“Oh, get off planet.”
“If I tag her, she’ll get that look in her eye, and tell me I have to have my hair cut, then she’ll start glopping stuff on my face and start on that breast cream she’s always pushing.”
“It comes in kiwi now.”
“Whoopee.”
“And you really need a trim. You’re starting to go shaggy again. And I bet you haven’t had your nails done since the last time we tied you down.”
“Give me a break. Be a pal.”
Mavis heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Tell you what, send the video over, and I’ll take a look. I’ll get Trina over to my place to, like, what-do-you-call-it, collaborate. Or corroborate.”
“Either works. Thanks.”
“Solid.” She glanced over her shoulder, waved toward the empty rear seat. “Gotcha. Two minutes. I gotta go,” she said to Eve. “They’re ready with the next setup.”
“I’ll send the image to you tonight. The sooner you can get back to me, the better.”
“I’ll catch you tomorrow. What are friends for?”
Eve thought of Stowe and Winnie, and wished she could reach over and touch Mavis. Just make that genuine contact. “Mavis . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Um. I love you.”
Mavis’s eyes widened, sparkled, grinned. “Wow, frigid. I love you back. See you.”
And she was gone.
Roarke had decided against the private dining room at the Top. He preferred the less formal atmosphere of the main restaurant. Their table was beside the glass wall that circled the room, and as the night was warm and clear, the roof had been opened to provide that alfresco feeling.
Occasionally tourist trams crept just a little closer than the city ordinances allowed. Close enough so you could see the recorders and cams busily capturing a scene of glamour and privilege. But when and if they became too much of a nuisance, air security whipped out in their one-man copters and buzzed them firmly back.
Otherwise, such matters were easily ignored.
The restaurant revolved slowly, offering panoramic views of the city from seventy stories up while a two-man orchestra played silky background music from the stationary central core.
Roarke had chosen that venue to entertain his guests because he hadn’t expected Eve to join them.
She disliked heights.
It was the same group who’d dined at his home a few nights earlier, including Mick. His friend was enjoying himself, and keeping the rest of the party lively with stories and lies. If he drank a bit more of the wine than Roarke considered wise, no one could accuse Michael Connelly of not having a good head for spirits.
“Oh, you can’t make me believe you jumped overboard and swam the rest of the way across the Channel.” Laughing, Magda shook a finger at Mick. “You said it was February. You’d have frozen.”
“It’s true as your born, darling. Fear that my associates would realize I’d jumped ship and harpoon me in the ass kept me warm so that I arrived safe, if a bit waterlogged, on the other shore. Do you remember, Roarke, when we were barely old enough to shave and we relieved that vessel on its way out of Dublin of its cargo of illegal whiskey?”
“Your memory’s considerably more flexible than mine.” Though he did remember, and well.
“Ah, I’m forgetting himself’s a solid citizen these days.” He winked across the table at Magda. “And will you look at this. Here’s one of the reasons why.”
Eve strode across the circling room—boots, leather, and badge—with the tuxedo-clad maître d’ scurrying after her and wringing his hands. “Madam,” he continued to say. “If you please, madam.”
“Lieutenant,” she snapped back, struggling to ignore both height and movement. The ground, for her peace of mind, was entirely too far away. She stopped just long enough to turn and drill her finger into the maître d’s chest. “And I do please, so go away before I arrest you for being a public nuisance.”
“Good Lord, Roarke.” Magda watched the show in awe. “She’s magnificent.”