Page 52 of Concealed in Death

“Hockey maybe.” She considered it as she hung another ornament. “At least that has a purpose. Otherwise you’re just strapping some blades to your feet and circling around on frozen water. I mean, what’s the point?”

“Relaxation, exercise, fun?”

“I guess we had fun, but we were drunk. Or nearly drunk. I think I remember we finished getting all the way drunk back at my place. Her place now, hers and Leonardo and Bella’s. That’s kind of weird when you think about it.”

“Life changes.” He paused to tap his glass to hers. “Or we change it.”

“I guess.” She realized she was just a little bit drunk now, and that was just fine.

“Here we are decorating the tree. They’ve probably got one over at their place, which used to be my place. She used to bring over this skinny little fake tree, every damn year, and nag me until I put it up. She always took it back because she was smart enough to know I’d dump it if she left it with me. But I guess she was right. It added something.”

Roarke draped his arm around her shoulders. “We should have them over, some preholiday drinks. Just the four of us. Well, five, with the baby.”

“That’d be good.” Leaning against him, she studied the lights, the shine, the symbol. “That’s good, too. We’re as good as the elves. We’re having a party, aren’t we? I mean, one of those bashes where a half a million of our closest friends come over to eat fancy food, drink enough to make them dance like lunatics?”

“We are. It’s on your calendar, the one you never pay the slightest bit of attention to.”

“Then how did I know we were having a party?”

“Good guess.”

Because it was, she just laughed and turned so they were face-to-face, her arms around his waist. “You know what all this makes me want to do? The decorating, the memory street—”

“Lane. Memory lane.”

“Street, road, lane, they all lead somewhere. All this, and the idea of having some big-ass party? It makes me want to punch you, and punch you hard.”

She hooked her foot around his, shifted balance so they flopped back onto the bed. Galahad woke, gave them a hard stare of annoyance, and jumped off.

“How hard?” Roarke wondered.

“Really hard. Tell me when it hurts.”

She took his mouth—an exceptional place to start—a nip, a graze of teeth before she sank in, met his tongue with hers.

Here was all she wanted in the world.

She could shed the miseries and frustrations of the day, even the grief she couldn’t allow to surface and blur the job. Here, with him, the emotional fatigue that had dragged at her since she’d seen twelve young lives robbed of all possibilities and potentials lifted.

Here was happy, and she could take it, hold it, feel it bloom like roses.

The hard lines of his body under hers, his quick and clever hands already roaming. And one long, soul-searing kiss.

He felt her let it go, the tension, the worry that had dogged her even through her pleasure in the tree. The tether loosened, slid away, freed her.

Now just his Eve, just his woman, warm and eager over him. Drawing love in, pouring love out.

He tugged her shirt free from her waistband, wanting her skin under his hands—all that smooth skin on that long, narrow back.

And discovered neither of them had noticed she’d never taken off her weapon harness.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, shifting to find the release.

“Shit. I forgot. Wait. I’ll get it.”

“Got it.” He shoved it off her shoulders. Ignored her wince when it thudded on the floor. “You’re unarmed, Lieutenant.”

“You’d better not be.”