Free In Death 09 - Loyalty in Death by authors_sort Page A

well, embarrassing.
    Not that she would use the words decadent or embarrassing to Roarke. He'd enjoy her dilemma entirely too much.
    At least the long, somewhat severe black dress she wore was suitable enough for both a will reading and a business dinner. It was straight and simple, covering her from neck to ankle. She considered it practical, if foolishly expensive.
    But there was no place to strap on her weapon without looking ridiculous, no place for her badge but the silly little evening purse.
    When she squirmed again, Roarke draped an arm over the backseat and smiled at her. "Problem?"
    "Cops don't wear virgin wool and ride in limos."
    "Cops who are married to me do." He skimmed a finger over the cuff beneath the sleeve of her coat. He enjoyed the way the dress looked on her -- long, straight, unadorned so that the body under it was quietly showcased. "How do you suppose they know the sheep are virgins?"
    "Ha ha. We could have taken my ride."
    "Though your current vehicle is a vast improvement over your last, it hardly provides this kind of comfort. And we wouldn't have been able to fully enjoy the wines that will be served with dinner. Most importantly..." He lifted her hand, nipped at her knuckles. "I wouldn't be able to nibble on you along the way."
    "I'm on duty here."
    "No, you're not. Your shift ended an hour ago."
    She smirked at him. "I took an hour's personal time, didn't I?"
    "So you did." He shifted closer, and his hand slid up her thigh. "You can go back on the clock when we get there, but for now..."
    She narrowed her eyes as the car swung to the curb. "I haven't gone off the clock, ace. Move your hand, or I'll have to arrest you for assaulting an officer."
    "When we get home, will you read me my rights and interrogate me?"
    She snorted out a laugh. "Pervert," she muttered and climbed out of the car.
    "You smell better than a cop's supposed to." He sniffed at her as they walked toward the dignified entrance of the brownstone.
    "You squirted that stuff on me before I could dodge." He tickled her neck, made her jerk back. "You're awfully playful tonight, Roarke."
    "I had a very satisfying lunch," he said soberly. "Put me in a cheerful mood."
    She had to grin, then cleared her throat. "Well, shake it off, this isn't exactly a festive occasion."
    "No, it's not." He stroked an absent hand down her hair before ringing the bell. "I'm sorry about J. C."
    "You knew him, too."
    "Well enough to like him. He was an affable sort of man."
    "So everyone says. Affable enough to cheat on his lover?"
    "I couldn't say. Sex causes the best of us to make mistakes."
    "Really?" She arched her brows. "Well, if you ever feel like making a mistake in that area, remember what an annoyed woman can do with a Branson power drill."
    "Darling." He gave the back of her neck a quick squeeze. "I feel so loved."
    A solemn-eyed maid opened the door, her slick, black jumpsuit conservatively cut, her voice smooth and faintly British. "Good evening," she began with the faintest of nods. "I'm sorry, the Bransons aren't accepting visitors at the moment. There's been a death in the family."
    "Lieutenant Dallas." Eve took out her badge. "We're expected."
    The maid studied the badge for a moment, then nodded. It wasn't until Eve saw the quick jitter in the eyes that indicated a security probe that she tagged the maid as a droid.
    "Yes, Lieutenant. Please come in. May I take your coats?"
    "Sure." Eve shrugged out of hers, then waited until the maid neatly laid it and Roarke's over her arm.
    "If you would follow me. The family is in the main parlor."
    Eve glanced around the foyer with its atrium ceiling and graceful curve of stairs. Urban landscapes done in spare pen and ink adorned the pearl gray walls. The heels of her dress boots clicked on tiles of the same hue. It gave the entranceway and wide hall a misty, sophisticated ambiance. Light slanted down from the ceiling like moonbeams through fog. The staircase, a pure white sweep, seemed to be floating