Chapter 16

Eve always felt strange and a little awkward socializing with Commander Whitney. Her strongest image of him would always be of him behind his big desk, New York City rising up in the window behind him. His dark, careworn face sober, his broad shoulders holding the weight of command.

So seeing him dancing (including the booty shake already mentioned by McNab) with his elegant and somewhat scary wife just threw her world out of kilter.

She didn't have the knack for mingling—not like Roarke, who apparently knew everyone on or off planet, or had the talent to act as though he did. Still she handled the small-talk thing, even with people she didn't know. Bigwigs from what she thought of as the Roarke Universe, their spouses or dates, research-and-development types, business colleagues.

Mostly they wanted to talk to each other, or dance or hit the bar and buffets so she could do the duty, and move on.

But it struck her odder yet to see her people mix with his. To see Baxter leaning on one of the tables chatting up one of Roarke's RD execs. Then again, the exec was female, single, and sexy, so it wasn't a shock.

And there was Caro, Roarke's efficient admin, dancing with the adorable Dennis Mira. Over there, Santiago engaged in an obviously animated discussion with a couple of Roarke engineers over tall glasses of brew.

"Here." Nadine walked up, handed Eve a flute. "Even in that amazing dress you look too much like a cop just standing over here."

"The worlds have collided. I observe," Eve said and sipped. "And there doesn't seem to be any damage or destruction."

Nadine scanned as Eve did. "You've thrown parties including both worlds before."

"Yeah, but they seem to get more heavily populated, and the natives from each have more crossover."

"And still, the planet spins," Nadine finished. "I love your parties. First because I know there are going to be so many people here I know and like, and people I may not know who are interesting. And second, in a case like tonight, I get a fabulous gift. I really do love that bag."

"Why do you haul around so much stuff? That's the question."

"How do I know what I might need at any given time during the day? It's better to be prepared for anything. Oh, Morris is going to play with the band. I love when he plays the sax. He's better," she said quietly, "but still carrying a lot of sad. I've never lost anyone I've really loved. I don't know how anyone handles it."

"Silver shirt, red tie, silver band through the braid."

Nadine angled her head. "What?"

"Color. He's been wearing more color again for a while. He's getting through it."

"You know, I'm observant and fairly intuitive, too—reporter, writer—but I'd never have put that together. You're right. He's letting some color back into his life, and that's good to see. So. What's the story on him and DeWinter? Are they a thing?"

"No."

"Well, you certainly sound sure, and, if I'm not mistaken, determined. Don't you like... speaking of which, I believe she's heading over here. And speaking of amazing dresses."

DeWinter wore hot, slick red in a long sleek column that hugged every curve. A side slit ran nearly to her hip, revealing a long, long, toned leg and jeweled heels that sparkled like the Christmas lights with each stride.

"Dallas. I haven't had a chance to thank you for the hospitality. It's a fabulous party. Your home is beyond spectacular."

"Thanks. Ah, Nadine Furst, Dr. Garnet DeWinter."

"We've met. The Sanctuary case." Still DeWinter extended a hand. "I very much enjoyed the last broadcast of Now, but I've become a serious fan of your work altogether."

"Thanks. I'm a serious fan of your dress. Valencia?"

"Yes! What an eye you have. It turned out to be a fun choice when I saw Morris had chosen a red tie." She sipped her own champagne, tossed back her hair—an explosion of caramel-and-gold curls. "I love to hear him play."

"So... you and Morris are dating?"

Nadine's cheery smile didn't dim under Eve's baleful stare.

"Keeping each other company. Neither of us want, or are ready, I'd say, for dating. I have my daughter to consider. And he has Amaryllis. I think it's easier for him to talk about her with me as I didn't know her, or know them together. But he's certainly made my transition to New York smoother."

"Oh?" Nadine broadened her smile. "How so?"

"It can be challenging to be the new person, especially the new person in charge. Morris gives me a sounding board, and a good sense of the people I work with. One of the reasons I left D.C. was I felt I'd become complacent, and needed a change. It was a well-run machine—I insist on that—but the structure, and the individual personalities, didn't allow for much camaraderie or... joy. I've found both here."

