Roarke sat back, lighted a cigarette. "Meaning?"
"I'd put Clarissa with J. C. Just going by what I've learned about him, he was lighter, less driven, more emotional than his brother. Clarissa comes off fragile, nearly tender—seems a little…intimidated by Branson. She doesn't seem like your slick corporate wife. The man's running a big, international company. Why doesn't he have a slick corporate wife?" Even as she posed the question, Roarke was grinning, making her narrow her eyes. "What?"
"I was going to say that he might have fallen for a different type. It happens, even to the heads of big, international companies."
Now her narrowed eyes glinted. "Are you saying I'm not a slick, corporate wife?"
He drew contemplatively on his cigarette. "If I said you were, you'd try to hurt me, then we'd end up wrestling back here. One thing would lead to another and we'd be very late for a business dinner."
"I'd be real sorry about that," she muttered. "You're not exactly the typical cop's spouse either, pal."
"If you said I was, we'd end up wrestling back here, and so on." He stubbed out his cigarette, then trailed a fingertip down the center of her body from throat to waist. "Wanna?"
"I didn't get all polished up so you could leave fingerprints all over me."
He smiled and cupped her breast. "Darling, I never leave prints."
• • •
During the evening of dinner and conversation, Eve managed to slip away long enough to request a warrant to access data on Lisbeth Cooke's finances. She cited the sizable inheritance as cause and got lucky with a judge who either agreed with her or was too tired to argue the point.
As a result, she was alert and edgy when they arrived home.
"I've got some stuff I want to check out," she told Roarke when they walked into the bedroom. "I'm going to change and work in my office awhile."
"On…?"
"I asked for a warrant to access Cooke's financial data." She wiggled out of the dress, tossed it aside, then stood there, much to her husband's interest, in two tiny scraps of black and high leather boots. "It came through during the dessert course."
"I must have a whip around here," he murmured.
"A what?"
Grinning, he started toward her, amused when her eyes narrowed threateningly. "Keep your distance, ace. I said I have work."
"I can access that information in half the time you can. I'll help you out."
"I didn't ask for help."
"No. But we both know I can do it faster and interpret it without getting a tension headache. And all I want in return is one little thing."
"What little thing?"
"That when we're finished you're still wearing this very interesting getup."
"Getup?" She glanced over, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and blinked in shock. "Jesus, I look like—"
"Oh yes," Roarke agreed. "Yes, you do."
She looked back at him, struggled to ignore the slick ball of lust the gleam in his eyes caused. "Men are so weird."
"Then have pity on us."
"I'm not parading around in my underwear so you can cook up some sordid little fantasy."
"That's all right," he said as she snatched up a robe and bundled into it. "It's already cooked. We can do this faster in my office."
As she belted the robe, she eyed him suspiciously. "Do what faster?"