Sheyla Costa

“She curled up beside him, realizing they both needed this space of intimacy as much as they'd needdd the reassurance and release. Her world had been rocked. She only understood how violent the shake had been now that it was stead again.”
― J.D. Robb, Divided in Death

“Didn't you have some big deal last night?" Peabody asked her.

"Yeah, in East Washington. Roarke had this dinner / dance thing for some fancy charity. Save the moles or something. Enough food to feed every sidewalk sleeper on the Lower East Side for a year."

"Gee, that's tough on you. I bet you had to get all dressed up in some beautiful gown, shuttle down on Roarke's private transpo, and choke down champagne."

Eve only lifted a brow at Peabody's dust-dry tone. "Yeah, that's about it." They both knew the glamorous side of Eve's life since Roarke had come into it was both a puzzlement and a frustration to her. "And then I had to dance with Roarke. A lot."

"Was he wearing a tux?" Peabody had seen Roarke in a tux. The image of it was etched in her mind like acid on glass.

"Oh yeah." Until, Eve mused, they'd gotten home and she'd ripped it off of him. He looked every bit as good out of a tux as in one.

"Man." Peabody closed her eyes, indulged herself with a visualization technique she'd learned at her Free-Ager parents' knees. "Man," she repeated.

"You know, a lot of women would get pissed off at having their husband star in their aide's purient little fantasies."

"But you're bigger than that, Lieutenant. I like that about you.”
― J.D. Robb, Conspiracy in Death

“She taught me all about real sacrifice. That it should be done from love... That it should be done from necessity, not without exhausting all other options. That it should be done for people who need your strength because they don't have enough of their own.”
― Veronica Roth, Allegiant

“The next thing she knew, he was shaking her gently by the shoulder. “Eve.” “What!” Her eyes popped open. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was thinking.” “Yes, I could hear you thinking.” “If that’s some smart-ass way of saying I was snoring, bite me.”
― J.D. Robb, Divided in Death