Innocent in Death (In Death, #24)

by J.D. Robb

“She would be a sparkling accent on his arm. She speaks flawless French and Italian, and has a limitless supply of charm when she wishes to dispense it. And she’ll use him. She’ll take, take more. If it was necessary, or if she simply had the whim, she’d toss him to the wolves to see who’d win.” He finished the whiskey. “You, Lieutenant, are often crude, you are certainly rude, and have very little sense of how to be the wife—in public—of a man in Roarke’s position. And you would do anything, no matter what the personal risk, to keep him from harm. She will never love him. You will never do anything but.”

Roarke worked to line up all the players in his head. “Too many Indians, not enough chiefs.” “Replay?” “A lot of suspects, but none of them standing out as the one doing the real work.”

She ate something that might have once wished to be chicken inside of cardboard pretending to be bread.

“I love when you pull rank. Stirs me up.” “A wink and a smile stirs you up, pal.