She gestured to the ballroom. "The work we do? All three of us. It's difficult and so often dark. Without this? Without the personal connections, the joy, the interest in each other, it can become more difficult, and darker. I want to be able to put on an amazing red dress now and again, listen to a man I find smart and interesting play the saxophone. I want to eat and drink and talk about nothing particularly important—or about the vitally important—with people I like, respect, and admire. Doing so makes me better at my work. It makes me a better mother."

She sipped her champagne as she studied Eve. "You don't like me yet, but you will. I'll grow on you."

"What? Like mold?"

DeWinter threw back her head and laughed, full and throaty. "Possibly, and I suspect you might do the same on me because I don't like you yet, either. We'll see. What I do know, absolutely, is you're his friend. You're Li's good, strong friend. I can promise you I'm his friend. So that's a beginning."

"I used to flirt with him now and then," Nadine murmured. "I stopped after Coltraine was killed."

"You should start again. Normal keeps him steady. Dallas gives him that. Did you come stag?" DeWinter asked Nadine.

"Yeah. I thought about bringing a date, but I really wasn't in the mood. Dating over the holidays gets so damn sticky—too important, too symbolic."

"I know! I swear it's the only time of the year I half wish I was married so people would stop asking if I have a date for Christmas, for New Year's Eve, for this party, for that event."

"God, yes! And if you have a date New Year's Eve, some people are in your face with: So is it serious?"

"Exactly. Last year I was seeing someone, very casually, then because I—against my better judgment—asked him to a holiday event, people were all over me!"

"Tell me about it."

They'd angled toward each other, Eve noted, drawn by the theme like magnets.

"I had to stop seeing someone because he started pressuring me about Christmas plans back in October," Nadine said. "It makes you crazy."

"Domestic violence, suicide, and homicide percentages rise exponentially between Thanksgiving and New Year's," Eve commented, and got baffled looks from both DeWinter and Nadine. "Carry on," she decided, and slipped away.

She considered ducking into the salon—ten minutes' quiet and solitude—but caught voices, laughter, so veered the other way. She could sneak downstairs to her office, she thought, grab those ten. But if she got caught in there—Summerset—there'd be hell to pay.

Plenty of other rooms up here, she thought, and headed away from the music, the voices, the lights, turned into what she recalled was a smallish sitting room.

Feeney was sprawled in one of the big, overstuffed chairs, his feet up, his tie loose. He looked half asleep, with the muted wall screen showing basketball.

He shot her a sheepish look. "Just wanted to check on the game, take a break."

"Great. You're now my excuse." She dropped into another chair, heaved out a breath. "Jesus, Feeney, why do people like parties?"

"Like this one? Prime booze and eats, great space. And mostly girls—some of the guys, too—get a charge out of sprucing up fancy. Sheila's having the time of her life. When I ducked out, she was talking to Ana Whitney and some Roarke exec about knitting. The three of them were into it like it was their religion. I needed ten."

"I just ducked out on Nadine and DeWinter talking about dating. About holiday dating."

"Maybe you win this one, but knitting's pretty close. Music's solid, though. Roarke knows how to rock the house. How's the case going?"

"I've got some strong lines. I'm looking..." She trailed off when she sensed movement, glanced over to see Santiago hesitate in the doorway.

"Private party?" he asked.

"No. Just taking a break from the crowd."

"Then I'm in." He brought in a brew with him, grabbed a chair. "It's a hell of a party, LT. Hell of a party. I was talking to this guy Derrick, works for Roarke. He played minor league ball for a couple years—screwed up his arm, switched to programming and design. Anyway, he's got a local league plays ball. I'm going to check it out, see if I can get in on that."

"What do you play?" Feeney asked him.

"High school and college? Shortstop. Got a partial ride in college on the sports scholarship. There's nothing like baseball."

"You didn't stick with it?" Eve asked.

"I wanted the badge. Love to play, but it's play for me. Not the job. I wanted the job."

They talked baseball, talked shop. Eve told herself to get up, go back, do her duty. Then Reineke strolled in.

"Hey. Anybody else got the weird seeing Whitney tear up the dance floor?"

"Yes!" Eve and Santiago said together, and Feeney shook his head.

