Lazily, Roarke nuzzled Eve's throat. He loved the dark, rich taste that good, healthy sex brought to her skin. "Feel better now?"

She managed something between a grunt and a moan and made his lips curve. In a slow roll, smooth with practice, he reversed their positions, stroked her back, and waited.

Her ears were still ringing, her body so limp she didn't think she could fight off a toddler with a water laser. The hands gliding up and down her back were lulling her gently toward sleep. She was teetering on the edge of it when Galahad, deciding all was clear, padded back into the room to leap cheerfully on her naked ass.

"Jesus!" Her jerk of protest caused him to dig for balance with his sharp little claws. She yelped, swatted, bounced, then crawled off Roarke to safety. When she twisted to check for blood, she caught Roarke's grin and saw the cat now purring maniacally under his long, clever fingers.

There was nothing to do but scowl at both of them. "I guess the two of you think that was funny."

"We each like to welcome you home in our own way." Even as her lip curled, he was sitting up, taking her face in his hands. Within that frame, her cheeks were flushed, her mouth sulky, her eyes sleepy. "You look very attractively… used, Lieutenant." His mouth cruised over hers, nibbled, and nearly made her forget she was annoyed with him. "Why don't we have a shower, then, over dinner, you can tell me what's upset you."

"I'm not hungry." She muttered it. Now that the temper had flashed, she wanted to brood.

"I am." He simply pulled her off the bed with him.

He let her sulk, let himself speculate, until they were down in the kitchen. Knowing Eve, he decided whatever had put her blood on boil was job-related. She would tell him, he thought as he chose stuffed shells for both of them from the menu of the AutoChef. Sharing her burdens wasn't a natural act for her, but she would tell him.

He poured wine, then sat across from her at the cozy eating area tucked under the window. "Did you identify your sidewalk sleeper?"

"Yeah." She ran a fingertip up the stem of the wineglass, then shrugged. "He was one of those post-Urban War dropouts. It's unlikely anyone will be able to say why he traded an ordinary life for a miserable one."

"Maybe his ordinary one was miserable enough."

"Yeah, maybe." She shrugged it off. Had to. "We'll release his body to his daughter when we're done with it."

"It makes you sad," Roarke murmured and had her gaze lifting to his.

"It can't get inside you."

"It makes you sad," he repeated. "And the way you channel that is to find who killed him."

"That's my job." She picked up her fork, stabbed one of the shells on her plate without interest. "If more people would do their jobs instead of screwing with people doing theirs, we'd be a hell of a lot better off."

Ah, he thought. "So, who screwed with you, Lieutenant?"

She started to shrug again, wanted to act as if it didn't matter a damn. But it came bubbling up her throat and out before she could stop it. "Fucking stiff scooper. Hated me on sight, who knows why."

"And assuming a stiff scooper is what its colorful name indicates, does he have a name?"

"She. Half-ass Bowers from the one-six-two filed a complaint against me after I gave her a wrist slap for sloppy work. Over ten years on the force, I've never had an official complaint on my record. Goddamn it." She snatched up her wine, gulped.

It wasn't the temper that had him laying a hand over hers but the sheer unhappiness crowded with it in her eyes. "Is it serious?"

"It's bullshit," she tossed back, "but it's there."

Roarke turned her hand, palm up, to his, squeezed once. "Tell me about it."

It spewed out of her with considerably less restraint than the formal oral report she'd given Whitney. But as she snapped the words out, she began to eat without realizing it.

"So," he said when she'd run down. "Basically, you pissed off a troublemaker who retaliated by filing a whiny complaint – something she appears to have a habit of doing – and your commanding officer is officially and personally in your corner."

"Yeah, but…" She closed her mouth, simmered in silence for a moment because he'd encapsulized it all so neatly. "It's not as simple as you make it sound."

It wouldn't be, Roarke mused, not for Eve. "Maybe not, but the fact is, if anyone put your record against hers, she'd just look like more of an idiot than she does now."

That cheered her a little. "She put a smear on my record," Eve continued. "The goons in IAB love to look at smears, and I had to take time away from a case to answer her stupid accusation. Otherwise, I'd have been able to run data scans on the surgeons Cagney sent me. She doesn't give a damn about the case. She just wanted to take a shot at me because I dressed her down and sent her off for coffee. She's got no business on the force."

"Very likely she's never made the mistake of going after a cop quite so clean and well-respected as you." He watched her brows draw together at his comment, smiled a little as she squirmed.

"I want to go stomp on her face."

"Of course," Roarke said lightly. "Or you wouldn't be the woman I adore." He picked up her hand, kissed her fingers, and was pleased to see a reluctant smile soften her lips. "Want to go find her and beat her up? I'll hold your coat."

This time she laughed. "You just want to watch two women fight. Why do guys get off on that?"

Eyes deeply blue and amused, Roarke sipped his wine. "The constant hope that during the battle clothes will be ripped away. We're so easily entertained."

"You're telling me." She glanced down with some surprise at her empty plate. She supposed she'd been hungry after all. Sex, food, and a sympathetic ear. Just more of the wonders, she thought, of marriage. "Thanks. Looks like I do feel better."

Because he'd put the meal together, she thought it only fair she deal with the dishes. She carried them to the dishwasher, dumped them in, and considered the job done.

Roarke didn't bother to mention she'd put the plates in backwards and had neglected to give the machine any orders. The kitchen wasn't Eve's turf, he thought. And Summerset would deal with it.

"Let's go up to my office. I have something for you."

Wary suspicion narrowed her eyes. "I told you after Christmas, no more presents."

"I like giving you presents," he said and opted for the elevator rather than the stairs. He trailed a fingertip down the sleeve of the cashmere sweater he'd given her. "I like seeing them on you. But this isn't that kind of present."

"I've got work. Time to make up."

"Mmm-hmm."

She shifted her stance as the elevator glided from vertical to horizontal mode. "It's not a trip or anything? I can't take off after I lost all those days due to injury last fall."

The hand he'd laid lightly on her shoulder flexed into a fist before he could control it. She'd been badly hurt a few months earlier, and he didn't care to be reminded of it. "No, it's not a trip." Though he intended to drag her away for at least a couple of days to the tropics as soon as their schedules allowed.

She relaxed at the beach, he thought, the way she seemed to nowhere else.

"Okay, then what? Because I really have to put in a couple of hours."

"Get us some coffee, will you?" He said it carelessly as he stepped out into his office. And made her grind her teeth. She had to remind herself that he'd let her vent her frustrations, that he'd listened to her side of things. And he'd offered to hold her coat.

But her teeth were still clamped together in annoyance when she set the coffee on his console.