by J. D. Robb
"Put some heels on those boots, add a whip, and we'd really have something." He walked a measuring circle around her. "As is, you're bound to intimidate the other attendees."
"I got that covered." She picked up a jacket in the same fluid black and silver. It shimmered to her knees.
Angling his head, Roarke circled his finger. Though she was annoyed she did a pair of quick turns. The jacket billowed, giving provocative hints of the body slicked into the skin suit, and draped cleanly over the police gear at her back.
"You'll definitely do," he decided. He feathered his fingers over her cheek, over the fading bruises she'd concealed. "But I wish you weren't quite so worried."
"I'm not worried." She picked up the teardrop diamond he'd once given her, looped the chain over her neck. And added the St. Jude medallion to it. "Got my protection. Anyway, some bitch goes after my man, I'm going to take her down. That's it."
"Darling, that's so sweet."
She met his gaze in the mirror as she fought on the Sea Queen's earrings, made herself grin as he was. "Yeah, that's me. Just a sentimental slob. You gonna suit up, or are you going casual?"
"Oh, I'll find something appropriate, so I don't embarrass my fashionable wife."
She watched him go to the personal department store he called a closet. "Is your transmitter activated yet?"
"No. Tested, then put on hold. Feeney's very strict about EDD eavesdropping in the bedroom."
"Okay. Look I know you're not going in empty. I want you to leave whatever weapon you're planning to take here."
He chose a suit of midnight black. "Is that an order, Lieutenant?"
"Don't get snotty with me, Roarke. You take one of your collection and by any chance have to use it, we've got trouble I don't want to have to deal with."
"I can deal with my own trouble."
"Shut up. Leave your weapon home. I'm giving you one of mine."
He turned, a shirt in his hand. "Are you?"
"I got a temporary carry license for you, one night only. Tibble put it through." She opened a drawer, took out a small stunner. "It's not lethal, but it'll jam up the circuits just fine, and you don't need anymore than that for personal protection."
"This from a woman who currently has more weapons than hands."
"I'm the badge, you're not. Don't make this into some manly ego thing. I know you can handle yourself, and you'd rather play it that way. But this has to go down clean. Any screwups and she'll use them in court to muck up the trial. You take something unauthorized, and you're putting a weapon in her hand."
He opened his mouth and she could see the annoyance, the refusal on his face. She shook her head. "Please, do this for me."
The annoyance came out, one long hiss of breath. But he held out a hand for the stunner. "Fighting dirty. Your way then."
"Thanks."
The please, the thanks, instead of anger and orders, told him she was a lot more worried than she wanted him to know. "You've covered every angle, every contingency, every circumstance," he told her.
"No." She opened the evening bag she'd carried. Her badge, backup communicator, and yet another weapon she didn't feel obliged to mention were already inside. "There's always something else. She'll be there. I know it. My gut knows it. We finish this tonight."
* * *
"All clear. No sign of subject. Beginning next sweep. And these little eggroll deals are aces."
Feeney's voice was bell-clear in Eve's ear, and a welcome relief to the party chatter in the ballroom. "Copy that," she replied. Leaving the weight of small talk to Roarke, she did her own sweep.
The badges she'd selected moved through the crowd, mingling, merging. Even McNab, somewhat conservatively dressed in sapphire blue and canary yellow, wouldn't have caused a second glance. No one would make them as cops, unless they knew where to look.
It was always in the eyes. Flat, watchful, ready, even as they laughed at a joke or made one, even as they nibbled on canapes or sipped mineral water.
Out of the twelve hundred and thirty-eight people attending, twenty who roamed the ballroom were armed and wired. Another ten covered other public areas as staff, and six manned equipment in Control.
The predinner mingling portion of the event was nearly at a close. Julianna had yet to make a move.
"We can't have our most illustrious benefactors standing here without a drink." Louise glided up, glowing in silver. She signalled a server, took two flutes of champagne off his tray, and handed them to Eve and Roarke. "You've already received your official thank-you for your donation, but I'd like to add a personal one."
