Innocent in Death (In Death, #24)

by J.D. Robb

“Mademoiselle. I regret, we cannot seat walk-ins.” “How do you seat anyone if they don’t walk in?”

As for you, let’s get this straight: You don’t look stupid, so I don’t believe you think you’re the first of Roarke’s discarded skirts to swing back this way. You don’t worry me. In fact, you don’t much interest me. So if that’s all?”

“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.”

“How is it she’s made all the moves, and I’m in the wrong here? You don’t see her.”

“No. No, I don’t believe you’d betray me with her. I don’t believe you’d cheat on me. But I’m afraid, and I’m sick in my heart that you might look at her, then at me. And regret.”

“Why haven’t I heard any media dirt about a blonde fuckhead found floating in the East River?” Eve lifted her wine, set it down. And did what she’d needed to do all day. She cried like a baby.

But she’s drawn all the blood so far. I’m bleeding, Mavis, and he doesn’t see it.”

“It’s not jealousy. I wish it were. I wish it were that stupid, that shallow, that definitive. But it’s not jealousy. It’s fear.”

“Mostly?” She turned, cocked a hip. “Because you’re a man.” Eyes narrowed on her face, he tried to stanch the blood with the back of his hand. “And do you have any sort of idea just how often I might expect your fist in my goddamn face because of my bleeding DNA?” “No, really don’t.” He looked so furious, so incredibly insulted. She wanted to rip off his clothes and bite his ass. “In fact, I think you’ve earned a good whupping.”