Chapter 22

SHE SPENT HOURS PORING OVER THE THEATER’Sblueprints, plugging holes where she found them, checking and rechecking possible routes, possible points of entry.

If he came in, he wouldn’t get out again.

And if he didn’t come in, she’d issued BOLOs and APBs, she’d sent his sketch, his ID, a written physical description to every transportation center, public and private, in the city. Despite the fact he didn’t hold a valid driver’s license, she did her best to cover vehicle rental agencies.

He could buy a vehicle, she considered. He could just take one of Alexander’s company cars. But short of putting up roadblocks on every bridge and tunnel, she couldn’t shut down New York in her pursuit of one man.

She weighed her options heavily on her own instincts and Mira’s profile.

He’d come for her.

She looked forward to it. The idea of the confrontation, of taking down a killer took her mind off—mostly—a Trina session.

She told herself that personal torture was hours off, then spent so much time on ’link conferences, coordinating theater and NYPSD security, taking updates from her commander, she lost track.

When Peabody came into her home office, Eve didn’t give it a thought. She’d asked her partner to come early to be briefed.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Eve’s head jerked up. “Late?” And her gaze shifted to the time. “You’re late. Why are you late?”

“Traffic’s insane. We figured since we had our fancy clothes to bring we’d take a cab instead of the subway. We hit jam after jam. We’ve still got time before Trina gets here to set up, and I’ve been monitoring all the memos going back and forth between you and the commander, you and the security head at the theater. You and everybody else. You’ve been at this all day.”

“We’ve got civilians to think of, plus the freaking media. We have to be prepared to take him down when he comes because we don’t want the civilians and media treated to a couple of dead or injured cops and the panic resulting therefrom.”

“I vote against that.”

“We also don’t want civilians hurt, our suspect to escape, or the media blasting NYPSD screwups.”

“Also vote nay.”

“So the best possible outcome is we spot him, then take him down quick and quiet.” Eve circled her neck, stiff from hours of work. “Which is very unlikely.”

“Why? You’ve covered and recovered, you’ve got Plans A through Z. We’re prepared.”

“And he’s big, he’s fast, and not above hurling a toddler.”

“I don’t think there’ll be any toddlers at the premiere.”

“He can bench-press three hundred,” Eve reminded her. “He could hurl both of us and barely break stride.”

“Listen, Dallas, if you think it’s going to go south, maybe we should cancel. Just not be there.”

“I didn’t say it’s going to go south. We’ll get him, but I’m not counting on the quick and quiet part. I’m holding for no civilian injuries and no panicked stampede.”

“We can do this.”

“We will do this,” Eve corrected. “He’s used to a chain of command. Army, paramilitary, organized sports. Probability is he’ll go for me first. But that doesn’t mean he won’t take a run at you if he sees an opening. Where’s your weapon?”

“With my stuff. We put everything in the guest room Summerset gave us. I was going to carry it in my clutch. I got a really nice bag with this fake ruby clasp on sale at—”

“Peabody.”

“It looks good with the dress,” Peabody said stubbornly, “and it’s just big enough. But then I had a brainstorm.”

“What kind of brainstorm?”

“Well, see, the dress has a kind of draping skirt, so I opened a side seam, and put in a kind of slit.” She demonstrated with her hand low on her hip. “And I made a thigh holster.”

“You made a holster?”

“It’s sort of like a reinforced garter, but not very pretty. I didn’t have time for pretty. I just made it last night with what I had on hand. But it’ll secure my weapon so I just have to slide my hand in the slit to get to it.”

“You made a holster,” Eve repeated, both puzzled and impressed. “The making stuff, that’s Free-Ager roots. The holster? That’s sort of anti-Free-Ager, but crafty cop.”

“Crafty Cop.” Peabody’s eyes lit in appreciation. “I could make a whole line of them under that name, start up a police officer supply cottage industry. I saw the sketch of your dress. Where’s your weapon?”

“Thigh holster, suited for my clutch piece. I didn’t make it,” she added. “I could use a damn slit.”

