Just over two weeks before, he had watched her walk toward him in a flowing gown of rich bronze, flowers in her hands. The bruises on her face a killer had put there only hours before had been softened under cosmetics. And in those eyes, those big brandy-colored eyes that showed so much, he’d seen nerves and amusement.
Here we go, Roarke. He’d nearly heard her say it as she put her hand in his. For better or worse I’ll take you on. God help us.
Now she wore his ring, and he hers. He’d insisted on that, though such traditions weren’t strictly fashionable in the middle of the twenty-first century. He’d wanted the tangible reminder of what they were to each other, the symbol of it.
Now he picked up her hand, kissed her finger above the ornately etched gold band he’d had made for her. Her eyes stayed closed. He studied the sharp angles of her face, the overwide mouth, the short cap of brown hair tousled into spikes.
“I love you, Eve.”
Faint color bloomed on her cheeks. She was so easily moved, he thought. He wondered if she had any idea how huge was her own heart.
“I know.” She opened her eyes. “I’m, ah, starting to get used to it.”
“Good.”
Listening to the song of water lapping on sand, of balmy breezes whispering through feathery palms, she lifted a hand, brushed the hair back from his face. A man like him, she thought, powerful, wealthy, impulsive, could call up such scenes at the snap of a finger. And he’d done it for her.
“You make me happy.”
His grin flashed, making her stomach muscles curl in delight. “I know.” With easy, effortless strength, he lifted her up and over until she straddled him. He skimmed his hands idly up her long, slim, muscled body. “Are you ready to admit you’re glad I shanghaied you off planet for the last part of our honeymoon?”
She grimaced, remembering her panic, her dug-in-at-the-heels refusal to board the transport he’d had waiting, and how he had roared with laughter and had tossed her over his shoulder, climbing on board with her cursing him.
“I liked Paris,” she said with a sniff. “And I loved the week we had on the island. I didn’t see any reason for us to come to some half-finished resort in space when we were going to spend most of our time in bed anyway.”
“You were scared.” It had delighted him that she’d been unnerved by the prospect of her first off planet voyage, and it had pleasured him to keep her occupied and distracted for the bulk of the trip.
“I was not.” Boneless, she thought. Scared boneless. “I was justifiably annoyed that you’d made the plans without discussing them with me.”
“I seem to recall someone being involved with a case and telling me to plan whatever suited me. You were a beautiful bride.”
It made her lips curve. “It was the dress.”
“No, it was you.” He lifted a hand to her face. “Eve Dallas. Mine.”
Love swamped her. It always seemed to come in huge, unexpected waves that left her flailing helplessly. “I love you.” She lowered herself to him, brought her mouth to his. “Looks like you’re mine.”
It was midnight before they had dinner. On the moon-washed terrace of the towering spear that was the nearly completed Olympus Grand Hotel, Eve dug into stuffed lobster and contemplated the view.
The Olympus Resort would be, with Roarke pulling the strings, completed and fully booked within a year. For now, they had it to themselves—if she ignored the construction crews, staff, architects, engineers, pilots, and other assorted inhabitants who shared the massive space station.
From the small glass table where they sat, she could see out over the hub of the resort. The lights brightly burned for the night crew, the quiet hum of machinery spoke of round-the-clock labor. The fountains, the lances of simulated torchlight and rainbows of color running fluidly through the spewing waters, were for her, she knew.
He’d wanted her to see what he was building and perhaps to begin to understand what she was a part of now. As his wife.
Wife. She blew out a breath that fluttered her bangs and sipped the icy champagne he’d poured. It was going to take some time to understand just how she’d gone from being Eve Dallas, homicide lieutenant, to become the wife of a man who some claimed had more money and power than God.
“Problem?”
She flicked her eyes over his face, smiled a little. “No.” With intense concentration, she dipped a bit of lobster in melted butter—real butter, no simulation for Roarke’s table—and
sampled it. “How am I going to face the cardboard they pass off as food at the Eatery once I’m back on the job?”
“You eat candy bars on the job in any case.” He topped off her wine, lifted a brow when she narrowed her eyes.
“You trying to get me drunk, pal?”
“Absolutely.”