"You think because somebody's got a few years on you, they don't have the moves? Me and Jack could dance and drink the lot of you into the ground."

"I don't see you out there," Reineke pointed out, flopped into a chair.

"You will."

Carmichael came in, looking loose in a little black dress, bare feet, and sparkly red toenails. "Is this the bullpen?"

She sat on the arm of Santiago's chair, copped his beer for a sip. "Whew! Some party, boss. Some serious party. I just saw Dickhead doing the sexy dance with Dr. DeWinter. I had to remove myself, save my eyes. She's pretty sexy. If I went for girls, I'd be pretty wound up. But Dickhead's just scary."

"Christ. I better get back out there."

"You could be next in the sexy-dance line."

Eve started out, paused long enough to tap the tat at the base of her spine.

"What is that?" Reineke demanded.

"It stands for ‘kiss my ass,'" she told him, and left the cop laughter behind her.

Mulling tactics, she took the long way, ducked outside, then started around toward the ballroom terrace. Anybody asked, she'd been doing her mingling out there.

The detour caused her to walk in on Trueheart in a lip-lock with his girlfriend, which caused all three parties a moment of deep embarrassment. Eve kept moving while the couple flushed scarlet behind her.

She ran into Baxter next, just inside the ballroom. "Hey, Dallas, wanna dance?"

"Absolutely not. Don't you have a date or something?"

"A man can't bring a date to this kind of shindig. It's too symbolic of serious business this close to Christmas. And it prevents him from trolling the single females."

"So that's actually true, on both sides of the line. Huh?"

"Since it's a party, and also true, I'm gonna tell you you look incendiary. Love the ass tat."

"What are you doing looking at my ass, Detective?"

"Because it's there," he said, unrepentant. "All wrapped in pretty gold, and we're off duty and it's a safe ass to look at as it's married."

"Oddly, I find those all reasonable answers, but stop it and look at someone else's ass."

"Yes, sir. Want some of this?" He took a flute off a passing tray.

"Why the hell not?" As she sipped, she spotted Roarke, smiling as he leaned down to kiss Mavis.

"It's nice," Baxter said with an easy, contented sigh, "when the family gets together."

She glanced up at him. A damn good cop, she thought, and not nearly as superficial as he liked to pretend.

"One dance," she decided. "And keep your hands off my ass."

···

She did see Feeney dance, as promised. It amused her to see him hold his own with the ridiculously energetic Peabody and McNab. When he shed his suit coat for a second round, Eve picked it up, checked the size.

"I want to get him a magic coat," she said to Roarke. "I should've thought of it before. Maybe he's not in the field much like he used to be, but he should have one. Shit brown because he wears a lot of shit brown, so he must like it. Can we get him a magic coat?"

"Of course we can. Forty-two regular in shit brown."

"Good." She slipped an arm around his waist, let her head rest lightly against his shoulder. "My feet are fucking killing me."

"A number of the ladies have shed their shoes. You could do the same if you didn't have this naked-feet-in-public phobia."

"Feet are personal. I don't know why nobody gets that."

Amused, in love, he brushed his lips over her temple. "The crowd's thinning a bit. We can find a table, sit for a while, till it thins more."

"It's okay. They're past the if-I-can-just-sit-down stage. It's like family, like Baxter said to me before. Some of them are your family, some mine, some ours, but luckily, for tonight, they're all getting along fine. Plus, they're intermixing, so we'll see how that goes. Santiago might end up playing ball with one of your guys. Baxter's going to end up sleeping with that blonde over there from your RD. Caro and Mira had their heads together like sisters or whatever. Lots of that kind of thing going on tonight."

"How do you feel about that intermixing?"

"I'm okay with it. Wasn't sure, but I'm okay with it. Still, after tonight, I don't want to talk to anybody but cops, suspects, wits, and you. Not in that order, but that's pretty much it for me. For as long as possible."

"Understood. We could whittle that down considerably. Do I have to negotiate with you to convince you to take a post–New Year's break. You, me, an island."

"I'm there. As long as—"

"Also understood. Cases cleared, no pursuit of some mad killer in progress."

"Being married to a cop sucks."

"You're entirely wrong."

