Had they read Nadine’s book? Wherever they’d gone, were they paying attention to the never-quite-ending interest in how they’d come to be?
And she thought of what she and Roarke had left—no choice with the facility about to blow—in tubes and hives in the underground lab. The set, the hype, the actress in the long, black coat fixed the lives that had been created in, and had ended in that nightmare facility front and center in her mind.
Yeah, she wanted to be done with the Icove case.
She drove through the gates, rolled her shoulders back. One evening, she reminded herself as she saw the glory of home.
Next time she had a full evening free, and if the weather stayed mild, she and Roarke would have dinner on one of the terraces. Do the whole wine and candlelight thing. Maybe walk around the estate in the starlight.
She’d never thought of doing those things before Roarke, never wanted them. But now there was Roarke, and there was home. And there was a want to cherish both whenever she could.
She parked at the front of the house where it spread, where it rose up in its fanciful towers and turrets. Maybe the party wouldn’t last all that long. They could come home, take that walk in the starlight.
Absently she rubbed at the faint twinge in her arm as she got out of the car. The injuries she’d sustained in Dallas had healed—or close enough. But the memory of them … yes, there was a want to cherish when she could.
As she expected, Summerset—the skinny—and the cat—the fat—waited in the foyer.
“I see you were unable to formulate an excuse to miss tonight’s festivities.”
She didn’t much care for Roarke’s pain-in-her-ass majordomo knowing her that well. “There’s still time for murder. It could even be here and now.”
“There’s a message from Trina for you on the house ’link.”
Eve froze on the steps. Freezing was a natural byproduct of blood running cold. “If you let her into this house, there will be murder. Double homicide when I beat both of you to death with a brick.”
“She’s occupied downtown assisting Mavis and Peabody, and will be unable to get here for your hair and makeup before the event. However,” he continued as relief trickled through panic, “she’s left detailed instructions for you.”
“I know how to get ready for some stupid dinner,” Eve muttered as she stomped upstairs. “I don’t need detailed instructions.”
In the bedroom, she stripped off her jacket, her weapon harness. And scowled at the house ’link. “You think I don’t know how to take a damn shower and slap on some face junk?” she demanded of the cat, who’d followed her up. “I’ve done it before.”
More in the last couple years, she judged, than in most of the years before combined. But still.
But the cat stared at her with his bicolored eyes. She hissed, stomped to the ’link, and called up the message.
Just do what I tell you and you’ll be good to go. I’ll know if you screw this up, so don’t. Now, start with a long, steamy shower and the pomegranate scrub.
As Trina’s voice droned on and on, Eve sat on the side of the bed. There were a zillion steps, she calculated. Nobody in their right mind took all those steps just to clean up for a party.
And who the hell would know whether or not she scrubbed with pomegranate?
Trina might, she thought.
Anyway, a long, steamy shower sounded fine. No problem.
By the time she’d finished the shower, the scrub, the body lotion, the face brightener, and the hair product that looked and felt a little too much like snot to suit her, she gave murder a more in-depth consideration.
She smeared stuff on her eyes, brushed stuff on her cheeks, smeared dye on her lips, and cursed whoever had invented facial enhancements.
Enough was enough, she decided, and walked back into the bedroom just as Roarke walked in.
How come he didn’t need all the fuss and gunk to look so damn pretty? she wondered. Nothing Trina could come up with could improve on that face—that carved-by-benevolent-angels face, and the wickedly blue eyes, the perfectly etched mouth that smiled now as he saw her.
“There you are.”
“How can you tell it’s me? I’ve got so much crap on my face I could be anybody under it.”
“Let’s see.” He stepped over, laid his lips on hers. “There you are,” he said again with that whisper of Ireland in his voice. “My Eve.”
“I don’t feel like your Eve, or mine either. Why can’t I just go around with my regular face?”
“Darling, it’s very much your face. Just partied up a bit. Sexy. And you smell the same.”
“It’s pomegranate, and some other stuff Trina ordered me to use. Why do I let her push me around?”
“I can’t say.” And wouldn’t. “How did it go at the studio?”
“It’s weird, but Durn’s okay. We didn’t stay the whole time because we caught a case.”
“Oh?”
“Caught and closed.”
He grinned. “And I feel I have to say I’m sorry it went so well. Why don’t you tell me about Marlo Durn and the others while I shower?”
“You probably know some of them. You’ve bumped elbows, and more, with the Hollywood crowd.”
“Hmm” was his non-answer as he undressed. “In any case I haven’t bumped anything with Marlo Durn, which should be a relief to all of us as I’ve seen some of the media coverage of her. She could pass for your sister at this point.”
“I guess. And it’s weird.” Hands in the pockets of her robe, she leaned against the door and watched his most excellent ass head for the shower. “The one playing Peabody’s a bitch.”
“Rumor has it,” he called out over the pulse of water. “And also that there’s no love lost between her and Durn. Should be an interesting evening.”
“Maybe they’ll punch each other.” Eve felt her enthusiasm click up a notch at the idea. “That would be fun.”
“We can only hope.”
“The sets are spooky,” she continued. “All that was missing from the bullpen were crumbs on Jenkinson’s desk. That and the smell, but it takes years of cop to get that smell.”
When he stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, she frowned. “That’s it? That’s all you have to do? It’s not right.”
“Some of it should be offset by the fact you’re not required to shave your face.”
“I don’t think that’s enough.”
She stalked over to the closet, opened it. And scowled again.
“What am I supposed to wear? There are too many choices in here. If you’ve got one thing, you don’t have to think about it. You just take it out, put it on. This is too complicated. Peabody hounded me about this until I wanted to pull her tongue out and wrap it around her neck. Between her and Trina my brain’s fried.”
Amused, he walked over, stepped into the closet. “This.” He lifted a dress off the rod.
Short, she noted, with a kind of drape to the skirt from where it was caught at the side of the waist with a flower of the same material and color as the dress. Not really blue, not really green, with a kind of shimmery overcast. She eyed it, the wide scoop of neck, the thumb-width straps.
“How do you know this one?”
“The little black dress is a classic for a reason, but often expected—especially in New York. So you’ll go with color, rich color in a soft sheen. It’s feminine without fuss, sexy without trying to be.”
She took it, turned it around, and lifted an eyebrow at the deep plunge in the back. “Without trying.”
“Very hard. You have shoes to match.”
“I do?”
“You do, yes, and go with diamonds. Leave the color to the dress.”
“Which diamonds? Do you know how many you give me? Why do you do that?”
The aggrieved sound of her voice amused him nearly as much as giving her diamonds. “It’s a sickness. I’ll get them for you once you’re dressed.”
She said nothing, and stood where she was as he selected a dark suit from his forest of suits, a slate-colored shirt, and a stone-colored tie.