“I don’t think I could work that in your dress. I saw the sketch. It would ruin the line.”

“Yeah, I’m real worried about that.” But the important thing, Eve thought, was they’d both have quick access to their weapons. “Let’s go over this again.”

“Can I get coffee first? I figure since we’re essentially on duty, wine’s out, which is too bad because I’m still a little nervous about the whole red carpet thing.”

“Be more worried about being attacked by a former semi-pro running back who outweighs you by over a hundred pounds.”

“That’s the other side of the nerves.”

Fueled with coffee, they went over every inch of the operation, backtracked, rerouted, and then repeated.

Enough, Eve decided, and seconds later heard Mavis’s signature laugh.

Maybe Trina hit Peabody’s insane traffic. Maybe she was stuck in some hellacious traffic jam that would last for days and days. Maybe—

Then, beside the pink and gold pixie of Mavis came the doom.

“Hey! Are you ready to party?” Mavis asked and did two fast twirls. The twirls brought her close enough to see the screens, the blueprints, the operation outline on the computer. “You’re working? Why are you working?”

“Crime never sleeps?” Eve ventured.

“Do not tell me you’re not going.” Mavis pointed index fingers at both Eve and Peabody. “This night is multimag. It’s your vid, and Peabody and I have our total screen debut.”

“We’re going.” Eve’s gaze slid cautiously toward Trina who stood studying her as if she were smeared on a slide in Dickhead’s lab. “We’re going and working.”

“And partying,” Peabody added.

“You’re going to look good doing all that when I get done with you.” Trina, her hair piled in red and gold curls that made Eve think of a flaming tower, circled. Then she stunned Eve speechless by pinching Eve’s cheek.

“Your skin’s good. You’ve been taking care of it.”

“I... Maybe.” She slapped on the gunk Trina pushed on her. Not because she was afraid of Trina, very much, but because it felt pretty good. “Pinch me again and I’ll flatten you.”

“Relax. I’m going to give you both a hydro boost. It’ll give you a nice dewy glow.”

“I don’t need a—”

“It’s fast and relaxing.” In her fearless way, Trina rolled over Eve’s objections. “I prep and paint the canvas. Let’s get started.”

“I need to fill Mavis in on what’s going on tonight.”

“You can do that while your skin’s hydrating. Mavis already had her boost. We’re set up in the master suite.”

“Already?”

“Do I paint you up like a slut? Make you look homely and haggard?” Trina demanded.

“You’ve painted tattoos on me without my knowledge or permission.”

Trina just bared her teeth in a wide, wide smile. “Not tonight.”

“Maybe I could get one. My dress has these rosebuds around the waist,” Peabody explained. “A little rosebud tattoo would be cute.”

“We’ll take a look. Let’s go,” Trina insisted. “You changed the schedule so let’s stick to it.”

No arguing with that, Eve thought. Time to suck it up.

“Where’s everybody else?” she asked as they trooped to the bedroom.

“McNab and Roarke are playing with the e-angle of the op,” Peabody told her.

“Op? There’s an op?”

Eve patted Mavis’s shoulder. “I’ll explain. Where’s Leonardo?”

“He’s still home with Bella. He’s going to meet up with us at Central because you said we had to leave from there. We didn’t want to leave her with the sitter so early. Carly’s mag, she’s the sitter. Completely on the sweet, and Bellamina likes her bunches, but it’s a long time from now till after the after.”

“They dote,” Trina put in. “Belle brings out the dote in everybody.”

“She’s a dote magnet,” Mavis agreed. “If there’s an op that means there’s a bad guy, and your bad guys kill people. We already had that on this vid, Dallas. No way to skip the replay?”

“Different killer, different play.” Eve looked at the two portable salon chairs in her bedroom, wished she were anywhere else.

“You and Peabody first,” Trina told Eve. “That way you can tell us what the hell’s going on while you’re boosting. Mavis, you can get us some of that bubbly Roarke told us about.”

