“Probably.”

“Ah.” He handed her the spatula. “Would you mind?” he asked, adding a fatherly pat on the head. “I have a weakness for shortcake and whipped cream.”

“Um — ” But he was already strolling off.

Eve looked down at the sizzling patties, the skewered vegetables. It wasn't quite as terrifying as having a drooling baby dumped in her arms, but . . . How the hell did you know when they were done? Did something signal? Should she poke at them or leave them alone?

Everything sizzled and smoked, and there were countless dials and gauges. When she cautiously lifted another shiny lid, she found fat dogs — probably actual pig meat — cooking away like hot, engorged penises.

She closed the lid again, then let out a huff of relief when Roarke joined her.

“They deserted the field, seduced by rumors of cake and pie. You handle this.” She surrendered the spatula. “I might do something that puts Louise and her doctor's bag to work.”

He looked at the sizzle and smoke as she'd often seen him look at some thorny computer code. With the light of challenge in his eyes.

“It's actually satisfying, the grilling business.” He offered the spatula. “I could teach you.”

“No thanks. Eating it's satisfying, and I've already done that.”

He slid the burgers from grill to platter, then used some sort of tongs to transfer the kabobs.

“If I'd known they were done, I could've done that.”

“You have other talents.” He leaned down, the platter of food between them, and kissed her.

A good moment, she thought — the scents, the voices, the hot summer sun. Eve started to smile, then saw Lopez crossing in their direction. He walked like the boxer he'd been, she thought, the compact body light on the feet.

“Ready for another round, Chale?” Roarke asked him.

“The first was more than enough. I want to thank you both for having me. You have a beautiful home, beautiful friends.”