1

EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE, EVE THOUGHT, LIFE was really worth living. Here she was, stretched out in a double-wide sleep chair watching a vid. There was plenty of action in the vid—she liked watching stuff blow up—and the "plotline" meant she didn't have to actually think.

She could just watch.

She had popcorn, drowned in butter and salt, the fat cat stretched across her feet keeping them nice and warm. She had the next day off, which meant she could sleep until she woke up, then veg until she grew mold.

Best of all, she had Roarke cozied up in the chair beside her. And since her husband had complained after one handful that the popcorn was disgusting, she had the whole bowl to herself.

Really, it didn't get any better.

Then again, maybe it did—would—as she planned to nail her husband like an airjack when the vid was over. Her version of a double feature.

"Iced," she said after a midair collision of a tourist tram and an ad blimp. "Seriously iced."

"I thought this storyline would appeal to you."

"There is no storyline." She took another handful of popcorn. "That's what appeals to me. It's just some dialogue stitching explosions together."

"There was brief full-frontal nudity."

"Yeah, but that was for you, and those of your ilk." She flicked a glance up at him, as on screen pedestrians ran screaming from falling wreckage.

He was so damn gorgeous—in anyone's ilk. A face sculpted by talented gods on a really good day. Strong bones laying the excellent foundation under that Irish white skin, the mouth that made her think of poets, until he used it on her so she couldn't think at all. Those wild Celt's eyes that saw just who she was.

Then you topped it off with all that black silky hair, added that long, lean body, the sexy Irish accent, tossed in brains, wit, temper, and street smarts and you had yourself a hell of a package.

And he was all hers.

She intended to make really good use of what was hers for the next thirty-six hours or so.

On screen a street battle erupted among the rubble with hurled miniboomers and whooshing blasters. The hero—distinguished by the fact he'd kicked the most ass thus far—burst through the mêlée on the back of a jet-bike.

Obviously caught up, Roarke dug into the popcorn. Then immediately pulled his hand out again and scowled at his own fingers. "Why don't you just dump salt into melted butter and eat that?"

"The corn makes a nice vehicle for it. Aw, what's the matter? You get your pretty hands messy?"

He wiped his fingers down her face, smiled. "Clean now."

"Hey!" She laughed, set the bowl aside. It would be safe, she knew, as even Galahad, the cat, wouldn't eat it her way. She poked a finger hard into Roarke's ribs, rolled until she was on top of him.

Maybe they'd just have a sneak preview of tonight's second feature.

"Going to pay for that one, pal."

Copyright © 2007 by Nora Roberts.