“On the job,” Eve said.

“Me, too, but I get bubbly.”

Trina opened one of her cases.

And so it began.

An hour later—or was it days—Eve had her face boosted, slathered, energized, and painted. Giving Mavis the basics helped a little, but when Trina got to her hair, she clutched.

“Don’t do anything crazy.”

“Define crazy.”

“Look in the mirror.”

“Ha-ha. I’m going to give it some shine, a little bit of lift. I was on set a few times, so I know how Marlo Durn had hers styled for the part, which is how I style yours anyway. I don’t want to move too far away from that, but give it a little glam.”

“I love mine!” Obviously enraptured, Peabody turned in front of the mirror.

She’d gone for a pileup, as Eve thought of it. Not a tower like Trina, but a kind of scoop and bounce, and a little rosebud blooming on the nape of her neck.

“I’m going to get my dress on so you guys can see the whole deal.”

“Don’t forget your weapon!” Eve called out as Peabody danced out of the room.

“Do you really think this asshole’s going to try to kill you at the premiere?”

“Not only think,” Eve said to Mavis, “hope. We’re ready.”

“Well, if he kills you, you’re going to be a fine-looking corpse.” Trina stepped back, eyed Eve critically, then nodded. “I am good.” She gestured Eve up, pushed her to the mirror.

The hair didn’t look that different, Eve decided. Fussier, and it seemed to go in more directions, but in a fancy way. Probably appropriate. There was a hell of a lot of gunk on her eyes, she knew because she’d watched Trina blending and mixing and smearing. But mostly they just looked bigger and a little dramatic. Probably appropriate again.

And no visible tattoos.

“Okay, it works.”

“You look sexily uptown,” Mavis decreed. “We’ll go play with Peabody while you get dressed, then Trina can do me. We’ll just hook up at Central.”

“I thought you were already done.”

With a rolling laugh, Mavis fluffed at her spiraling mop of pink-tipped blonde curls. “This is just regular. We’re going out there for this.”

Eve seriously couldn’t stretch her imagination far enough for Mavis’s definition of out there. She let herself take one long relieved breath when she had the room to herself again.

Op or not op, as far as she was concerned, the worst was over.

When Roarke walked in she was dressed, in a half crouch, one hand under the abbreviated hem of her dress. Smooth and quick she brought her arm up, weapon in hand, and shifted into cop stance.

“Do that again. I’d love a little personal vid.”

“It’s not as awkward as I thought, not after some practice.”

“Holster it, do a turn. Let’s have a look.”

She hiked up the dress, rolled her eyes at his hum of approval, smoothed it down.

Would she see how she glowed against the deep, rich color of the dress? He doubted it. For a spookily observant woman, she missed much about Eve Dallas. It skimmed down her long, lean frame from its square neck where the teardrop diamond he’d given her lay above the subtle curve of her breasts, then floated ever so gently to mid-thigh.

“I needed to practice getting to it in these ankle-breakers.” The shoes, the same deep color as the dress, sparkled like the diamond around her neck. “It’s doable.”

“I’m a very lucky man.”

“Goes without saying.”

“It can’t be said often enough. You look stunning. Wear these.” He took a box out of his pocket, flipped it open to a pair of long diamond and ruby earrings.

“Are they new?”

Her accusatory tone made him laugh. “They’re not, no. I got them out as they work well with the dress. I’d another necklace in mind, but I think the Giant’s Tear is exactly right, and a sentimental favorite. I’ll be dressed in a minute.”

“It’s just wrong because you will be, and it took forever to make me up like this.”

“Worth every moment. McNab and I—and Feeney—are set, by the way.”

“Good.” She turned back to the mirror, again drew her weapon.

So was she.

···

She dealt with Baxter’s hubba-hubba, Trueheart’s blush, Santiago’s wiggled eyebrows by coolly ignoring them. Because she figured it helped tamp down nerves, she let Peabody do a couple exaggerated runway strides and turns to a chorus of wolf whistles.