Because she knew he meant it, she smiled. "Do you think McNab could be a genuine freak of nature? Nobody should be able to move or twist that way if they have actual bones and a spine. Maybe I should ask DeWinter. Who's not involved romantically with Morris, which is good, but is his friend, which is also good. Plus, I learned tonight you're not supposed to date over the holidays unless you're deadly serious because of the symbolism and madness, and Santiago played shortstop. And Trueheart and his girlfriend must be serious because they had their tongues down each other's throats during the holidays, and you have some guy, some exec, who considers knitting his religion."

"My, my, Lieutenant. You've mingled."

"Damn straight. It took considerable champagne consumption, but I held up my end."

He gave her ass a light pat. "Beautifully."

She held up her end, if she said so herself, through the leave-taking where entirely too many people insisted on hugging her. Because they were slightly more than half lit, and it was simple, Summerset poured Peabody and McNab into one of the guest rooms he'd prepped, and that was fine with her.

As she expected, Baxter and the blonde left together, and with twin gleams in their eyes.

When the last straggler was out the door, Eve hobbled to the bedroom, pried her abused feet out of the shoes, winced her way into the bathroom to use the gunk Trina had left her to take off the gunk Trina put on her.

She stripped off the jewelry, remembered the hair thing, fought it out, dragged and raked her fingers through her hair until it felt normal. She stripped off the dress, the thong, grabbed a long, baggy T-shirt and fell into bed.

"What time is it? No, don't tell me. Yes, tell me."

"It's about half three."

"God."

The cat walked up the bed, jingling, sniffed at her, climbed over her, and made himself a nest in the small of her back.

Roarke slid in, kissed her between the eyebrows.

"Did my part," she said, words slurring. "Not so bad."

And dropped away to sleep like the dead.

···

She woke alone, which was no surprise—and even less of one when she checked the time. After ten? Ten?

She sat up, rubbed her hands over her face. Needed coffee, needed to move. After crawling out of bed, she hit the AutoChef, primed herself with caffeine.

She'd take a swim, she decided. A few hard laps would clear her head, shake out the post-party dregs. Then she could order Peabody out of bed—her own fault she drank too much to get out of range the night before—and they could work on the case for a couple hours.

She turned toward the elevator, then considered it was the middle of the damn morning. Somebody could just walk in on her down in the pool. She dug out a black, tank-style suit, pulled it on, pulled the sleep shirt over it.

She debated tagging Roarke, telling him to come join her. But he'd very likely get ideas once they were both wet—and there were people in the house, probably lots of people clearing out the party debris in the ballroom.

Best to keep the swim solo.

She stepped out of the elevator, into the lushness of tropical plants. She heard the music, a low, quiet hum, and thought Roarke had beaten her to it.

So maybe she wouldn't mind if he got ideas as long as—

"God!"

She slapped her hands over her face, but the image of Peabody and McNab groping each other in the pool remained burned on her retinas. "Why? Why aren't I blind? Why is there no mercy?"

"Sorry!" Peabody sang it out. "We're not naked or anything. Roarke said we could use the pool, and there were suits in the dressing room. We're both wearing suits. Promise!"

Eve spread her fingers, risked peeking through them.

They were half naked, McNab standing in waist-high water, bony chest bare and gleaming wet, but standard black trunks below the waterline. Peabody wore bright blue that showed off plenty of cleavage. Hardly a wonder McNab's hands had been full of Peabody's girls.

She wasn't going to deny herself a swim, refused to give in to the cowardly urge to turn around and go back upstairs.

"This half is mine." She cut a hand through the air. "That half's yours. Stay on your side."

"Thanks for letting us stay," McNab said when she yanked off the shirt. "Nothing like a good night's sleep after an aces party, and the bonus round of a swim."

"Right. Your side, my side," she repeated, and dived in.

She put them out of her mind, concentrated on the movement, on cutting through the water, pushing off, cutting through again. Her body loosened; her brain cleared.

Twenty-five laps later, she felt human—wanted more coffee. She let herself sink down, rise up.

And saw Peabody and McNab, still there, floating side by side. To her surprise, she saw Roarke, sitting at one of the little tables, drinking coffee.

She sank again, pushed off again, swam underwater to the far end. She got out, dripping, reached for his coffee first, then a towel.

