"You want me to kiss you good-bye?"
"I do, yes." There was a lilt of both amusement and Ireland in the tone that had her cocking her head.
"Sure." In a move as fast as his grin, she took handfuls of the black hair that nearly skimmed his shoulders, fisting, tugging, then crushing her mouth against his.
She felt his heart jump even as hers did. A leap of heat, of recognition, of unity. And on his sound of pleasure, she poured herself into the kiss, took them both fast and deep with a little war of tongues, a quick nip of teeth.
Then she jerked him back, stepped nimbly out of reach. "See you, ace," she called out as she strode from the room.
"Have a safe day, Lieutenant." He blew out a long sigh, then sat back on the couch. "Now," he said to the cat, "what will it cost me for the two of us to be friends again?"
* * *
At Cop Central, Eve hopped on a glide to Homicide. And took a deep breath. Nothing against the cliffside drama of western Mexico or the balmy breezes of tropical islands, but she'd missed the air here: the smell of sweat, bad coffee, harsh cleansers, and above all, the fierce energies that formed from the clash of cop and criminal.
Her time away had only honed her senses for it—the low roar of too many voices talking at once, the steady yet discordant beeps and buzzings of 'links and communicators, the rush of people all having something important to do somewhere.
She heard someone screaming obscenities so fast they tumbled together into one vicious stew of words that was music to her ears.
Motherfucklngassholecopbastards.
Welcome home, she thought happily.
The job had been her home, her life, her single defining purpose before Roarke. Now even with him, or maybe because she had him, it remained an essential part of who and what she was.
Once she'd been a victim—helpless, used, and broken. Now, she was a warrior.
She swung into the detectives' bullpen, ready to fight whatever battle lay ahead.
Detective Baxter glanced up from his work, let out a low whistle. "Whoa, Dallas. Hubba-hubba."
"What?" Baffled, she looked over her shoulder, then realized Baxter's leering grin was for her. "You're a sick man, Baxter. It's reassuring to note some things don't change."
"You're the one who's all slicked up." He pushed himself up, skirted around desks. "Nice," he added, rubbing her lapel between his thumb and finger. "You're a frigging fashion plate, Dallas. Put the rest of us to shame."
"It's a jacket," she muttered, mortified. "Cut it out."
"Got yourself tanned, too. Would that be a full-body job?"
She bared her teeth in a fierce smile. "Do I have to kick your ass?"
Enjoying himself, he wagged a finger. "And what's that on your ears?" As she reached up, confused, he blinked as if in surprise. "Why, I believe those are called earrings. And they're real pretty, too."
She'd forgotten she had them on. "Did crime suddenly stop dead while I was gone so that you have time to stand around here critiquing my wardrobe?"
"I'm just dazzled, Lieutenant. Absolutely dazzled by this fashion presentation. New boots?"
"Bite me." She swung away on the sound of his laughter.
"And she is back!" Baxter announced to the sound of applause.
Morons, she thought as she marched toward her office. The New York Police and Security Department was peopled by a bunch of morons.
Jesus, she'd missed them.
She walked into her office, then just stood, one step over the threshold, goggling.
Her desk was clear. More, it was clean. In fact, the whole place was clean. Like someone had come along and sucked out all the dust and grime and then shined up what was left behind. Suspicious, she ran a thumb down the wall. Yes, that was definitely fresh paint.