Someone is going to die, she thought, probably within hours. And she couldn't stop it.
She pulled up her victim files again. Darlene French. An ordinary young woman with a simple life, who should have had a long, uncomplicated future.
Site of murder: The Palace Hotel.
Connection: Roarke.
Jonah Talbot. A bright, successful man. Upwardly mobile, who should have continued to rise.
Site of murder: rented home.
Connection: Roarke.
Both had worked for him. Both had died while on property he owned.
French had been a stranger to Roarke. A faceless employee. But Talbot had been a friend of sorts.
The third would be closer yet.
Would he come after her? She would have preferred that, but thought it was too large a leap. Another employee, if the pattern held. But one he worked with more closely. One he knew well.
Caro, his admin? That was a good bet, and precisely why Eve had called in some favors and had the efficient woman under surveillance.
But she couldn't cover every member of his top-level teams in the city.
And if Yost jumped to another location, to one of the countless offices, plants, organizations Roarke had all over the planet and through the developed solar system, the potential targets were astronomical.
Couldn't compute.
Still, she tried to level the field, to connect the dots through the mountain of data Roarke had given her. The primary result was a wicked little headache. How could the man own so much? Why would anyone want to? And how the hell did he keep track of it all?
She pushed that aside. It wasn't the way. If Roarke himself couldn't hazard an educated guess on potential targets, how could she?
She went for coffee, using the short walk to the kitchen and back to clear her mind.
A personal vendetta. If that was the motive, why not go after the man himself? Or at least those in his inner circle?
Business. It was business. What were Roarke's most pressing projects?
She went back to his data, rubbed her throbbing temples. It looked as though he was juggling several dozen green-lighted deals even now. It was enough to make you dizzy.
Olympus. That was his baby, she thought. A kind of pet fantasy, and as complicated as they came. He was building a goddamn world there: hotels, casinos, homes, resorts, parks. And all of it lavish.
Homes, she thought. Vacation and retirement homes. Villas, mansions, sleek penthouses, presidential suites. Something for the man who had, and could afford, everything.
Right up Yost's alley.
She turned toward Roarke's office, then stopped at the doorway.
He was at his console, captain of his ship. He'd drawn his hair back so it lay on his neck in a short, gleaming black tail. His eyes were cool, cool blue, the way they were when his mind was fully occupied.
He'd taken off his dinner jacket. His shirt was loose at the collar, the sleeves rolled up. There was something, just something about that look that always and forever grabbed her in the gut.
She could look at him for hours, and at the end of it still marvel that he belonged to her.
Someone wants to hurt you, she thought. I'm not going to let them.
He lifted his head. He'd scented her, or sensed her. He always did. Their eyes locked, and for a moment stayed locked. A thousand messages passed between them in absolute silence.
"Worrying about me won't help you get your job done."
"Who says I'm worried?"
He stayed where he was; simply held out his hand.
She crossed to him, took it, gripped hard. "When I met you," she said carefully, "I didn't want you in my life. You were one big complication. Every time I looked at you, or heard your voice, or so much as thought about you, the complication got bigger."
"And now?"
"Now? You are my life." She gave his hand one last squeeze, then released. "Okay, enough mushy stuff. Olympus."
"What about it?"
"You're selling property up there. Big fancy houses, snazzy apartments, and like that."
"Marketing describes them with a bit more panache, but yes. Ah." He clicked in before she spoke. "Sylvester Yost might enjoy the advantages of a comfortable off planet home in a self-contained community."
"You could check it out. His pace of contracts in the past two years is up twelve percent. Could very well be a push for a nice, fat retirement nest. Best guess would be his Roles alias. It's not an answer but it's another link. Enough links you make a chain. Now."
She walked around the console, sat on the edge of it to face him. "You've got partners, multinational, in the Olympus thing. Investors. Anybody unhappy, annoyed because you get the big slice of the pie?"
"There are occasionally bumps, but no. The project's moving smoothly and on schedule. I took the biggest financial risk, and therefore will reap the largest profits. But the consortium's satisfied. Returns on investments are already exceeding initial projections."
She nodded. "All right. Here's how it seems to me. If this is a business hit, the business is likely in New York. I'm thinking if it was business in, say, Australia, the hits would be in Australia. To draw you down there."
"Yes, I've considered that."
"First hit's at your hotel, when it's public knowledge you'll be on-site. Second hit is in one of your rentals, and you're in town and working minutes away. Give me a connection between Darlene French and Jonah Talbot."
"I don't have one."
"No, you do. You're just not seeing it. Neither am I." In her mind, she-switched to interview mode, and Roarke to witness. "Darlene French was a maid at your hotel. You had no personal contact with her?"
"None."
"Who hired her?"
"She'd have submitted an application through the human resources department, and ultimately hired by Hilo."
"You don't supervise the hiring and firing?"
"I'd spend all my time doing so."
"But it's your hotel. Your organization."
"I have departments," he said with some impatience. "And the departments have heads. Those heads operate with the required autonomy. My organization, Lieutenant, is designed to run smoothly, on its particular internal wheels, so that – "
"Did Talbot have any tasks that involved The Palace?"
"None." Frustration slipped into his eyes. He knew what she was doing, sliding him into the witness slot so that he would answer instinctively. And she did it well. "He never even stayed there. I checked. Certainly he would have had authors who did, and certainly he'd have entertained authors or business associates there for dinner or for lunch. But that hardly makes one of your links."
"Maybe he hosted parties there. You know, professional spreads. Maybe he had one planned."
"No. He might have attended some. The publicity department at the publishing house generally arranges that sort of function. There's nothing on the slate I'm aware of. Magda's display and auction are the showcase through the month."
"Okay. Did he have anything to do with that?"
"The publishing house isn't involved in the auction. Jonah acquired, edited, and published manuscripts. The hotel and its functions are entirely separate from…"
She all but heard the click. "What?"
"I'm an idiot," he murmured and got to his feet. "Manuscripts. We'll publish a disc, a new biography of Magda next month. There will also be a publication detailing the auction – each piece, its history and significance. Jonah would have been involved in those projects. I think it's one of his authors who wrote the bio. He'd have edited it."
"Magda." Connections, possibilities, began to run through her brain. "She's a link. That's a solid link. Maybe you're not the target at all. Maybe she is."
"Maybe we both are. The auction."
She held up a hand, pushing off the console so she could think on her feet. "Magda Lane in residence at The Palace. Your hotel. Holding one of the biggest events of her professional life there. Not at one of her own homes, not at one of the auction houses, but your hotel. Whose idea was that?"