Page 114 of Thankless in Death

Roarke stepped off the machine, took a water as she had. “You’re not considering he may take a holiday himself? On the simple factor his targets are probably expected somewhere tomorrow?”

“He can’t wait.” Her conclusions mixed with Mira’s equaled immediacy to her. He wanted, felt he deserved, instant gratification.

“It’s too exciting. And if he’s thinking about the Thanksgiving deal at all, he’d want to screw with that. Devastate someone’s family on a day they’re all supposed to be stuffing pie in their faces and saying how grateful they are. It just makes it more satisfying that way.”

“You’ve a point. It’s going to take some time through legal means,” he said as they started out to the pool. “I can cut that considerably with the unregistered.”

“I’m thinking about it.” Torn, she stripped off. “There’s some time, one way or the other. He’s not the broad daylight sort, doesn’t have the balls for it, not yet. He likes sneaking around at night. There’s some time,” she repeated, reassuring herself.

She dived in. Cool water on her skin, that slight shock to the system, a quick rev to smooth laps. And Roarke, his body slicing down through the water, then matching her stroke for stroke so they hit the far wall together, turned, powered back.

She lost track of the laps—five, ten—but her body and mind hit that line between energized and relaxed. The burn of muscles created the perfect contrast to the coolness of the water.

When her heart labored, when those muscles began to tremble, she pushed for one more lap, then let herself sink before surfacing.

“God. Why don’t they make another hour in the day, then we could start every morning this way?”

He slid over to her, ran a hand down her slicked-back hair. “Would you?”

“Probably not, but it’s a really nice thought.” She angled toward him, tipped her head back, found his lips with hers.

Glided skin to skin.

“And an even better one,” Roarke murmured.

Twin beeps sounded from the ’links they’d both set on the table near the pool.

“What the hell? That’s not my signal.”

“It’s the notification signal, on both,” he told her.

“I didn’t set any notification.”

“I did—on both. Bugger it.” He shoved back his hair, climbed out of the pool, grabbed a towel. “For the bloody medal business this afternoon.”

“What? Today? It’s today?” And how had she managed to completely erase it from her mind. “What’s worse than bugger it? I want something worse.”

He only sighed, tossed her a towel. “We’ll get through it, then it’ll be done.”

“I’ve got a homicidal crazy as lucky as he is stupid to find, and you’ve got a horde of Irish relatives coming in. You should tell Whitney we need to pass—postpone,” she amended.

On the faintest smile, he angled his head. “I should?”

“He’s my superior. I can’t tell him we’re too busy.” She hissed at Roarke’s steady stare. “And neither can you. I mean, you could, but you won’t—and I get it. Damn it. It’s an honor. It really is,” she continued as she dried off. “But why does it have to be a public one? It’s your fault.”

“Mine?” Amusement growing, he hooked the towel around his waist. “And why is that, exactly?”

“Because you’re really rich and famous, so that plays into the politics.”

“Well, that’s an interesting conclusion. I thought that played into the difficult politics of it all, and why they’ve held you back from captain until recently.”

“It’s all stupid politics. Who knows which way they roll?”

“But my fault, whichever direction?”

“Yeah. Yours.”

“And it wouldn’t have anything to do with you being so fucking brilliant at your work?” He arched his eyebrows over eyes dancing with humor.