“Will provide breakfast.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Eve. You’re asking them to come here after working until near midnight. It’s a small thing.”
“Crap and more crap.” But she added it on. “Satisfied?”
“With that, well enough. Altogether, the way you’re drooping, other satisfaction will have to wait. Come on then, it’s time to put it away and sleep.”
“I’m not drooping,” she grumbled. “Besides,” she added as he pulled her to her feet, “it’s male drooping that postpones other satisfaction.”
“Very droll.”
Maybe she was drooping, a little, by the time they got to the bedroom. And there lay the cat, stretched out on his back in the middle of the bed.
“That’s where he went.” Eve shrugged off her jacket, unhooked her weapon harness. “He likes the big fancy bed, too.”
“He has exceptional taste.”
“Well, he’s going to have to make room.” She sat, pulled off her boots. Just sat. “I don’t want to dream. I can feel dreams circling around in my head, just waiting until I close my eyes. I don’t want them.”
“Do you remember our last night on the island?”
“I remember there was a lot of non-drooping satisfaction.”
He smiled, lit the fire. “We spread a blanket on the beach, and we had a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, cheese, fruit.”
“Those little eclair things.”
“And those. We ate, drank, watched the water, watched the sun go down until the water took it. And the moon came up.”
“We did more than sitting and watching,” she recalled as she rose to undress.
“We did, but we did sit and watch and it was quiet and lovely. It was the world right then.”
“If I’d known you owned an island, I might have married you for it. It was a nice bonus.”
He just kissed her forehead. “Dream of that,” he said, and led her to bed.
He slipped in beside her, drew her close, rubbed her back in the way he knew helped her drift away. “Dream of that tonight. Only that.”
And she did.
20
The now, the what came next, pushed at the edges of her brain and brought Eve out of sleep. In the dark, she reached for Roarke, the comfort and solidity. But he wasn’t there.
She sat up, then just curled into herself, knees to her chest, as the weight, the fresh misery of what she had to do fell over her.
She’d get her warrant, and she’d pull Kyle Knightly into the box. She’d break him. She knew how to break him. And then …
God, then.
In the dark, the cat jumped on the bed, padded to her, butted his head against her shins.
Eve picked him up—Christ, talk about weight—clutched him to her as a child might a teddy bear. The cat purred in her arms, rubbed his wide head against her shoulder.
“You always come through, don’t you?” she murmured, easing her hold to stroke and scratch. “Pretty smart of me to haul your fat ass home that day.” She rubbed her cheek against the top of his head. “Yeah, I’m pretty smart.”