"Yeah, but not one of your bell-ringing suits. Those poor bastards can't afford this kind of weight and quality. This is good shit, next best thing to real wool. The manufacturers claim it's better -- warmer, more durable, and blah blah blah. That's bullshit, 'cause nothing's better than genuine. But this is good, pricey. Just like the hair. Your guy isn't worried about spending credits."
"Good. Nice work, Dickie."
"You find my invitation, Dallas?"
"Yeah, it fell behind my desk."
"Those things happen."
"Get me the results of the drain lift, Dickie, and I'll have it messengered over."
She watched dawn flirt with the eastern sky as she turned toward home.
* * *
She knew where to find Roarke. In a room that shouldn't have existed, manning equipment that she shouldn't know about. She ignored the knee-jerk reaction, a cop's reaction, as she approached the room and laid her palm on the plate.
"Dallas, Lieutenant Eve."
Her palm- and voiceprints were analyzed quickly, and she was cleared inside.
He'd left the curtains open on the wide glass. The glass itself was treated. No one could see inside. The room was large, the floor a fancy marble, the walls accented with art -- but for one, which was dominated by several screens.
All but one screen was blank now. On that, Roarke ran stock reports while he sat behind the slick U-shaped console toying with an unregistered computer.
"You were faster than I figured."
"There weren't that many layers to go through." He gestured to a chair beside him. "Sit down, Eve."
"Were they thin enough that I can slide it through? Indicate I found it myself without falsifying my report?"
His cop, Roarke thought fondly, would always worry about such niceties. "If you'd know just where to look, just what to question -- which I imagine you would have, given another day or two. Sit," he repeated, and this time took her hand and pulled her into the chair.
He'd tied his hair back -- which always made her want to tug it free of the thin leather band. He'd pushed up the sleeves of his black sweater. She found herself looking at his hands, thinking about his hands. Gorgeous, clever hands. She realized she was drifting and snapped herself back.
When she blinked her vision clear, his face was close, and one of those gorgeous, clever hands held her chin, his thumb brushing over the shallow dent in its center. "Nearly went out, didn't you?"
"I was just... thinking."
"Uh-huh. Thinking. I'm going to make a trade with you, Lieutenant. I'll give you what I've found if, in exchange for it, you'll be here at six tonight. You'll take a soother -- "
"Hey, I'm not bargaining for information."
"You are if you want the information. I can wipe it." He reached out a hand and let it hover over some controls she couldn't identify. "You'll be here, take a soother," he repeated, "and let Trina give you a full treatment."
"I haven't got time for a stupid haircut."
It wasn't the hair styling he was thinking of, but the body massage and relaxation program he was going to arrange. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it."
"I've got four murder discs on my desk."
"Right at this moment, I don't give a damn if you have four hundred. Whatever your priorities, you happen to be mine. That's my price. Do you want the data?"
"You're as bad as Dickhead."
"I beg your pardon?"