Connections in Death by J.D. Robb Read Online (FREE)
Connections in Death by J.D. Robb
Originally published: February 5, 2019
Author: Nora Roberts
Preceded by: Leverage in Death
Followed by: Vendetta in Death
Genre: Police procedural
The legalized torture of socializing lined right up to premeditated murder when you added the requirement of fancy shoes.
That was Lieutenant Eve Dallas’s stand on it, and she should know. She was a murder cop in fancy shoes about to socialize.
Moreover . . .
Whoever decreed that fancy shoes for females required sky-high skinny-assed heels rendering said shoes useless for any practical purpose—including walking—should be immediately subjected to every known manner of torture, legal or otherwise.
Surely by the almost-spring of 2061, in the freaking United States of America, useless skinny-heeled shoes should be banned. Beat with hammers, set on fire, then banned.
She walked in those damn shoes toward a swank penthouse, a tall, lanky woman in a slinky jade dress that shimmered with her movements while a fat, teardrop diamond shot fire from the chain around her neck.
The short, choppy brown cap of her hair set off the diamonds winking none too quietly at her ears. Her long brown eyes narrowed with dark thoughts.
Just who came up with the concept of the cocktail party? Eve wondered. Whoever did, by her decree, should join the originator of fancy shoes in the torture chamber. Who the hell decided it would be a freaking fantastic idea to create a custom where people stood around, usually at the end of a workday, making small talk while balancing a drink in one hand and a plate of tiny, often unidentifiable food in the other?
And, oh yeah, whoever came up with small talk as a social imperative? Straight into the torture chamber.
And while we’re at it, throw the sick bastard who added the requirement of a gift every freaking time you turned around right in there with the others.
Because a sane person didn’t want to have to think about what the hell to buy somebody who invited them to a damn party. A sane person didn’t want to go to a party at the end of a workday and stand around in shoes with stupid skinny heels and balance weird food while making idiotic small talk.
A sane person wanted to be home, wearing comfortable clothes and eating pizza.
Eve glanced toward the ridiculously handsome face of her husband—the guy responsible for the slinky of a dress, the damn shoes, and all the diamonds. She noted the amusement in those killer blue eyes, in the easy smile on that perfectly sculpted mouth.
It occurred to her not only that would Roarke enjoy the upcoming torture, but he could have deemed and decreed all the rules of it himself.
He was lucky she didn’t pop him one.
“Need a few more minutes for the internal monologue?” he asked, the Irish in his voice just adding more charm.