Page 4 of Random in Death
Or did she?
In any case, after dinner on the patio, a walk through the gardens, sex in the game room, they settled down on the sofa, with the cat curled at their feet.
She had Roarke, popcorn, wine, and an action vid with plenty of bangs and booms to cap off a Saturday at home.
Knowing Roarke, she expected a second round of sex as an encore.
And that suited her just fine.
He talked now and then of adding a media room to the castle he’d built in the heart of New York City. But she liked this routine, stretched out or curled up together on the sofa in their bedroom sitting area with the cat purring in his sleep and her husband’s excellent body warm against hers.
Her life had taken a radical turn when he’d walked into it, she thought. She’d never get all the way used to it. Before Roarke, her life had been the job, and the job had been her life.
Now she had two things she’d never expected, never looked for.
Love and a home.
And those two things, she’d come to realize, made her better at the job, better at running her division, better at standing for the dead.
At a pause in the action, he reached over for the bottle, topped off both their glasses.
“We’re going through a lot of wine, pal.”
“Safe and snug at home.” The mists of Ireland wove through his voice. “Something I intend to take advantage of in a bit of time.”
“Is that so? Freeze screen,” she ordered, and rolled on top of him.
So ridiculously gorgeous, she thought, with the carved-by-benevolent-gods face, the sculpted mouth, the wildly blue eyes. “No time like the right now.”
She took that sculpted mouth, slid her free hand into the mane of black that framed his face.
Roarke set his glass beside the bottle, then nipped hers out of her hand to do the same.
She laughed as he flipped her over, and with a grumble, Galahad slid off the couch.
Then his hands were on her, slipping under her baggy Saturday-at-home T-shirt. And as the kiss turned greedy, she felt her need, the wine, the moment tie together in a single perfect thrill.
Nipping at his jaw, she worked her hands between them to flip open the button of his jeans.
Her ’link signaled.
“Oh, come on!”
Roarke angled his head to read the display on her ’link. “It’s Nadine.”
“Fine. I’ll get back to her. Eventually.”
But when she started to pull him down again, he shook his head.
“Eve, how often does Nadine tag you on a Saturday night near to eleven?”
“Never. Shit. Damn it.”
When he eased away, she sat up, grabbed the ’link.
“Unless somebody’s dead, I—”
“She is. I’m sorry, Dallas, we need you. We’re at Club Rock It, the alley behind the club. Ah, it’s on Avenue A, but I don’t know the address.”