Once the expected bullshit ran its course, she ran through the op, the positions, the codes.

“Any questions, problems, concerns, let me hear them now.”

“Can we list popcorn as an expense?” Baxter wanted to know.

“No, and no corn. I don’t want slippery fingers. Those of you on theater security or staff, head out now. Those of you going in as guests, give it twenty. Checks every fifteen.”

She scanned the room. “Let’s go catch a vid.”

Having Mavis along for the ride kept things light. Her out there took form in a cascade of shimmering blonde intersected with a multitude of thin purple braids that matched the color of her dress. Emerald green ribbon—the color of her shoes—twined around each braid. Beside her, Leonardo wore the emerald green in a long-jacketed tux with purple shirt and tie.

“I wish you could have some of this bubbly.”

“After,” Eve told her.

“You’re not even afraid.”

“Just that I might trip in these damn shoes.”

“Those shoes are magalicious, Dallas. We all look magalicious.”

“I might be sick.” Peabody, in vivid gold, pressed a hand to her stomach.

Leonardo took out a little silver box, opened it. “Peppermints. They help. The first time I did a red carpet, I was sick. Remember, Mavis?”

“Poor babydoll.” She cooed at him. “He barely made it to the john before he booted.”

“You’re not going to be sick.” McNab rubbed her back. “You’re going to have fun.”

He wore what Eve supposed could be called a tux, except every time he moved or the light hit the material, colors shimmered. An instant of red, an instant of blue, an instant of gold.

It made her a little dizzy.

She looked away, checked in with her team.

“Everyone’s in place. No sign of the suspect. Reineke reports the crowd at the barricades is bigger than expected.” Nearly there, she thought. “Mavis, Leonardo, you’re all right with getting out first?”

“No prob,” Mavis assured her.

“I just want you out, and out of the way.”

“Don’t worry.” Leonardo put his big arm around Mavis. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Oh, honey bear.”

“No kissy-face, we’re about to pull up. You mingle, and until this goes down I don’t want you too close to me.”

“We’re all good. You stay that way,” Mavis warned, and gave Eve a quick hug. “And you can follow my lead,” she told Peabody. “Well, Dallas’s for the op, but mine for the show. Remember?”

“Smile, but keep it easy and natural. Shoulders back, don’t slouch. It’s okay to wave. If I pose, oh God, shift my weight to my back foot. And looking-over-the-shoulder shots are usually flattering.”

“Nailed it in one.” Mavis patted Peabody’s arm. “Here we go. Catch this bastard quick, okay, so we can have some fun.”

The driver, one of Roarke’s personal security team, opened the door. The sea of sound rolled in. Shouts, calls, flashes from cheap home cams and vids.

Leonardo stepped out first, offered Mavis his hand. And when she slid out, the sea of sound crested. Despite the circumstances, despite the tension, it gave Eve a boost to hear the crowds shout out Mavis’s name.

“She’s kind of a sensation,” Eve observed. Then shifted modes. “Exiting vehicle now, Peabody to follow.”

At her nod, Roarke got out, offered Eve his hand. Another crest of sound, and a stunning galaxy of lights greeted her. Faces and flashes and the bright red river of carpet.

Even as Eve’s eyes tracked, searched out her man, the chants of her name, of Roarke’s began.

She noted the route followed Peabody’s intel, the river streaming straight, then spilling into an ocean of red. People in tuxedos and sharp suits, sparkling dresses, glittering jewels glided over it. Smiling, laughing, posing.

Clinton Frye wasn’t among them.

Yet.

“Lieutenant Dallas is another sensation,” Roarke commented.

“It’s weird. And a little creepy. On the move,” she added as they started up the red carpet.

It got weirder with the shouted questions, the mics stuck in her face, the effervescent enthusiasm of the media, and the half-wild energy of the people crowded against the barricades.

For what? she wondered. She walked these streets nearly every day, she’d probably—given the odds—busted at least one of the people out there cheering, calling, waving.

