“Sweeping.”
“Nobody in their right mind sweeps feet.”
“But they’d swoop feet?”
He had her there. “Anyway, she’s dazzled, swooped and swept and married inside a few months.”
Amused, he tapped the diamond she wore on a chain around her neck when she tugged it out from under her shirt. “I worked up to giving you expensive gifts.”
“You sent me coffee, real coffee, right off. Nailed that in one.”
“I did, yes. And still, I don’t believe you were ever dazzled, swooped, or swept.”
“More appalled, I guess, but I got over it.” As they sat, shoulder to shoulder, the snow and the city it fell on providing a breathtaking view, she turned her head to look at him.
Another breathtaking view, she thought.
“I might’ve been slightly swooped.”
“And I, darling Eve, a bit appalled—a cop, after all—but completely swept.”
She gave him a little shoulder bump. “But the thing? You and me? Experienced cynics and ass-kickers. Daphne’s young, relatively inexperienced, has—by all accounts—a soft sort of nature. He plays on that, chips away at her self-esteem, begins to limit her activities and interests, starts distancing her from friends and family. It’s how it works.”
“Claims to cherish,” Roarke said, “even as he diminishes.”
“You got it. He probably didn’t seriously smack her around until he’d accomplished most of that. Then he’d apologize, lost his temper. Forgive me. But—here’s a key—but you, little lady, did, said something or behaved in such a way to make me lose control. So it turns, it becomes her fault he clocked her.”
She sipped more wine. “It really doesn’t have anything to do with the case.”
“It has to do with those echoes you spoke of. Did he apologize when he first hit you?”
She didn’t have to ask who. Richard Troy. And, yes, the echoes grew louder, grew longer with every step she took into the investigation.
“I honestly don’t remember the first time he hit me. Couldn’t say whether it’s buried or blurred, or if I was just too young to retain it. But I remember how he sometimes brought me something, some toy. He’d say things like I had to be good, had to do as I was told—always—so he wouldn’t have to punish me. Then he’d take it away or break it because—he said—I’d done something wrong.”
Idly, Eve rubbed a hand on Roarke’s leg. “Did Patrick Roarke do that with you?”
“He didn’t, no. No toys or rewards. Neglect was his style, followed by beatings. Perhaps a grunt of approval now and then on a day I’d had particularly good luck with picking pockets or lifting locks. It’s crueler, I think, the reward and punish than the neglect. What sort of toys did he bring you?”
“The only one I clearly remember, probably because I really liked it, was this little music box thing with this ballet girl inside who’d twirl around when you opened it. Sometimes if I couldn’t sleep, I’d open it up, listen to it, watch the girl. Sort of, I guess, imagine being happy enough to twirl around. And one night he came in, raging, busted it to pieces, whaled on me pretty good.”
And because he could see it so well, the young, trapped girl dreaming, then brutalized, it broke his heart. Simply shattered it.
Eve drank again. “Reward and punish. Praise and denigrate. It’s how it works. Daphne’s not a child, but she’s got that softness so she’d have been a pretty easy mark. She’s not me, but I understand her. And I should get back to her.”
“Another minute,” he replied gently.
Because she’d made him sad, Eve realized. Because she’d put the image of that scared and helpless little girl in his mind.
So she leaned in a little more. “We got an early enough start on things, so maybe if we plow through it, we can watch a vid. I feel like something fun, where the good guys and bad guys are over the top, and lots of things blow up.”
“I think it’s time to introduce you to The Avengers.”
“Who are they? What are they avenging?”
“Your vid and graphic novel education is pitiful, darling. They’re classics.” Smiling, he turned his head to brush his lips to hers.
“Classic what?”
“Superheroes who band together to save the world.”
“Do they kick ass doing it?”
“Is there any other way?”
Now she smiled. “I’m in for that.” And kissed him back.
Decided she could absolutely take a minute—or two—and added some punch to the kiss.
He set his wine aside so he could slide his arms around her.
No sadness, she thought, no harsh images. Now only heat and pleasure for both of them.
She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, gave it a sharp little nip before she swung her leg over, straddled his lap. Then, easing back, studying his face, she drained the rest of her wine.
“Should probably work off the alcohol.”
She bowed back, lean and agile, set her empty glass beside his. Then flowed up, fast, latched her mouth to his, gripped his face with her hands as she plundered.
She rocked him to the core. She always could. That aggressive mouth lit lust’s short fuse so he hardened like steel under her, so the hands digging into her hips shot up to close over her breasts.
“This time it’s you wearing too many clothes.” His fingers flicked open the buttons of her vest.