“Get a grip on yourself. With all your toys I know damn well you’ve got something around here with four wheels and doors.”
“This is more fun.” He dropped the helmet onto her head. “And I’m forced to remind you that part of this little interlude was meant to be a bit of a holiday for us.”
He took a second helmet, put it on. Then tidily fastened hers. “This way you can be my biker bitch.” When she showed her teeth, he only laughed and swung a leg nimbly over the tube. “And I mean that in the most flattering way possible.”
“Why don’t I pilot, and you can be my biker bitch?”
“Maybe later.”
Swearing, she slid onto the bike behind him. He glanced back at her as she adjusted her seat, cupped her hands loosely at his hips. “Hang on,” he told her.
He shot like a rocket out of the garage, and her arms latched like chains around his waist. “Lunatic!” she shouted as he blasted into traffic. Her heart flipped into her throat and stayed there while he swerved, threaded, streaked.
It wasn’t that she minded speed. She liked to go fast, when she was manning the controls. There was a blur of color as they careened around an island of exotic wildflowers. A stream of motion when they rushed by a people glide loaded with vacationers. Grimly determined to face her death without blinking, she stared at the snag of vehicular traffic dead ahead.
Felt the boost of thrusters between her legs. “Don’t you—”
She could only yip and try not to choke on her own tongue as he took the jet-bike into a sharp climb. Wind screamed by her ears as they punched through the air.
“Shortcut,” he shouted back to her, and there was laughter in his voice as he brought the bike down to the road again, smooth as icing on cake.
He braked in front of a blindingly white building, shut off all engines. “Well, then, it doesn’t come up to sex, but it’s definitely in the top ten in the grand scheme.”
He swung off, removed his helmet.
“Do you know how many traffic violations you racked up in the last four minutes?”
“Who’s counting?” He pulled off her helmet, then leaned down to bite her bottom lip.
“Eighteen,” she informed him, pulling out her palm ’link to contact Darcia Angelo. She scanned the building as she relayed a message to Darcia’s voice mail. Clean, almost brutally clean. Well constructed, from the look of it, tasteful and likely expensive.
“What do you pay your security people?”
“A Level?” They crossed the wide sidewalk to the building’s front entrance. “About twice what a New York police lieutenant brings in annually, with a full benefit package, of course.”
“What a racket.” She waited while they were scanned at the door and Roarke coded in his master. The requisite computer voice welcomed him and wished him a safe and healthy day.
The lobby was tidy and quiet, really an extended foyer with straight lines and no fuss. At the visitors’ panel, Eve identified herself and requested Zita Vinter.
I’m sorry, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Ms. Vinter does not respond. Would you care to leave a message at this time?
“No, I don’t care to leave a message at this time. This is police business. Clear me into Apartment Six-B.”
I’m sorry, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, your credentials are not recognized on this station and do not allow this system to bypass standard privacy and security regulations.
“How would you like me to bypass your circuits and stuff your motherboard up your—”
Warning! Verbal threats toward this system may result in arrest, prosecution, and monetary fines up to five thousand credits.
Before Eve could spit out a response, Roarke clamped a hand on her shoulder. “This is Roarke.” He laid his hand on the palm plate. “ID 151, Level A. You’re ordered to clear me and Lieutenant Dallas to all areas of this compound.”
Identification verified. Roarke and companion, Dallas, Eve, are cleared.
“Lieutenant,” Eve said between her teeth as Roarke pulled her toward an elevator.
“Don’t take it personally. Level six,” he ordered.
“Damn machine treated me like a civilian.” The insult of it was almost beyond her comprehension. “A civilian.”