All this frantic excitement just to catch a glimpse of a cop? It made her embarrassed for New York.

When she whispered as much to Roarke, he laughed. Just laughed, then completed the embarrassment by kissing her.

And the crowd went wild.

“Cut that out!”

“I might resist,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips, “if you’d stop delighting me.”

“I’ll work on it.”

It was just part of the op, she told herself as reporters began to swarm. Just part of the trap.

Great night, looking forward to it, blah, blah, yeah, yeah, the dress is Leonardo. Whose shoes are they? They’re my shoes.

For some reason this brought on a trilling laugh from some slicked-up fashion reporter.

She walked what she now thought of as a gauntlet, talking, smiling, searching, scanning, listening to reports in her ear—no sign yet—keeping both Mavis and Peabody on her radar. Then Nadine, in a liquid skin of silver, and Mira in deep and flowing coral. Dennis Mira, looking bemused and befuddled. God, he was so cute. The commander looking commanding beside his regal, slightly scary wife.

She heard her name called, glanced, and watched Marlo, her hand linked with Matthew’s, hurry toward her.

“Dallas! You’re here. I kept obsessing you’d be chasing down some murderer instead of making it. It’s so good to see you both. We’re really looking forward to tonight, and tomorrow.”

“So are we.” Roarke held out a hand. “It’s good to see you, Matthew.”

“It’s great to be back in New York.”

As requests pounded out for photo ops, Marlo smoothly shifted position, slipped an arm around Eve’s waist.

Too close, Eve thought, then ordered herself to relax. With the sweep of blonde hair no one would mistake Marlo for her.

“We need to move inside,” Marlo murmured in her ear even as she struck another pose. “Even with the heaters, it’s cold out here, and they’ll keep us as long as we’ll stay.”

“Sounds good. And right on schedule.” Eve caught Peabody’s eye, signaled.

Of course that generated more greetings, more photos, a round of you-look-amazings.

“You’re getting cold,” Roarke commented, and in his easy, unstoppable way, guided them all into the theater.

The carpet continued. The crowd was smaller here, more exclusive, and the noise more subdued.

And there, she thought, was Sterling Alexander, looking smug as he sipped a cocktail and cornered Mason Roundtree, the director.

She caught glimpses of Biden, of Young-Sachs. Continued to track.

Alva Moonie, her housekeeper beside her, stood off from the main group and held both of Whitestone’s hands. Sympathy covered her face.

Across the lobby, Candida, in all but transparent white, held court with a gaggle of reporters.

“I wondered if they’d come,” Eve murmured to Roarke. “Whitestone, Newton and his fiancée.”

Roarke followed her direction. “It weighs on them. You can see it.”

“Why come here, with all this hype and hoopla?”

“Some need people, distractions, noise in grief. Others need solitude and silence. But both can offer solace,” he said as he watched Alva put her arms around Whitestone.

“I guess that’s true.”

Eve made her men, scattered throughout. Baxter, looking as though he’d been born in a tuxedo, chatted carelessly from all appearances with Carmichael who shined up very well.

But she saw the cop in their eyes, the alert in the set of their bodies.

She saw Feeney dragging at the knot of his tie. She wanted a quick word, but was intercepted by Julian Cross.

He caught her hands—looked at her with eyes not quite so blue, not quite so wicked as Roarke’s—then lifted them to his lips. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He’d played the Irish accent well in the few outtakes she’d seen, but there was no trace of it now. “I wanted another chance to thank you for saving my life.”

“Nadine saved your life.”

“She did. She kept me from dying. And you figured out Joel killed K.T., tried to frame me, and would have killed me. More, doing that you gave me the courage to change my life. I’m sober, and I intend to stay sober.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

He bent to brush a kiss over her cheek, then looked at Roarke. “You’re a lucky man.”

“So I say myself. Sobriety looks good on you, Julian.”

