"God, I love when you threaten me. It excites me."
"I'll give you excitement," she promised. She'd just judged her chances of getting past him and out the door, found them passable, when he tossed the towel in her direction. When she grabbed for it, he caught her around the waist and had her pinned against the wall before she could decide whether to laugh or swear.
"I'm not fighting with you in here." She blew at her wet hair. "Everybody knows the majority of home accidents involving personal injuries happen in the bathroom. It's a death trap."
"We'll have to risk it." Slowly he lifted her hands over her head then scraped his teeth along her throat. "You're wet, and you're warm, and you're tasty."
Her blood fired, her muscles went lax. What the hell, she thought, she had at least two hours to spare. She turned her head and caught his mouth with hers. "You're dressed," she murmured. In a lightning move she tipped her weight, shifted, and reversed their positions. Hers eyes laughed into his. "Just let me fix that for you."
• • •
Wild vertical sex was a pretty good way to start the day, Eve decided, and when it was followed by what the Irish called breakfast, it was nirvana.
Eggs creamily scrambled, potatoes fried with onions, sausage and bacon and thick slabs of bread smothered with fresh butter, all topped off with coffee by the gallon.
"Um," she managed, plowing her way through. "Can't."
"Can't what?"
"Can't eat like this every day. Whole country'd waddle to their death."
It continually satisfied him to watch her eat, to see her stoke up that slim body that burned off fuel with nerves and energy. "It's a now-and-again sort of thing. A weekend indulgence."
"Good. Mmm. What's in this meat stuff here?"
Roarke eyed the blood pudding she shoveled in and shook his head. "You'll thank me for not telling you. Just enjoy it."
"Okay." She paused for breath, flicked a glance at him. Sighed. "I'm meeting Inspector Farrell at nine. I guess I should have told you."
"You're telling me now," he pointed out and glanced at his wrist unit for the time. "That'll give me enough time to clean up a few details before we go."
"We?" Eve set down her fork before she ate another bite and did permanent damage. "Farrell is meeting with me—as in me—as a professional courtesy. And you know what? I bet she doesn't bring her husband along."
He had his datebook out, checking appointments, and glanced up with an easy smile. "Was that an attempt to put me in my place?"
"Figure it out."
"All right, and you figure this." Taking his time, he topped off both their coffee cups. "You can pursue this investigation your way." His gaze flicked up to hers, glimmered there. "And I can pursue my interests in the matter in my way. Are you willing to risk my finding him first?"
He could be hard, she knew. And ruthless. He was undeniably clever. "You've got twenty minutes to handle
your details before we leave."
"I'll be ready."
• • •
Inspector Katherine Farrell was a striking woman. Perhaps forty-five, she had hair of blazing red neatly coiled at the nape of a long, slim neck. Her eyes were moss green, her skin the color of Irish cream. She wore a trim and tailored gray suit military in style that showcased lovely legs. She offered both Eve and Roarke her hand and a cup of tea.
"This would be your first trip to Ireland then, Lieutenant Dallas?"
"Yes."
Though her tidy office was equipped with an AutoChef, Farrell poured the tea out of a white china pot. It was one of her small pleasures. And it gave her time to measure and judge the Yank cop and the man known only as Roarke. "I hope you'll have time to see some of the country while you're here."
"Not on this trip."
"Pity." She turned, teacups in hand, a smile on her lips. She found Eve both less and more than she'd expected. Less brittle than she chose to think of American police. And more tough than she expected to find a woman who had married a man with Roarke's reputation. "And you're from Dublin originally," she said to Roarke.