He brought the hand he held to his lips. “And still you're sad.”

She closed her eyes, comforted a little by the solidity of him beside her, by that whisper of Ireland in his voice, even by the scent so uniquely him. “Not sad, or . . . I don't know what the hell I am. I should be buzzed. I did the job; I slammed it shut — and I got to look them both in the face and let them know it.”

She shoved up, paced to the window, away again, and realized it wasn't peace and comfort she wanted after all. Not quite yet. It was a place to let it go, let it out, spew the rage.

“He was pissed. Moriarity. Lying there with that hole in his chest his pal put into him with his freaking antique Italian foil.”

“The one meant for you,” Roarke reminded her.

“Yeah. And he's pissed, seriously pissed, Dudley missed and it wasn't me on a slab at the morgue.”

“I expect he was,” Roarke said coolly. “But that's not what's got you going.”

She paused a minute, just looked at him. Stunning blue eyes in a stunning face, the mane of thick black hair, that poet's mouth set firm now because she'd made him think of her on that slab at the morgue.

“You know they never had a chance to take me. You were there.”

“And still he drew blood, didn't he?” Roarke nodded at the healing wound on her arm.

She tapped it. “And this helped sew them up. Attempted murder of a police officer just trowels on the icing. They didn't make their next score. Now they have to end their competition with a tie, which oddly enough is what I think they always wanted. They just planned for the contest to go on a lot longer. And you know what the prize was at the end? Do you know what the purse for this goddamn tournament was?”

“I don't, no, but I see you got it out of Moriarity today.”