"It's our pleasure." Roarke bent down to kiss her cheek. "You look stunning, as always. Hello, Charles, it's good to see you."
"Roarke. Lieutenant, you look amazing. The sexy soldier." He slid a proprietary arm around Louise's waist. "If I'm ever called to war, I'd want you leading my troops. We were afraid you wouldn't make it tonight. Delia's told me how jammed up you've been with this hunt for Julianna Dunne."
It was a constant puzzle to Eve. Here was a man, a professional companion, with his arm around the elegant blonde he was obviously gone over, talking about the brunette he'd dated for months, and nobody looked weird about it.
Add that the brunette he'd dated, and the guy she was currently banging like a hammer on a nail, were both hearing every word through Eve's mike, and you had something very strange on your hands.
Relationships were confusing enough, she thought. Mix in police work and it arcs clean out of orbit.
"I make time to pay my debts," Eve said with a glance at Louise.
Louise laughed. "I think the million-dollar contribution already wiped that slate clean."
"That's his deal," Eve returned with a jerk of her head toward Roarke. "Anyway, it's a nice do as these dos go."
"Stupendous praise from you, so thanks. We're going to keep the boring speeches over dinner to a minimum, then liven it up again with dancing. But before we herd this mob to the tables, I need to steal your husband."
Eve inched just a little closer to Roarke. "I'd as soon keep him. I've gotten used to him."
"I'll return him, with hardly any wear. The mayor asked specifically to have a word with you," Louise said to Roarke. "I promised I'd deliver."
"Of course." Roarke set his untouched drink aside, skimmed a hand down Eve's back. "Politics must be played."
"You're telling me. Charles, you'll entertain Dallas for a few minutes, won't you?"
Eve had to fight the instinct to snatch Roarke's arm and yank him back. He could handle himself—nobody better. But he'd been no more than a foot from her side since they'd walked into the Regency. She'd wanted to keep it that way.
She watched his back as he moved across the ballroom with Louise.
"I have a message for you, Dallas."
"Huh? What message?"
"From Maria Sanchez. I'm to tell you you're solid, and for a cop, you're a pretty decent bitch." He sipped his champagne. "I assume those are compliments."
"More to you than me, I'd say. Odds are you gave her the best conjugal she's had since they locked her cage, and the best she'll have until it opens again."
"Let's just say that if it should ever be necessary, I'm sure I could use her as a reference. Actually, she was an interesting woman with a very simple outlook on life."
"Which is?"
"The fuckers are all out to get you, so you'd better get them first."
"Somebody ought to sew that on a pillow." When she lost sight of Roarke, her stomach clutched. "Ah, I can't quite see Louise. What was that color she was wearing?"
"I got him, Dallas," Feeney said in her ear. "He's covered on the cam, and Carmichael and Rusk moved in."
"Silver," Charles said with no little surprise. He'd never heard Eve express any interest in clothes. "She looks like she's wearing moonbeams."
"Got it bad, don't you, Charles?"
"A terminal case. I've never been happier in my life. Do you know what it is to find s
omeone who accepts you for what you are, and is willing to love you anyway?"
She searched the crowd for Roarke, settled just a little when she found him. "Yeah, I guess I do."
"It makes you a better person. It makes you ... whole. And that's enough philosophizing for one night." He shifted, blocking her view of Roarke for a moment. "Those earrings are absolutely fabulous." He reached out to touch one, and had her earpiece registering the click of finger on metal like a dull gong. "Antique?"
"Yeah." She re-angled her body, tried to zero in on Roarke again. "They belonged to a soldier."
"They're perfect for you. Anything wrong?" He touched her cheek now, drew her attention back to his. "You seem a little on edge."
"Gigs like this make me itchy. People are starting to drift toward the tables. We'd better snag our dates."
"We're sitting together. We'll catch up with them at the table." He took her arm, was surprised to feel the muscles tense, almost vibrate. "You really are itchy."
Short of knocking him down, she wasn't going to shake Charles. And shoving her way through the milling crowd wasn't the way to keep a low profile. But there was a buzz in her blood that told her to get to Roarke, and get there now.
