It was, McNab thought, a real guy room. Away from the work stations, away from the 'links, where the only women were stylized art that didn't drive you crazy. Here there were acres of wood, the smell of leather and tobacco.
Back to class, McNab thought.
Charles had class.
If that was what Peabody was after, he was sunk before he floated.
"We had some good times, you know? Not just good naked times, I mean. I was sort of getting into that stuff you suggested before. You know, taking her out places, coming up with flowers and shit some times. But when we busted up… It was bad." He gulped beer. "Really bad. I figured the hell with her. But we work together a lot so you've got to have some level, right? Maybe I should just leave it like that, before it gets messed up again."
"That's an option." Roarke took out a cigarette, lighted it, blew out smoke thoughtfully. "From what I've seen, you're a good detective, Ian. And an interesting man of interesting tastes. If you didn't have a good brain neither Feeney nor Eve would be working with you. However, despite being a good detective with a good brain, and an interesting man of interesting tastes, you're leaving one vital factor out of this current equation."
"What?"
Roarke leaned forward, gently patted McNab's knee. "You're in love with her."
His jaw dropped. The beer in the pilsner slid dangerously toward the edge as it tipped. Roarke righted it.
"I am?"
"I'm afraid so."
McNab stared at Roarke with the expression of a man who'd just been told he had a fatal disease. "Well, hell."
Fifty minutes, two stops, and a long subway ride later, McNab knocked on Peabody's door. Dressed in her rattiest sweatpants, an NYPSD T-shirt, and a new seaweed face pack guaranteed to give the skin a clear, youthful glow, she opened to see him holding a pizza box and a bottle of cheap Chianti.
"Thought you might be hungry."
She looked at him – the pretty face, the silly clothes – and caught the siren's whiff of spicy sauce. "I guess I am."
It seemed to be the night for dating. In the posh and fragrant Royal Bar of the Roarke Palace, where a trio in evening dress played Bach, Charles lifted a shimmering flute of champagne.
"To the moment," he said.
Louise clinked her glass musically to his. "And to the next."
"Dr. Dimatto." He skimmed a finger lightly over her hand as he drank. "Isn't it a happy coincidence we both had the evening off?"
"Isn't it? And an interesting one that we'd meet this morning at Dallas's. You said you'd known her more than a year."
"Yes. We brushed together on another of her cases."
"That must be why she lets you get away with calling her Lieutenant Sugar."
He laughed, topped a small blini with caviar, and offered it. "She intrigued me right from the start, I admit. I'm attracted to strong-willed, intelligent, and dedicated women. What are you attracted to, Louise?"
"Men who know who they are and don't pretend otherwise. I grew up with pretense, with role-playing. And I shook it off as soon as I could manage. I stuck with medicine, because it's my passion, but I practice it my way. My way didn't please my family."
"Tell me more about your clinic."
She shook her head. "Not yet. You're too good at drawing out personal information without giving any in return. I'll tell you I became a doctor because I have a need, and a talent, to heal. Why did you become an LC?"
"I have a need, and a talent, for giving pleasure. Not just sexually," he added. "That's often the simplest and most elemental part of the job. Spending time with someone, discovering what it is they need or want, even if they don't know themselves. Then providing it. If you do, the satisfaction's more than physical for both parties."
"And sometimes it's just about fun."
She made him laugh. She'd been making him laugh, he realized, since he first met her. "Sometimes. If you were a client – "
"But I'm not." She didn't say it with a sting, but with a slow, very warm smile.
"If you were, I might have suggested drinks just like this. Giving us time to relax, to flirt, to get to know each other."
The server topped off their glasses, but neither of them noticed. "And then?" Louise prompted.
"Then, we might dance a little, so you'd grow used to the way I held you. And I to the way you want to be held."
"I'd love to dance with you." She set her glass down.
He rose, took her hand. On the way to the dance floor they passed a shadowy booth where a couple ignored their own bottle of champagne and kissed passionately.
He turned, slid his arms around Louise. Fit her body to his with the easy skill of a man who knew, perfectly, how a woman fit against a man. There was a delicacy about her that stirred him. A directness that aroused and appealed.
In the cab that morning, she had handed him a card and suggested he call her sometime – when he wasn't working.
Very direct, he thought again as he drew in the scent of her hair. Very clear. She was attracted, interested. But not as a client.
He'd been attracted, interested, and had suggested they have drinks that same evening.
"Louise?"
"Mmm."
"I wasn't free tonight. I broke an engagement to be here."
She tipped back her head. "So did I." She laid her head on his shoulder again. "I like the way you hold me."
"I felt something as soon as I saw you this morning."
"I know." She relaxed, drifted on the music. On the moment. "I don't have time for a relationship. They're so messy and take so much effort. I'm selfish, Charles, about my work and often, very often, resent anything that gets in the way of it."
Her fingers trailed into his hair. "But I felt something, too. I think I could make time to find out what it's about."
"I haven't had much luck with relationships. My work usually gets in the way." He turned his face into her hair, breathed in the scent. "I'd like to take time to find out."
"Tell me." She brushed her cheek against his. Smooth, she thought, with just enough friction to make her skin shiver. "If I were a client, what would we do after we dance?"
"Depending on what you wanted, we might go upstairs, to the suite I'd have reserved. I'd undress you." He skimmed his palm over the warm, bare skin of her back. "Slowly. I'd tell you how beautiful you are as I took you to bed. How your skin's like silk. I'd show you how much I want you as I made love to you."
"Maybe next time." She drew away, just a little, so she could look at him. "And it sounds nearly perfect. But if the next time comes, Charles, we'll take each other to bed. And I'll make love with you."
His fingers tightened on hers. "It doesn't matter to you, what I do?"
"Why should it?" She had to rise on her toes to touch her mouth to his, and left it at merely a whisper. "Anymore than it should matter to you what I do. Excuse me a minute? I want to freshen up."
She walked to the women's lounge and when she was sure she was out of sight, pressed a hand to her jittery stomach. She'd never had a reaction like this to a man.
To want a man, of course. To enjoy his company, to feel desire and interest and humor, affection. But never all at once, never so much of all on such short acquaintance.
She needed a minute to settle down.
She stepped inside the opulent lounge, moved directly to one of the deeply cushioned chairs in front of its individual triple mirror.
She took out her compact, then simply sat, staring at her own reflection. She'd said no more than the truth. She didn't have time for a relationship. Particularly one that was bound to be intense and complex and complicated. She had so much she wanted to accomplish.
It was one thing to socialize now and then. A date, a party. Particularly if she could use the time to garner interest in the clinic, or the abuse shelter, or the expansion of the free med-van units she was working on.
But a relationship with Charles would be pure indulgence.