"Robb, J D - In Death 08 - Midnight In Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robb J D)

Neither of them had had much in the way of pretty holiday trees with
gaily wrapped gifts stacked under them in their lives. Their childhoods had been
miseries, and they had compensated for it in different ways. His had been to
acquire, to become one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. By
whatever means available. Hers had been to take control, to become part of the
system that had failed her when she was a child.
Hers was law. His was -- or had been -- circumventing law.
Now, not quite a year since another murder had put them on the same
ground, they were a unit. She wondered if she would ever understand how they'd
managed it.
She left her car out front, walked up the steps and through the door into
the kind of wealth that fantasies were made of. Old polished wood, sparkling
crystal, ancient rugs lovingly preserved, art that museums would have wept for.
She shrugged off her jacket, started to toss it over the newel post.
Then, gritting her teeth, she backtracked and hung it up. She and Summerset,
Roarke's aide-de-camp, had declared a tacit truce in their sniping war. There
would be no potshots on Christmas, she decided.
She could stand it if he could.
Only marginally pleased that he didn't slither into the foyer and hiss at
her as he normally did, Eve headed into the main parlor.

Roarke was there, sitting by the fire, reading the first-edition copy of
Yeats that she'd given him. It had been the only gift she'd been able to come up
with for the man who not only had everything but owned most of the plants where
it was manufactured.
He glanced up, smiled at her. Her stomach fluttered, as it so often did.
Just a look, just a smile, and her system went jittery. He looked so... perfect,
she thought. He was dressed casually for the day, in black, his long, lean body
relaxing in a chair probably made two hundred years before.
He had the face of a god with slightly wicked intentions, eyes of blazing
Irish blue and a mouth created to destroy a woman's control. Power sat
attractively on him, as sleek and sexy, Eve thought, as the rich fall of black
hair that skimmed nearly to his shoulders.
He closed the book, set it aside, then held out a hand to her.
"I'm sorry I had to leave." She crossed to him, linked her fingers with
his. "I'm sorrier that I'm going to have to go up and work, at least for a few
hours."
"Got a minute first?"
"Yeah, maybe. Just." And she let him pull her down into his lap. Let
herself close her eyes and simply wallow there, in the scent and the feel of
him. "Not exactly the kind of day you'd planned."
"That's what I get for marrying a cop." Ireland sang quietly in his
voice, the lilt of a sexy poet. "For loving one," he added, and tipped her face
up to kiss her.
"It's a pretty lousy deal right now."
"Not from where I'm sitting." He combed his fingers through her short
brown hair. "You're what I want, Eve, the woman who leaves her home to stand
over the dead. And the one who knew what a copy of Yeats would mean to me."
"I'm better with the dead than with buying presents. Otherwise I'd have
come up with more than one."