"There's something I need to tell Roarke, but I've lost his location."
The underlying tone of urgency in her voice had Charles looking over sharply. "All right, Dallas, what's going on?"
"Roarke's at three o'clock," Feeney told her. "Twenty feet from your position. Crowd's closed in, but Carmichael and Rusk still have him in sight."
"Dallas?"
"Not now," she hissed at Charles and pivoted to the right. It was raw instinct that pushed her forward. No logic, no reason, but a primal knowledge that her mate was threatened. She caught a glimpse of him through the spark and color. Of polite amusement on his face as he was cornered by a stick-thin society butterfly. She saw Carmichael get elbowed back by a tuxedoed couple who'd imbibed a bit too freely during cocktail hour. The annoyance on Carmichael's face as she jockeyed back into position.
She heard the orchestra strike up with a bright, jazzy tune. Heard the trills of laughter, the gossipy tones as people dished dirt, the shuffle and click of feet as more went on the move.
She saw Louise turn away to speak to someone, and block Rusk's easy path to Roarke.
And she saw Julianna.
It went fast as a heartbeat, slow as a century.
Julianna wore the trim white jacket and slacks of the servers. Her hair was a soft, honey brown—a short, curly cap that was fashioned like a halo around her face. That face was carefully enhanced, carefully composed to nondescript.
She could have passed for a droid, and was garnering just as much dismissal, as she walked easily through the polished bodies toward Roarke.
In her hand she carried a single flute of champagne.
Her gaze flashed up, met Roarke's. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, for she smiled, just the slightest curve of unpainted lips.
"Target sighted." Though Eve spoke clearly, there was too much distance, too much noise between them for Julianna to have heard.
And still she turned her head and looked at Eve.
They moved at the same time, Eve forward, Julianna back. Eve had the small twist of satisfaction of seeing startled temper cross Julianna's face before she swung into the thickest part of the crowd.
"Suspect is dressed as server. Brown and brown, moving west through the ballroom."
She sprinted forward as she spoke, ducking, shoving, flinging herself through startled people. Feeney's relay rang in her ears, had her spinning to the right, knocking hard into a startled waiter. She heard the thunderous crash of his tray behind her.
She caught another glimpse, saw Julianna pass the flute to an oblivious older man before she streaked up the curve of the floating staircase to the second level. People tumbled in her wake like tossed dolls.
"Moving up," Eve shouted. "Close in from positions eight and ten. Now, now, now!"
She ran straight into the man who was just lifting the flute of champagne to his lips. It splattered all over his suit as the glass flew out of his hand and crashed to the floor.
"Well, really!"
He was angry enough to make a grab for her arm, and got a hard stomp on the instep. He'd limp, Eve thought as she leaped up the stairs, but he'd live.
"Inside this area, Lieutenant." One of the two cops who raced forward to flank Eve gestured toward a pair of double doors. "She nicked in. I couldn't get a stream off due to civilian safety. She's flipped the locks and caged herself in. There's no way out unless she decides to jump ten stories."
"She'll have a way." Without hesitation, Eve aimed her weapon at the door and blasted the locks.
The explosion came a second later. The hot gush of air punched like a fist and knocked Eve back a full five feet. She tumbled, head over feet, and her weapon spurted out of her hand like wet soap. Her earpiece went dead.
Smoke belched out of the anteroom, choking and blinding. She heard the nasty crackle of flame, and the shouts around her, below her, as people rushed into a screaming panic.
She slapped her clutch piece out of her ankle holster. "Officer down. Officer down," she repeated, hoping the mike still worked as she saw one of her backup lying unconscious and bleeding from the head. "We need medical assistance, the fire and explosives department. I'm going in after this bitch."
She crouched, sprang, and went through the doors into the smoke in a fast, low roll.
Julianna leaped on her back in a fury of fists, teeth, and nails.
The safety system had water gushing down from the ceiling, fans whirling, alarms screaming. Through it, they grappled like animals over the ruined carpet.
For the second time she lost her weapon—or so the report would read. The satisfaction of feeling her bare fist plow into Julianna's flesh was like a song.
