"Darling, you most certainly are."

"On the case, smart guy."

"That, as well. And as such, you'd have requested the data from the theater's files and funneled it to Feeney. Now it's done. Your hair's damp," he said and sniffed at it.

"It's sleeting." She wanted to argue but didn't see the point when he was exactly right. "Why do you have deep background and extensive data on everyone involved with The Globe and this production?"

"Because, Lieutenant, everyone involved with The Globe and this production works for me." He eased back, picked up the bottle of beer he'd set beside the machine. "Had an annoying day, have you?"

"Mostly." When he offered the bottle, she started to shake her head, then shrugged and took a small swig. "I wanted to take a couple of hours to clear my mind."

"Me, too. And I've the perfect method. Strip pinball."

She snorted. "Get out."

"Oh well, if you're afraid you'll lose, I'll give you a handicap." He smiled when he said it, knowing his wife very well.

"I'm not afraid I'll lose." She shoved the beer back at him. Struggled. Lost. "How much of a handicap?"

Still smiling, he toed off both his shoes. "That, and five hundred points a ball – seems fair, as you're a novice."

She considered, studying the machine. "You just got this in today, right?"

"Just a bit ago, yes."

"You go first."

"My pleasure."

And as he enjoyed watching her fume, compete and lose herself in the moment, it proved to be. Within twenty minutes, she'd lost her boots, her socks, her weapon harness, and was currently losing her shirt.

"Damn it! This thing is rigged." Out of patience, she threw her weight against the machine, then hissed when her flippers froze. "Tilt? Why does it keep saying that to me?"

"Perhaps you're a bit too aggressive. Why don't I help you with this," he offered and began unbuttoning her shirt.

She slapped his hands away. "I can do it. You're cheating." While she tugged off her shirt, she scowled at him. She was down to a sleeveless undershirt and her trousers. "I don't know how, but you're cheating."

"It couldn't be that I'm just the superior player."

"No."

He laughed, then pulled her in front of him. "I'll give you another go here, and help you out. Now." He placed his fingers over hers on the control buttons. "You have to learn to finesse it rather than attack it. The idea is to keep the ball lively, and in play."

"I got the idea, Roarke. You want it to smash up against everything."

Wisely, he swallowed a chuckle. "More or less. All right, here it comes."

He released the ball, leaned into her, watching over her shoulder. "No, no, wait. You don't just flip madly about. Wait for it." His fingers pressed over hers and sent the little silver ball dancing to the tune of automatic weapon fire.

"I want the gold bars over there."

"In time, all in good time." He leaned down to skim his lips over the back of her neck. "There now, you've evaded the squad car and racked yourself up five thousand points."

"I want the gold."

"Why am I not surprised? Let's see what we can do for you. Feel my hands?"

He was pressed into her back, snug and cozy. Eve turned her head. "That's not your hands."

His grin flashed. "Right you are. These are." Slowly, he skimmed those clever hands up her body, over her breasts. Beneath the thin cotton, he felt her heart give one fast leap. "You could forfeit." His mouth went to the curve of her neck this time, with the light scrape of teeth.

"In a pig's eye."

He caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth, and the resulting jolt to her system had her fingers jabbing into the buttons. Even as she moaned, the machine exploded under her hands.

"What? What?"

"You got the gold. Bonus points." He tugged at the button of her trousers. "Extra ball. Nice job."

"Thanks." Bells were clanging. In the machine, in her head. She let him turn her so they were face-to-face. "Game's not over."

"Not nearly." His mouth came down on hers, hot and possessive. His hands had already snaked under her shirt to cup her breasts. "I want you. I always want you."

Breathless, eager, she dragged at his shirt. "You should've lost a few times. You wouldn't be wearing so many clothes."

"I'll remember that." The need reared up so fast, so ripe, it burned. Her body was a treasure to him, the long, clean lines of it, the sleekness of muscle, the surprising delicacy of skin. Standing, wrapped tight, he sank into her.

She wanted to give. No one else had ever made her so desperate to give. Whatever she had. Whatever he would take. Through all the horrors of her life, through all the miseries of her work, this – what they brought to each other time and time again – was her personal miracle.

She found his flesh with her hands – firm, warm – and sighed deeply. She found his mouth with hers – rough, hungry – and she moaned.

When she would have pulled him to the floor, he turned, stumbled with her until her back was pressed against something cool and solid.

"Look at me."

His name caught in her throat as those skilled fingers slid over her, into her, and sent her spinning as madly as the silver ball under glass.

He watched her eyes cloud, then the rich brown of them go opaque as she came. "More. Again." While she shuddered, while her hands gripped his shoulders, he took her mouth, swallowed her cry of release.

His breath was as tattered as hers as he took her hips, lifted them, and plunged.

He pinned her, pummeled her system with a pleasure too outrageous for reason. Energized her so that she fought to give it back, beat for beat. When her hands slipped from his shoulders, she lifted them to his hair, fisted her fingers in all that black silk.

They drove each other up, and over.

"I didn't lose."

Roarke glanced over, smiled at the view of her pretty naked butt as she gathered up her clothes. "I didn't say you did."

"You're thinking it. I can hear you thinking it. I just don't have time to finish playing that stupid game."

"It'll hold." He fastened his trousers. "I'm hungry. Let's have something to eat."

"It'll have to be quick. I've got work. I want to go over and take a look at Draco's hotel room."

"That's fine then." Roarke wandered to the AutoChef, considered, and decided a cool, sleety night called for something homey. He ordered beef and barley stew for both of them. "I'll go with you."

"It's police business."

"Naturally. Just doing my civic duty again, Lieutenant." Because he knew that would irritate her, he offered her a bowl and a smile. "It's my hotel, after all."

"It would be." Because she knew he meant to irritate her, she scooped up a bite. And scalded her tongue. It wasn't a crime scene, she thought as she blew some of the heat from the second spoonful. And she could use Roarke's eyes, his mind, not that she wanted to admit it.

"Fine." She shrugged. "But you stay out of my way."

He nodded agreeably. Not that he had any intention of doing what she asked. Where was the fun in that? "Will we be picking up Peabody?"

"She's off. She had a date."

"Ah. With McNab?"

Eve felt her appetite take an abrupt nosedive. "She doesn't date McNab." At Roarke's look of surprise, she stubbornly stuffed more stew in her mouth. "Look, maybe, in some alternate universe far, far away, they have sex. But they're not dating. That's it."

"Darling, there comes a time, however sad for Mum, when the children must leave home."

"Shut up." She jabbed her spoon at him. "I mean it. They are not dating," she insisted, and polished off her stew.