“And feels good on me. Thank you,” he said again. “Both of you. I need to speak to Connie, and I know she’d like to see you both before tomorrow’s... celebration,” he said with a glint of his innate charm. “Mason’s going to make a little speech before we go in, unless you can sneak in first and avoid the speech. We’ll have more time to catch up at the after-party, and tomorrow.”

“Sometimes you do more than save a life,” Roarke said as Julian walked off. “You change them.”

“He changed his own.”

The noise level rose as drinks poured freely. Laughter rang out, kisses and air-kisses flowed.

She felt something, just a tingle at the base of her spine, started a casual turn. She heard the report in her ear seconds before she saw Frye. Deliberately she let her gaze pass over him, move off.

“I heard. I see.” Roarke touched fingertips to her arm.

“He’s wearing a security badge, so he may have access to those areas. Too many people in here. Better chance to take him quietly and without civilian injuries if we do it inside. I’m going in. He’ll follow. I’ve got men in there,” she reminded Roarke. “And I’m armed. That was the plan.”

“Understood. And you understand I’ll be coming in after him.”

“Just don’t rush it.”

“Baxter, take Alexander—quietly—into custody as soon as I’m through the theater doors. McNab, send the green to the feds re the operatives. Clean Sweep starts now.”

She gave Roarke a smile, strolled off toward the theater doors. Now when someone called her name, she ignored it or tossed a careless wave. She could feel his eyes on her, tracking her. Had to get closer, she knew. Couldn’t risk another miss like before, so he had to get close.

A stunner, a knife. Maybe both.

Calculating, she slipped through the doors and into the gilded palace of the theater.

She’d never stepped foot in it before, but she knew every inch, every exit, every corner.

She drew her weapon as she eased away from the doors, moved carefully to the left. She needed him to come through, all the way, move beyond a chance to duck out again.

Two of her men would, as soon as possible, move over to those doors to block them. They’d have him in a box.

She walked a few more steps, deliberately turned her back to the doors.

Other eyes were on him now, eyes she trusted. And she’d hear him. She’d feel him.

She did both as the door quietly opened.

Closer, she thought, listening to the voices in her ear, listening to her own gut. Just a little closer.

She turned, weapon drawn. His face didn’t change, but the hand holding the stunner jerked in shock.

“You may be able to get off a stream before I do, but believe me, if I miss, the other four cops in here won’t. You’re going to want to lower that weapon, Frye, or you’re going to get hit by multiple streams. It’ll hurt like a bitch.”

She saw his eyes dart left, right, saw his body shift, roll onto his toes.

“Nowhere to run,” she began. “It’s over.”

Even as she spoke, the door swung open. “Eve Dallas!” Candida, obviously drunk, stumbled in. “I’ve got something to say to you, bitch.”

Frye had fast hands to go with his fast feet. He grabbed Candida, swung her around, effectively blocking any shots, then launched her at Eve with the spin velocity.

A flailing fist slammed into her eye as the now screaming woman landed on her.

“You bitch!” Candida shrieked it, slapping, kicking. “You ripped my dress!”

Cursing, Eve shoved, pushed Candida into a heap then gained her feet. Streams blasted as Frye dodged and weaved through the theater. On another curse, Eve kicked off the damn shoes and sprinted after him.

Fast, she thought, but goddamn it, she’d be faster. Her right eye watered freely, blurring her vision and throbbing like a bad tooth.

He veered off from the exit as she or one of the others glanced a stream off his shoulder. He returned fire, wildly, leaped onto the stage like a receiver leaping for a long pass. She leaped right after him, set, fired.

This one hit him square in the back. He didn’t stumble so much as sway, didn’t jitter so much as shudder.

He swung around, weapon up, fear and fury on his face. Shouts of “Drop your weapon” rang out, her own joining them. But those angry eyes never left her face.

He couldn’t miss at this range, she thought. Neither could she. She thought: What the hell, prepared to fire, braced for the return hit.

Roarke flew across the stage, a panther on the spring. He hit Frye low, at the knees, sent them both shooting through the air, across the floor.