She tasted blood, smelled it. Rode on it.
Her mind was laser sharp as they both gained their feet, circled each other.
"You fucked up, Julianna. Stay back!" she snapped out the order as Roarke burst into the room, steps ahead of McNab. "Stay the hell back. She's mine."
"Sir."
Roarke merely reached over, lowered McNab's weapon hand. "Let her finish it."
"You're the one who fucked up, Dallas. Going soft over a man. I had more respect for you." She spun, kicked out. She missed slamming her foot into Eve's face by a whisper. "He's just like the rest of them. He'll shake you off when he's bored of you. He's already out shoving his dick into other women every chance he gets. That's what they do. That's all they do."
Eve straightened and stripped off the ruined jacket. Julianna did the same with her own.
"I'm taking you down," Eve said. "That's what I do. Come on, let's dance."
"You'll want to hold the troops back, Ian." Roarke reached down to retrieve Eve's discarded clutch piece as fists and feet flew. "Someone could get hurt."
"Man. Some girl fight."
Roarke merely lifted a brow, though his attention stayed riveted to his wife. "And that someone will surely be you if you say that loud enough for the lieutenant to hear. She needs to do this," he stated, and felt the blow in his own chest as Julianna kicked Eve.
She didn't feel it. Her body registered by falling back, pivoting, spinning, feinting. But her mind refused the pain. She felt the dark joy, heard the satisfying crunch of bone when she spun and rammed a fist back into Julianna's face.
"I broke your fucking nose. What're you gonna do about it?"
Blood poured down Julianna's face, ruining beauty. Her breath was heaving, as Eve's was, but she was far from done. She screamed, came at Eve at a run.
The force of the attack had them both flying through the terrace doors. Glass shattered, wood snapped. Roarke reached the ruined doorway in time to see Eve and Julianna spill over the railing in a tangle of limbs and fury.
"Christ Jesus." His heart in his throat, he raced to the rail, saw them
fall, still wrapped like lovers, onto the glide two stories down.
"That's gotta hurt," McNab said beside him. "One of us has to stop this, and I'd rather it wasn't me."
But Roarke was already vaulting over the rail, and leaping.
"Lunatics." McNab hitched his weapon back in its holster and prepared to follow suit. "We're all a bunch of lunatics." ,
The glide vibrated under the blows of bodies. Civilians who'd been unlucky enough to be on board scrambled down and off like rats off a doomed ship.
The thin silk tank Julianna wore under the uniform jacket was torn, bloody. Lights gleamed over her partially exposed breast as she jump-kicked Eve in the shoulder, followed up with a roundhouse.
Eve ducked the punch, went in low and heard the explosive whoosh of air as she plowed a blow into Julianna's belly.
"Prison fit ain't street fit, bitch." To prove it, Eve rammed her elbow up under Julianna's jaw, snapping her head back. "But let's see how much workout time they give you when you're back in a cage."
"I'm not going back!" She was fighting blindly now, and only more viciously. She got a swipe under Eve's guard and raked her nails down her cheek.
She saw the men storming down the glide over Eve's shoulder. Heard the shouts and rushing feet from behind. In that moment, her body alive with a pain she'd never experienced, she cursed herself for falling into a trap, cursed Eve for outmaneuvering her.
But the war wasn't over. Couldn't be over. Retreat, her mind ordered. And following it she jumped from the glide, springing hard to clear the three feet to the open-air restaurant.
Those who dined were already goggling. Several screamed when the bloody woman, her face blackened with soot, her eyes wild, her teeth bared, landed among the charming glass-topped tables and glowing candles.
Two women and one man fainted when the second woman, equally torn, flew down, feet first, and slammed into the dessert cart.
There were splashes and shouts as a few diners fell into the pool.
Cornered by the cops who burst through the restaurant's doors and the others that ranged on the now-disabled glide, Julianna focused on the only one who mattered. She grabbed a bottle of superior merlot, smashed it against a table. Wine splattered like blood as she turned the jagged edge toward Eve.