Джеймс Паттерсон: NYPD Red 4

The lights were low, and the light scent of her perfume was in the air. “I’m ready for my gift,” I said. Oh God, am I ready.

She opened a dresser drawer. It was empty.

“Ta-da! It’s all yours,” she said, tossing the underwear and the toothbrush inside.

“Thank you,” I said, wrapping my arms around her and pressing her close.

“Hold that thought,” she said, breaking away. “Dinner is served.”

I followed her into the kitchen, opened the wine, and poured two glasses.

“A toast,” she said. “To the team of Jordan and MacDonald, best damn cops in the city.”

I downed most of my drink and refilled my glass. “And to the team of Jordan and Robinson, best damn couple in the city.” I took another big drink.

“Wow,” she said. “You’re really pounding that wine. Tough day?”

“No,” I said. “Pretty great day, actually. But I plan to spend a long romantic evening with the woman I love, and if Cates calls, I want to make sure I have enough alcohol in my bloodstream to be able to tell her I’m too liquored up to protect or serve.”

She kissed me again, lit the candles, and set two steaming plates of lasagna on the table.

We sat down. “And what happens if Kylie calls?” she said, her dark eyes playing with me.

“She won’t. She drove to Atlantic City to bring Spence home. In fact” — I raised my glass — “here’s to MacDonald and Harrington: together again, at last.”

“But what if she does call?” Cheryl said. “I know you. You can’t say no to Kylie.”

“You’re right,” I said. “If she calls, I can’t say no.”

I stood up, took her by the hand, and walked her back to the bedroom. I opened my new dresser drawer, buried my cell phone beneath the underwear, shut the drawer, pulled her out of the room, closed the bedroom door, and the two of us went back and sat down at the table.

I took one more sip of my wine. “Now,” I said, sliding my fork onto the tender pasta and inhaling the intoxicating aroma of perfectly seasoned meat, cheese, and tomatoes, “where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”