Fantasy in Death (In Death, #30)

by J.D. Robb

I think even the most stalwart and energetic penis would, at some point, say enough’s enough for today or tonight, and since, hey, I’m all relaxed now, I’m taking a little vacation. Or just a nap.” “See now I’ve got this image of some cock sitting at a swim-up bar at a resort, wearing sunshades and drinking one of those stupid drinks full of fruit and paper umbrellas.” “Aw, that’s cute.” “It’s not cute. It’s mildly scary. Or disgusting. I’m not sure which. Both.” Eve blew out a tired breath. “I think both.” “It should have a little straw hat, too.

“He equates his worth with his penis, and also uses it as a weapon.” “Okay, now I see it wearing a gold chain and toting a blaster. Stop now.” Shifting, Peabody gave Eve a look of delight. “You get the best pictures in your head.

“The cop and the criminal?” He laid a stroke down her back. “I’d wager there’s a good many of those from steady families as well. Is that what worries you, Eve, about starting one of our own? Not time yet,” he added, helplessly amused by the quick panic in those canny cop’s eyes. “But when it is, is that your worry? We’ll either raise cops, criminals, or the too trusting?” “I don’t have a clue. But just a for instance, who’ll remember to say, ‘No more fizzies’? What if I want one? Or no pizza for dinner again, when come on, why the hell not? It’s another endless set of rules to learn. I haven’t worked my way through the marriage rules yet.”

“Why does a fish have a sword?” “Is this a riddle?” “No, it’s a question. Do they do the en guard, touché thing or just go around stabbing unarmed fish because they can?” “Maybe they do battle with the hammerheads.” “Sword’s got a longer reach than a hammer, but a hammer could break a sword. It might be interesting, but I think it’s stupid to bring a hammer to a swordfight, unless it’s all you’ve got.”

“Oh, nearly forgot. We got you a present.” “Why?” “Because.” She unzipped one of her pockets and pulled out a very small gun. “What is it?” “It’s a toy gun. A derringer—like cardsharps and saloon girls carry in western vids. It’s like a clutch piece.” “Hmmm.” “And check it.” Peabody cocked it, and a sultry female voice purred out of the barrel. Put those hands where I can see them, cowboy. “It has all sorts of audio streams—male, female. I figured you’d want the female. Plus—” She aimed it at Eve, pulled the trigger even as Eve said: “Hey!” The little gun let out a brave little bang. Next one goes lower, and you won’t be poking a woman with that stick of yours for the rest of your miserable life. “Isn’t it cute? You could play saloon girl and Roarke could be high-stakes gambler, then . . . and that’s entirely none of my nevermind.” Peabody offered a big smile.

“Peabody? Thanks.” Eve studied the gun, shook her head. Unable to resist, she shot her computer, her AutoChef, amused by the lame insults that followed. That was another thing about partners, she decided. They knew what would make you laugh, often before you did.

She’d been a first for him at a time when he’d come to believe he’d done nearly everything worth doing at least once. Had he been bored? he wondered as he angled his way onto a down glide. No, not bored, but perhaps a bit unsettled, restless, certainly dissatisfied in ways he hadn’t been able to put his finger on at the time. Then, there she’d been, and everything shifted, everything sharpened. He couldn’t say what fell into place. Nothing with Eve was quite that easy, but pieces had begun to fit together. Some of them, on both sides, had required a bit of reshaping, and likely still would as more and more of their picture emerged.

“Somebody musta planted that wallet on me. I got enemies. I was only running ’cause I had a bus to catch. Do I look like a pickpocket? Do I? Do I?” You do indeed, Roarke thought, and if you can’t lift a wallet without fumbling the snatch, you deserve your ninety-day stretch.

“What’s this? I thought we were going home.” “I see for once you were caught up enough in a game not to pay attention to your surroundings. I didn’t say home,” he reminded her. “I said dinner.” “I haven’t updated my reports, or finished with the analysis of the runs. I have to run a full series of—” As he stepped out and shut the door of the car, that was all he heard. He came around, opened her door. “Come on, Lieutenant, put it away for an hour. It’s a pretty night. Time for a little walk and a meal.” “See?” She poked a finger in his chest when she got out. “This is why people in intimate relationships bash each other over the head.”

Nadine came by. It’s her own fault she got the bullpen used to being bribed with baked goods, but she comes through.” “She wanted info on the investigation?” “Actually no.” The beer came in bottles, which made it a much safer bet than the wine. Eve picked hers up when the waitress set it on the table. “She did say she’d had Bart on the show a couple times, and I think she might’ve pushed there if she hadn’t been so whacked.” “Her book hits this week.” “Exactly. And when were you going to remind me about this party deal tomorrow night?” “Tomorrow.” He smiled, sipped his beer. “Giving you less time to fuss and fret about having to go to a party when you’re deep into a case.” “I don’t fuss and fret.” “No, you bitch and complain, but it’s such a nice evening I used code.”

“It’s science. People have been using science to kill since some cave guy set some other poor bastard’s hair on fire.”