“Restraints!” Eve shouted, dashed toward Roarke. Before she could get to him, he’d pulled back, plowed in, slamming a fist into Frye’s face.

Twice.

“Okay, okay, okay. He’s done. Suspect is down.”

“LT.” Jenkinson tossed her restraints, wincing as he climbed onto the stage.

“You hurt? You hit?”

“Nah, just burned me some. I’m wearing gear. It still gives you a jolt.”

“I know. Sit down, get your breath. You, too,” she said to Roarke, but he was already sitting beside the dazed Frye.

When Frye tried to rise, Eve stuck her stunner in his face. “You’re done,” she repeated. “On your face. Roll over on your face, hands behind your back.”

When he groped at his pocket, Roarke jabbed him, not so lightly, in the side. “Looking for this, boy-o?” He held up a knife, let the light catch the blade. “I had it out of your pocket before you hit the bleeding ground. Put another hand on my wife, and it may find its way into you.”

The best Eve could spare was a warning stare and shake of her head.

“Jenkinson, bag the knife, will you? The rest of you help me roll this big bastard over.”

He bucked, drummed his feet, reminding Eve of the kid with the cold and his tantrum. “Jesus, you’re done!” She had to expand the restraints to fit, and was fully, sincerely grateful she hadn’t gone head-to-head with him. “Clinton Rosco Frye, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to murder and murder for hire of Marta Dickenson, Chaz Parzarri, Jake Ingersol, human beings. Additional charges to come, including, you dick, assault with intent on police officers. Twice. Get him up, get him out—back door. Book him. I’ll be in shortly.”

She sat back on her heels, looked at Roarke while they dragged Frye to his feet. He’d yet to make a sound, but it took four cops to contain him and perp-walk him out the door.

Roarke nodded at her face. “Did he do that, bloody bastard?”

“Is it bad?” She touched her fingers to her cheek, her eye, sent them both throbbing madly. “Shit, shit. No, he didn’t do it—directly. He threw that idiot Candida at me. Her fist hit me—I think her fist.”

“First a baby, now a drunk idiot.”

“Well, it’s sort of consistent.” She glanced back, saw the people crowded in the back of the theater with Peabody and Baxter and others trying to move them back. She gave Roarke a thin smile. “Sorry, but it looks like I’m going to miss the premiere. I need to deal with this.”

“We’ll miss it. I’m with you.”

“You don’t have to—” She broke off, shrugged. Of course he had to go with her. “Nice tackle, by the way.”

“I spent some time on the pitch as a boy.”

“On the—oh, right, Irish football. You’ve got a knack.”

“I feel it in every bone,” he said, and flexed his raw knuckles. “It was like hitting a wall of fucking concrete—tackle and punch.”

She took his hand, studied the knuckles. “Looks like somebody else is going to need some ice.”

“I’m after some in a glass, with whiskey over it.”

“Who can blame you? Well, hell, I guess we put on a show anyway.”

“We did indeed, and we’ll make the after-party at some point.” He rose, held out a hand to pull her up, then he laid the fingers of his bruised hand on her bruised cheek. They just smiled at each other.

“Dallas!” Peabody ran down, Eve’s glittery shoes in her hand. “Ouch! You took a knock. Are you okay? Both of you okay?”

“Okay enough. We’re going out the back. I’m going to finish with Frye.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“I need you to stay here, handle this situation, calm it down, make sure that incredibly stupid Candida isn’t hurt.”

“But—”

“I can handle Frye, but I can’t be here and there. I need you here. You’re in charge here. I’ll contact you when it’s done. We’ll hit the party if we can, otherwise, the rest can wait till Monday.”

“All right.”

“Alexander?”

“Baxter and Trueheart have him, and is he pissed.”

“Sorry I missed that.”

“Wow. Some night already.”

“Some night,” Eve agreed. She took Roarke’s good hand, forced herself to put on her shoes. “It pretty much went as planned.”

He laughed, gave her hand a squeeze. “Pretty much.”

They went out the back, leaning on each other.