J. Robb - Innocent In Death

“Le Printemps? Ooh-la-la! That’s megachic. Totally. And it’s Upper East Side. Hate to point this out, but we’re low on the Lower West Side.”

“I know where the hell we are.” She batted her fist on the wheel as she spun into the garage at Cop Central. “I have to go. I have to do this. I’m already late. Goddamn it.”

“The case is going to hold for the night,” Peabody pointed out. “We’ve got nothing but paperwork now anyway. I can write the report, and we’ll do the runs and the digging in the morning.”

“Copy the report, my home and office units. Anything else in your notes that strikes you. Get out, get out! I gotta get to this stupid French place.”

“Aren’t you going to go home and change first?”

“Into what? I don’t have time.” Then she grabbed Peabody by a fistful of puffy coat. “Do this one thing for me. Tag Roarke, tell him I’m on my way. Caught a case, running late, but I’m heading there now.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t do it. He’ll see I’m in regular clothes, and he told me I should take a change into work, but I nixed it. Like I want to go prancing out of Central in some fancy dress.” Aggravation all but streamed out of Eve’s pores. “Do you know the grief that causes me?”

“Honestly? I don’t know how you suffer through it. I’d crack like an egg in your place.”

“Oh, bite me and tag Roarke.”

She all but shoved Peabody from the vehicle, and was whipping the wheel and speeding out.

She couldn’t remember what she’d tossed on that morning, and since she was driving like a maniac, couldn’t afford the time to check herself out. The traffic, thestupid snow, the need to weave and dodge made switching to autopilot an impossibility.

She probably smelled of death.

Well, it was his own fault, she decided. He’d married her, hadn’t he? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t made full disclosure on what a crappy wife she’d make for a man like him.

She’d had to go and fall for a man who owned the lion’s share of the known universe, and had to-on occasion-trot out his wife for that odd and awkward mix of social business.

He wouldn’t complain that she was late. In fact, he wouldn’t even be annoyed with her. If a cop had to get married-and God knew they were better solo-she couldn’t do better than hooking up with a man who understood that the job messed with personal plans. Constantly.

And because he wouldn’t complain or be annoyed, she felt even more guilty for forgetting the dinner, and more determined to beat the hellacious traffic.

She broke one of her own rules, hit the sirens, and used the cop for personal gain.

After barely avoiding clipping bumpers with a Rapid Cab, she went vertical, then hung a screaming right on Fiftieth, zigging, zagging her way over to Third before heading uptown again.

She should’ve told Peabody to tell Roarke to have everyone order without her. Not to wait. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Now they’d probably be sitting there, starving, while she killed herself and many innocent bystanders trying to get to a restaurant where she wouldn’t even be able to read the damn menu.

“Guidance System on!” she ordered. “Where the hell is this place. Restaurant, New York City, Le Printemps.”

One moment, please, while your request is programmed. Le Printemps is located at 212 East Ninety-third, between Second and Third Avenues. Would you care to make a reservation?

“I’ve got a damn reservation. Guidance off.”

Even with the kamikaze driving tactics, she was thirty minutes late. And by the time she managed to double park, which would bring the wrath of thousands and possibly cause an intercity riot, she was later still.

She flipped on her On Duty light, then sprinted the last half-block.

She paused outside to scoop her fingers through her hair a couple of times, then looked down at her dark brown trousers. She saw no overt signs of blood or other bodily fluid staining them or the navy V-neck, and considered the lack a big plus in her favor.

Horns were already blasting in protest of her parking arrangement as she stepped out of the blowing snow, and into the fragrant and muted music of five-star French.

The maître d’ swooped down on her like a vulture on roadkill. “Mademoiselle. I regret, we cannot seat walk-ins.”

“How do you seat anyone if they don’t walk in?” She shrugged out of her coat. Peabody had the megachic right, Eve noted. Every woman in the place sparkled and gleamed. “Check the coat, Pierre. And it’s your ass if it’s not here when I leave.”

“Mademoiselle, I must ask you to leave quietly.”

“I’ll be sure to do that, after I eat.” She smoothed down the brown jacket, to be sure her weapon was concealed. Though she was tempted to flash it, just to watch the tight-assed maître d’ crack his head on the floor as he passed out.

“Now we can go a round right here,” she suggested, “and give your diners a show along with dinner, or you can tell me where my party is. Reservation Roarke.”

He lost color, shade by shade, until he’d gone from ruddy to pasty. Apparently the name of Roarke carried as much power and threat as a police issue. “I beg your pardon, Madame Roarke.”

“Dallas, Lieutenant. Where’s the table?”

“If you would please follow me.”

“My coat. I like that coat.”

“Of course. It’s a beautiful garment.” He snapped his fingers. “See to Madame…to the lieutenant’s coat. If you will? Your party is already seated. It would be my pleasure to bring you a cocktail.”

“Whatever they’ve got’s fine.” She scanned the room with all its gilt and glory, then followed the chastened maître d’.

He saw her coming. Knowing she’d be late, he’d chosen the table with that in mind. He loved watching her walk into a room, carelessly long strides, those cop’s eyes seeing every detail.

And in the simple jacket and pants she, in his eyes, outshone every woman in the room. When their eyes met, he got to his feet.

“Good evening, Lieutenant.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

“ Champagne for my wife,” he said without taking his eyes off her. He drew her chair back himself. “Let me introduce you to Natalie and Sam Derrick.”

“So this is Eve! I’m just thrilled to meet you.” Natalie flashed a mile-wide grin, even as her gaze tracked over Eve’s clothes.

“Glad you could join us.” Sam held out a hand the size of a rump roast, pumped Eve’s twice. “Roarke’s told us it’s hard for you to get away from work.”

“I just can’t think how you investigatemurders.”

Eve glanced back at Natalie. “First I need a body.” She felt Roarke’s hand pat her thigh twice. “It’s a lot of details,” she continued. “And not nearly as interesting as it comes across in a vid or on screen.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. But I don’t suppose we want to talk of unpleasant things.” Natalie beamed again. “Sam was just about to tell the story of how he caught the biggest bass in Jasper County.”

“Wow.” It was all Eve could think to say, and she was grateful for the glass of champagne now in her hand. And the fact that Roarke had given her free one a squeeze under the table.

Just look at him, she thought, sitting there as though he couldn’t be more interested or enthralled to hear about some stupid fish. And of course, he’d know that every eye in the place would be turned on him at some point during the evening.

She couldn’t blame them. He sat, at ease, the half-smile on his gorgeous face, the light of interest in those laser-blue eyes. Candle-and lamplight gleamed in his hair, that thick mane of black.

When his lips curved more fully, her heart actually bumped her ribs. He could still do that to her, chase her heart to a gallop, stop her breath, melt her bones. And do all of that just with a look.