He could think of nothing, so he framed her face, kissed her.
“There’s one more. Maybe you should remember, you built Dochas, not because of rules or lines, but because of who you are. And you’re doing the same with An Didean. That, well, that’s your system. And it works.”
“Eve. You undo me.”
She took his hand, pressed it to her cheek. “That’s all the sugary stuff I’ve got.”
“It’s more than enough.”
“I’ve got to move.” She rose, glanced toward her closet. “Hell. I want to look mean. Maybe, just this time, you could go get whatever makes me look mean.”
He grinned, rose. “Not just mean. Arrogant and fearless.”
“That sounds good.”
He gestured for her to follow him into the closet. “Leather pants, black. No, not those,” he said when she started to reach for a pair. “Those.”
She wanted to ask what the hell was the difference, but she saw the subtle difference. The tough look of the metal button fly, the thick belt loops.
“Shirt, not sweater. Not white or black. This.”
She frowned at it, noting the color mirrored the metal. Her frown deepened when he chose a black vest with a trio of thick metal hooks in lieu of buttons.
“Trust me,” he told her. “Instead of a jacket, the vest. It’ll show your weapon harness during Interview. Mean, arrogant, fearless. And bloody intimidating.”
Last, he selected sturdy, mid-calf black boots with lacing that gave them a military look, and a black belt with a wide metal buckle.
“You’ll scare the crap out of them,” he promised.
Well, she’d asked for it, she reminded herself.
Once dressed, she took a look in the mirror. “Okay. Okay, you know your stuff.”
At her back, he laid his hands on her shoulders. “Go get ’em, Lieutenant.”
“Bet your fine Irish ass.”
“Take care of my cop—and her face.”
She gave him a nod in the mirror. “I’m on it.”
When she left, Roarke glanced back and saw that while he’d been distracted, Galahad had made the most of it. He’d gained the table, and now enthusiastically licked the plates.
“I should call her back and have you arrested.”
With a quiet belch, the cat sat and studiously cleaned the jam off his paws.
* * *
Once again, Eve—mostly—missed the morning traffic. Considering the raid the night before, she detoured to Jacko’s, loaded up on cinnamon buns. She’d sampled one on a previous investigation, knew their magnificence.
Because they were there, she added in Danishes.
Even with the stop, she got into Central with plenty of time to set up for the briefing. Before she moved into the conference room, she swung by Evidence, checked out what she needed.
And since cop coffee felt like an insult to the cinnamon buns, she hauled in pots of coffee from her office AC.
Jenkinson and his tie came in first. A horde, a flock? A shitload of multicolored butterflies swarmed over screaming blue.