In Death 38 - Thankless in Death by J. D. Robb Page A

him one quick glance through narrowed eyes. “You got me, and that’s it, pal.”
    “Thank God for it.” He cupped her face, leaned in for a soft, sweet kiss. “We’re having a date?”
    “Not exactly. I can’t do the big
D
date thing where you shove all the stuff outside, but I thought I could pay you back a little for all the stuff. Nicer than pizza in my office.”
    He looked at her for such a long, still moment, she feared she’d screwed something up. Then he pulled her in, wrapped around her, held tight. Tight.
    “Thank you.”
    “It’s not that big a thing.”
    “It is to me, and especially tonight.”
    “What’s tonight?” Shit, did she forget something? She pulled back, focused fully on his face. No, something else. “Did you have a thing mess up in the Universe of Roarke?”
    He smiled at her, tapped the dent in her chin. “You could say.”
    “What?”
    “Not important, especially since I see we have champagne.”
    “No.” She shifted before he could walk past her. “You take my stuff. I’ll take yours.”
    He trailed a hand down her arm, over the soft sleeve of her sweater. “Marriage Rules?”
    “That’s right. What’s the thing?”
    “I had to fire three people this afternoon. I hate firing people.”
    “Why did you?”
    “Basically for not doing what they’re paid to do. I’ll give some leeway there for a space. They could be having a rough patch, some personal problems, health problems. So some room, some time, a discussion can settle that down. But when the not doing what they’re paid to do comes with carelessness, and worse, arrogance, there’s no leeway.”
    “So you fired them for being assholes.”
    He laughed, and felt some of those dregs slide away. “You could say just that.”
    “I know something about it,” she said as he walked to the table she’d set—hopefully well enough—to uncork the champagne. “The guy responsible for the double homicide’s an asshole who can’t keep a job—arrogance, carelessness, and I think a warped sense of entitlement.”
    “It seems our stuff coincides.” After the elegant and muffled pop of cork from bottle, he poured champagne into two tall flutes.
    “Part of why you hate firing people is because it makes you feel like you made a mistake hiring them.”
    “And you know me well,” he agreed. He handed her a flute, tapped his to hers.
    “Did you?”
    “Obviously, yes. But at the time they suited the position well, on all the levels. Over time, however, some can become complacent, lazy, and, yes, entitled.”
    It never paid, he strongly believed, to take a single thing—the good, the bad, the mediocre—for granted.
    “And now these three people are out of work,” he added. “They won’t have an easy time gaining equal employment as their references won’t be stellar.”
    “And the other part you hate is now their lives are screwed up, and may stay that way at least for a while. It’s a tough break, but you wear what you sew—if you know how to sew anyway.”
    It took him a moment, then he just laughed again—and there went the rest of the dregs. “That’s reap what you sow—as in harvest what you plant.”
    “If you go around sewing something, you’re going to have to wear it. So?” She lifted her shoulders.
    “So,” he repeated. “You’re right. They sewed, or sowed, wore or reaped. And now they’re out in a damn fallow field wearing something that fits ill. And apparently that settles my stuff, so thanks for that.”
    “No problem. Hungry?”
    “I am now. What’s for dinner, darling Eve?”
    “We got this soup thing to start it off. Summerset picked the food, so you’re safe there.”
    “I was fully prepared for pizza in your office.” He skimmed a hand down her hair, then lightly over her cheek. “We’re not ones who need or want to push our stuff outside, or not very often. We do well with it. We do well with it together.”
    “Good to hear, because I’ve got a big pile of