"Get Strobie and secure him before he can babble about this."
When Eve turned, Peabody saw a shadow of pity in her eyes, then it was gone and they were flat and cool again. "Let's get moving. I want to fry this son of a bitch."
• • •
It was nearly midnight before Eve dragged herself up the stairs to her own front door. Her stomach was raw, her eyes burning, her head roaring. The stench of vicious death clung to her though she'd scrubbed off a layer of skin in the locker room showers before heading home.
What she wanted most was oblivion, and she said one desperate and sincere prayer that she wouldn't see the wreckage of Thomas Brennen when she closed her eyes to sleep.
The door opened before she could reach it. Summerset stood with the glittery light of the foyer chandelier behind him, his tall bony body all but quivering with dislike.
"You are unpardonably late, Lieutenant. Your guests are preparing to leave."
Guests? Her overtaxed mind struggled with the word before she remembered. A dinner party? She was supposed to care about a dinner party after the night she'd put in?
"Kiss my ass," she invited and started passed him.
His thin fingers caught at her arm. "As Roarke's wife you're expected to perform certain social duties, such as assisting him in hosting an important affair such as this evening's dinner."
Fury outdistanced fatigue in a heartbeat. Her hand curled into a fist at her side. "Step back before I—"
"Eve darling."
Roarke's voice, managing to convey welcome, amusement, and caution in two words, stopped her curled fist from lifting and following through. Scowling, she turned, saw him just outside the parlor doorway. It wasn't the formal black that made him breathtaking. Eve knew he had a leanly muscled body that could stop a woman's heart no matter what he wore—or didn't wear. His hair flowed, dark as night and nearly to his shoulders, to frame a face she often thought belonged on a Renaissance painting. Sharp bones, eyes bluer than prized cobalt, a mouth fashioned to spout poetry, issue orders, and drive a woman to madness.
In less than a year, he had broken through her defenses, unlocked her heart, and most surprising of all, had gained not only her love but her trust.
And he could still annoy her.
She considered him the first and only miracle in her life.
"I'm late. Sorry." It was more of a challenge than an apology, delivered like a bullet. He acknowledged it with an easy smile and a lifted eyebrow.
"I'm sure it was unavoidable." He held out a hand. When she crossed the foyer and took it, he found hers stiff and cold. In her aged-whiskey eyes he saw both fury and fatigue. He'd grown used to seeing both there. She was pale, which worried him. He recognized the smears on her jeans as dried blood, and hoped it wasn't her own.
He gave her hand a quick, intimate squeeze before bringing it to his lips, his eyes steady on hers. "You're tired, Lieutenant," he murmured, the wisp of Ireland magical in his voice. "I'm just moving them along. Only a few minutes more, all right?"
"Sure, yeah. Fine." Her temper began to cool. "I'm sorry I screwed this up. I know it was important." Beyond him in the beautifully furnished parlor she saw more than a dozen elegant men and women, formally dressed, gems winking, silks rustling. Something of her reluctance must have shown on her face before she smoothed it away, because he laughed.
"Five minutes, Eve. I doubt this can be as bad as whatever you faced tonight."
He ushered her in, a man as comfortable with wealth and privilege as with the stench of alleys and violence. Seamlessly he introduced his wife to those she'd yet to meet, cued her on the names of those she'd socialized with at another time, all the while nudging the dinner party guests toward the door.
Eve smelled rich perfumes and wine, the fragrant smoke from the applewood logs simmering discreetly in the fireplace. But under it all the sensory memory stink of blood and gore remained.
He wondered if she knew how staggering she was, standing there amid the glitter in her scarred jacket and smeared denim,
her short, untidy hair haloing a pale face, accenting dark, tired eyes, her long, rangy body held straight through what he knew was an act of sheer will.
She was, he thought, courage in human form.
But when they closed the door on the last guest, she shook her head. "Summerset's right. I'm just not equipped for this Roarke's wife stuff."
"You are my wife."
"Doesn't mean I'm any good at it. I let you down. I should've—" She stopped talking because his mouth was on hers, and it was warm, possessive, and untied the knots in the back of her neck. Without realizing she'd moved, Eve wrapped her arms around his waist and just held on.
"There," he murmured. "That's better. This is my business." He lifted her chin, skimming a finger in the slight dent centered in it. "My job. You have yours."