“How come you don’t wear color?”
“The better to serve as the backdrop for my beautiful wife.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You had that one ready.”
“The truth is always ready.”
She jabbed a finger at him. “That one, too.”
“Such a cynic.” He gave her a pat on the ass as he passed. She could have found more to say, cynic-wise, but decided to save it. By the time she’d dressed, apologized in advance to her feet, and trapped them in the ice-pick heels, transferred her weapon and badge and communicator to one of the useless bags women were forced to carry to evening events, Roarke had the diamonds laid out.
“All of that?”
“All of that, yes,” he said firmly as he finished his tie.
“You could buy New Jersey for all of that.”
“I’d rather see them on my wife than buy New Jersey.”
“They’ll see me from space,” she muttered as she plugged in the glittery drop earrings, clamped on the bracelet, the fancy wrist unit.
“No, not like that,” he said as she fought with the clasp on the triple-strand necklace. “This way.” He adjusted the chains so they draped front and back.
She started to make a comment about shoulder-blade jewelry, but when she turned for a look had to admit it looked damned snappy.
“The evenings are cooling off.” He handed her a short, translucent coat. Over the dress it looked like a thin film of stars.
“Did I already have this?”
“You have it now.”
Her eyes shifted to his in the mirror. She had a smart-ass remark ready, but when he smiled at her, she thought, Oh what the hell.
“We look pretty good.”
With his hands on her shoulders, he pressed his cheek to hers. “I think we’ll do.”
“Let’s go play Hollywood.”
It felt like a play, the set, the costumes, the lights. Mason Roundtree’s primary residence might have been New LA, but he didn’t stint on his New York pad.
The Park Avenue townhouse rose three stories and boasted a roof terrace with domed lap pool and garden. He’d gone minimalist contemporary in style with lots of glass, chrome, open space, and blond-toned wood. Here and there a pin light showcased some sinuous sculpture or jewel-toned ball. Art juggled between colorful splashes or dramatic black-and-white photographs.
Off the entryway with its single spear of silver light, the living area spread under high ceilings. A fire simmered low in a silver hearth.
“At last.” Blunt as a thumb in a black suit, Roundtree shot out a hand, gripped Eve’s. He sported a goatee, a perfect triangle of blazing red, and a mass of wildly curling hair.
She thought he might look more at home felling a tree with an axe in some mountain forest rather than a sleekly modern New York drawing room.
“You’re a hard woman to wrangle, Lieutenant Dallas.”
“I guess.”
“I missed you on set today. I wanted some time.”
“It was murder.”
“So I heard.” His eyes blazed blue as he studied her face. “Damn bad timing. I’m hoping you find some time to come down to the studio,” he said to Roarke with another fast grip and grin.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Damn near wrapped. I don’t want to jinx it but so far this project’s been smooth as a baby’s ass.” He had his sharp bluebird eyes on Eve again, one hand tugging at his goatee. “You’ve been the only wrinkle. Can’t get you to consult, take meetings, do lunch, interviews.”
“It’s still murder.”
“Ha!”
“Mason, you’re hogging our centerpiece.” A curvy brunette wearing lipstick red with glinting sapphires glided up. “I’m Connie Burkette, Mason’s wife. Welcome.”
“I’m an admirer,” Roarke told her.
She purred. “Nothing lovelier to hear from a gorgeous man. Let me return the compliment to you, and to you,” she said to Eve. “Mason’s been saturated with this project for nearly a year now. And when he’s saturated, I get soaked. I feel like I already know both of you. So, champagne, wine? Something stronger?”
At the most subtle of signals one of the staff passing flutes of champagne sidled over.
“This is good. Thanks.” Eve took a glass.
“Your dress is fabulous. You wear Leonardo, don’t you?”
“He’s a little big for me.”
Connie laughed, an easy, throaty sound that went with her slumberous brown eyes. “That he is. I loved meeting him and Mavis. She’s a true and unique delight. And the baby! What a beauty. Now come along with me, see your old friends, your new ones.”
“Dallas!” Marlo, sleek in a sheath of dull bronze, rushed forward. “I’m so glad you made it. Peabody said you’d already closed the case. Isn’t that amazing?” she said to Connie. “They caught a killer within hours.”
“It’s not hard when the killer’s a moron,” Eve commented.
“Aren’t the two of you something?” Connie caught one of Eve’s hands, one of Marlo’s in turn, and made Eve wonder if everybody in Hollywood felt compelled to touch.
“I’ve known Marlo for years,” Connie continued, “but seeing you both side by side is, well, surreal. There are differences, of course.” Angling her head, Connie looked them both up and down. “Marlo’s a bit shorter, and your eyes are longer in shape—and without the makeup Marlo lacks the little chin cleft—but at a quick glance, it’s—”
“A little spooky,” Eve finished.
“It is.”
“Joel wanted me to have the cleft done surgically—the producer,” Marlo added.
“You’re not kidding.”
“I’m not. Joel tends to go over the top. But it’s what makes him the best.”
“I shaved my head for him for Unreasonable Doubt,” Connie said. “But in that case he and Mason were right. And I have the Oscar to prove it.”
“It wasn’t the shaved head that netted you the Oscar. It was brilliance.”
“See why I keep this beautiful young thing around?” Connie asked. “Oh, that must be Charlotte Mira.”
Eve glanced back. “Yeah. That’s Doctor Mira and her husband, Dennis.” God, he was cute, Eve thought, in his spiffy suit and mismatched socks. She felt more relaxed just looking at him.
“I need to introduce myself. Take care of our star, Marlo.”
“You know I will. She’s magnificent,” Marlo said when Connie walked toward the Miras. “She’s the classiest actor, and woman, I know. She and Roundtree have been married—first time for both—for over twenty-five years. That’s a good run for anybody, but a miracle in our business, especially when both are in the business.”
Then she stared over Eve’s shoulder, blinked. “Oh my.”
“Ladies.”
“Roarke,” Eve said by way of introduction.
“It certainly is. They didn’t get the eyes. Close, but not quite. Sorry. Julian and I have been working together for months now, and I’ve gotten used to thinking of him as you. But now here you are.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I admire your work.”
“You’re here.” Peabody, girls rising proudly over a bodice of stars scattered on midnight, rushed over. “We were getting the tour of the house, which is seriously uptown.”
“Peabody.” Roarke took a flute off a tray and offered it. “You look delicious.”
“Oh my God,” Marlo said under her breath as Peabody flushed and beamed.
“Thanks. This is so exciting. We’re having the best time.”
Beside her, Ian McNab grinned. His version of fancy dinner wear ran to a pumpkin-colored shirt, a lime green suit, and high-top skids that matched the shirt. His blond hair was pulled back from his thin, attractive face in a long tail, leaving the dangle of gold loops on his ear to glint in the light.
Eve started to speak when a man stepped to Peabody’s other side. He wore his blond hair pulled back in a long tail, leaving his thin, attractive face unframed. His suit, shirt, tie were all the color of night fog, and fit his slim frame perfectly.
“McNab, that’s what you’d look like—almost—if you dressed like an adult human.”
“Pretty tight, huh?” McNab said and chomped into the canapé he’d snagged from another tray.