"Good morning," Roarke said.

"It's a better one now. I guess you've been dealing with the after-party breakdown."

"Actually I had some other business. Summerset's on that. How about some breakfast? I could do with some. I waited for you."

"Sure, yeah." When he merely arched his eyebrows at her, she turned around. "Breakfast, fifteen minutes, my office."

Peabody flopped over, treading water. "That'd be sweet. It's okay?"

"I just said so. Fifteen," she repeated, and headed into the lush plants. "I used up my limited supply of gracious last night."

"I don't think Peabody or McNab require it. You'll want some time to work with her. There's no point in anyone going hungry while you do, is there?"

"I guess not. They were, you know—starting in on it when I came down. Her tits were half out of the suit."

"Sorry I missed it."

"You would be. Pervert."

He grabbed her as they stepped out of the elevator, scrambled her brains with the kiss. "If only you'd said thirty rather than fifteen minutes, I'd show you a bit of perversion."

She laughed, but wiggled free. "I didn't figure they'd be out of bed. I only bothered with a suit because I remembered there'd be people here, doing stuff, and better to be cautious. If I'd gotten up ten minutes later, they'd have been naked and humping like whales."

"Do whales hump?"

"It sounds right."

"Oddly enough. I'll see about breakfast while you get dressed."

"I'll be quick."

"Be that. And later? After whatever work both of us have to deal with today, I'd like a date."

"A date for what?"

"A date for lounging with you. A vid, some popcorn, a fire crackling and absolutely nothing to do but lie there."

The image made her smile. "That sounds like a perfect date."

Absolutely perfect, she decided as she dressed in black jeans, a dove-gray sweater, soft, flat boots. She dug out the teardrop diamond pendant, slipped it on under her sweater. She started to reach for her weapon and harness—habit—remembered she'd secured it in her desk drawer.

She shoved her badge, her 'link, other daily paraphernalia in her pockets.

What else did people need to carry? she wondered as she headed out toward her office. Work stuff, maybe—so a file bag or a briefcase. But nobody could ever convince her one of those planet-sized purses was necessary for survival.

She caught the scent of food, of coffee, and followed her nose to her office where the table she and Roarke often shared had been extended to hold settings and chairs for four.

She watched Roarke come out of the little kitchen carrying a large, covered tray.

"You have droids to do that. I know you do."

"Indeed we do, but it's fun to fuss a bit yourself for friends and family here and there. I went with full Irish, all around, as a Scot would recognize the similar tradition."

"They eat enough for five people at breakfast, too?" Eve asked as she went to her desk, got her weapon.

"It's a fine meal that hits all the notes." He walked to her, slung an arm around her shoulders, studied the board as she did. "Have you a plan of action then?"

"Sort of. Working on it. I'm thinking, poke at the wife, get her to give away a little more on the husband. Copley's hands are dirty, and I think they're bloody. She's not stupid. I didn't get stupid from her. If I play it right, she'll wonder, and she may tell me something I can hook on to. Or the sister. Not stupid, either, but soft. I can probably find a spot or two on her to push. If she worries about the sister, I might get something out of her."

"I've a feeling that family won't be having a happy Christmas."

"Not if things go right on my end."

Peabody and McNab came in, both wearing lounging pants, loose tops.

"Where'd you get those clothes?" Eve asked.

"Summerset had them for us. Soft." Peabody rubbed her own sleeve. "It'd be weird to eat breakfast in party clothes. Weirder to talk about the case wearing them."

"Then we'll eat, and we'll talk." Eve stepped back to the table, lifted the cover from the big platter.

"Wow! Look at all that. Smell all that." Peabody sniffed the air, sighed.

"It's tattie scones." McNab's face lit like a child's. "You have tattie scones. Remember, Peabody? We had some when we went to Scotland, to spend the holidays with my family there. My granny made them."

"Potato scones? Oh yeah. Deadly and delicious. Good thing I danced like a maniac for hours."

Roarke gestured them to sit. "Summerset made them up, thinking you might enjoy a bit of home."

"Fuel up," Eve advised. "After this, the party's over."

"Tattie scones," McNab said again, and dived in.