?”
    “I had a burger.”
    “Fuck me, it’s more than I’ve had.”
    The door opened. She blinked.
    A murder board sat center of the room, just as she liked it. It wasn’t precisely arranged as she would do, nor updated, but images, data, a partial time line—it was all there.
    As was a desk, a sleep chair, three screens, two D-and-C units—in addition to what looked like a fully equipped kitchen, bath, and she noted after a quick circle, a second office.
    “How did you do this?”
    “I have a man here, one I could trust with your board. He has top security clearance. Saves you time.”
    “It really does. Yours?” she asked with a gesture to the second office.
    “It is. Not quite like home, but, well, adjustments.”
    He’d made it as easy for her as he could, given her all the tools to work the way she liked best.
    She stepped to him, laid her hands on his face and her lips on his.
    “That’s just like home,” she murmured. Then because it felt so damn good, hugged him hard. “Let’s have a bloody drink.”

9
     
    S he sat on the terrace, drinking some wine, ignoring the view. Roarke was prettier to look at anyway. And looking at him, she saw the signs she’d missed in her hurry to get to the hotel.
    “You’re pissed off.”
    He lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “Not at you, at the moment.”
    “At who? Or what?”
    “Let’s just say I’ve had enough of cops—but again, not you. At the moment.”
    She tracked back out of her own work to his end of it. EDD.
    “If EDD’s that annoying, don’t go back. You don’t need to go in when you’ve got your setup here. You can coordinate with Feeney if and when you want.”
    “As you’ll be going in there’s every reason. I’m with you as long as we’re in this place,” he reminded her. “And a bit of annoyance isn’t much in the larger scheme, is it?”
    “Depends. What’s the annoyance, specifically? It’s not just being around cops.”
    “Believe me, it’s no champagne picnic for someone with my . . . predilections.”
    He could read her, often too well for comfort. Tit for tat, she thought, reached over, took his hand. “Roarke.”
    “Ah, bugger it. It’s nothing, really. Ricchio’s father—another cop—had a part in the investigation on mine. He made a point of telling me, with the Texas version of the beady eye you’re so fond of.”
    Her hackles rose. “Out of line.”
    “Was it? Wouldn’t you have done the same in his place?”
    “Maybe. Probably. I’d have been out of line. You’re here to help, a consultant duly designated by the NYPSD. And Patrick Roarke has dick-all to do with it. One of Ricchio’s consultants is being held by a violent predator. That’s his fucking focus, and he’s got no business messing with your head when lives are on the line.”
    “Well then, we can agree in part. But there’s always going to be a smudge, isn’t there? It’s the way of things.”
    “Things suck.”
    “Often. But now that you’re annoyed along with me, I feel better. I want food.”
    Not in the least mollified, she shoved up, paced away. “This fucking