All their assets held jointly, Eve mused. Her impression had been that Rudy manned the business end of things. It had always been Rudy who'd made the decisions, gone to the console when she'd been there.
It followed that he handled the money, too.
He had the control, Eve decided. He had the power.
And the opportunity, the access.
"One other hit on smudger," McNab's voice continued. "Two on lip dye, with Charles Monroe popping on both. Missed him first pass because he put another name on the credit slip for the mailing list of new products and specials. Profile on Monroe included."
Eve frowned as the memo ended. Her instincts might have been steering her toward Rudy, but it looked as though she was going to pay Charles Monroe a visit.
Glancing over, she saw the light over the door that adjoined Roarke's office was on. If he was busy, it was as good a time as any to check on a more personal matter.
She moved quietly, using the stairs rather than the elevator, keeping an eye out for Summerset as she lengthened her strides toward the library.
The walls of the two-level room were lined with books. It always baffled her that a man who could buy a small planet at the snap of a finger preferred the weight and bulk of a book rather than the convenience of reading on screen.
One of his quirks, she supposed, though she could appreciate the rich smell of leather from the bindings, the glossy look of the spines as they marched along the dark mahogany shelves.
There were two generous seating areas, more leather in the wood-trimmed deep burgundy sofas and chairs, jewels of colors on glass lamp shades, the sheen of brass, the shine of old wood in cabinets deeply carved by craftsmen from another century.
Drapes were open to the night around a wide window seat dressed with thick pillows in tones that picked up the multi-hues of the lamps. Enormous and ancient rugs with intricate patterns over a red-wine background stretched over the wide and polished chestnut planks of the floor.
She knew a full-range multitask computer system was hidden behind the antique cabinet. But everything in view in the room spoke of age and wealth and a taste for both.
She didn't come here often, but she knew Roarke did. She might find him sitting in one of the leather chairs in the evening, his long legs stretched out, a brandy by his elbow and a book in his hands. Reading relaxed him, he'd told her. And she knew it was a skill he'd taught himself as a boy in the slums of Dublin when he'd found a tattered copy of Yeats in an alley.
She crossed to the cabinet and opened the doors rich with inlays of lapis and malachite. "Engage," she ordered and cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. "Search library, all sections, for Yeats."
Yeats, Elizabeth; Yeats, William Butler?
Her brows came together, her hand scooped through her hair. "How the hell do I know? It's some Irish poet."
Yeats, William Butler, confirmed. Searching stacks… The Wanderings Of Oisin, Section D, shelf five. The Countess of Cathleen, Section D -
"Wait." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Shift search. Tell me what books by this guy aren't in the library."
Adjusting… Searching…
He probably had every damn thing anyway. Stupid idea, she decided, and jammed her hands in her pockets.
"Lieutenant."
And nearly jumped out of her boots. She whirled around and stared at Summerset. "What? Damn it, I hate when you do that."
He merely continued to eye her blandly. He knew she hated when he came up on her unawares. It was one of the reasons he so enjoyed doing it. "May I help you find a book – though I didn't realize you read anything but reports and the occasional disc on aberrant behavior."
"Look, pal, I've got a perfect right to be in here." Which didn't explain why being found in the library made her feel like a sneak. "And I don't need your help."
All works by subject author, Yeats, William Butler, are included in library. Do you require locations and titles?
"No, damn it. I knew it."
"Yeats, Lieutenant?" Curious, Summerset moved into the room, closely followed by Galahad, who padded over to Eve, scissored between her legs, then deserted her to leap onto the window seat and stare out at the night as if he owned it.
"So what?"
He only raised his eyebrows. "Was there a play you were interested in, a collection, a particular poem?"
"What are you, the library police?"
"These books are quite valuable," he said coolly. "Many are first editions and quite rare. You'll find all of Yeats's work in the disc library as well. That method, I'm sure, would suit you better."
"I don't want to read the damn thing. I just wanted to see if there was something he didn't have, which is stupid because he has every damn thing, so what the hell am I supposed to do?"
"About what?"
"Christmas, you moron." Incensed, she turned back to the computer. "Disengage."
Summerset pursed his lips and followed the train of thought. "You wished to purchase a volume of Yeats for Roarke as a Christmas gift."
"That was the idea, which turns out to suck."
"Lieutenant," he said as she started to storm out.
"What?"
It annoyed him when she did or said something that touched him. But it couldn't be helped. And he owed her for risking, nearly losing, her life to save his. That simple fact, Summerset knew, made them both uncomfortable. Perhaps he could even the scales, by a small weight.
"He does not own, as yet, a first edition copy of The Celtic Twilight"
The mutinous glare faded, though some suspicion remained. "What is it?"
"It's a prose collection."
"By this Yeats guy?"
"Yes."
A part of her, a small, nasty part, wanted to shrug and walk away. But she jammed her hands in her pockets and stuck. "The search said he had everything."
"He owns the book, but not in a first edition. Yeats is particularly important to Roarke. I imagine you know that. I have a connection to a rare book dealer in Dublin. I could contact him and see if it can be acquired."
"Bought," Eve said firmly. "Not stolen." She smiled thinly when Summerset's spine snapped stiff. "I know something about your connections. We keep it legal."
"I never intended otherwise. But it won't come cheap." It was his turn to smile, just as thinly. "And there will, no doubt, be a charge for securing the acquisition in time for Christmas, as you've waited until the eleventh hour."
She didn't wince, but she wanted to. "If your connection can find it, I want it." Then because she couldn't figure a way around it, she shrugged. "Thanks."
He nodded stiffly, and waited until she'd left the room before he grinned.
This, Eve thought, was what being in love did to you. It made you have to cooperate with the biggest annoyance in your life. And, she thought sourly as she took the elevator to the bedroom, if the skinny son of a bitch actually pulled it off, she was going to owe him.
It was mortifying.
Then the elevator doors opened, and there was Roarke with a half smile on his lost angel face, his eyes impossibly blue with pleasure.
What was a little mortification?
"I didn't know you were home yet."
"Yeah, I was… doing stuff." She cocked her head. She knew that look. "Why are you looking so smug?"
He took her hand, drew her into the room. "What do you think?" he asked and gestured.
Centered in the deeply recessed window on the far side of the raised platform that held their bed was a tree. Its boughs fanned out into the room and rose up and up until the tip all but speared the ceiling.
She blinked at it. "It's big."
"Obviously you haven't seen the one in the living area. It's twice this tall."
Cautious, she moved closer. It had to be ten feet. If it toppled, she mused, while they were sleeping, it would drop like a stone on the bed and pin them like ants. "I hope it's secure." She sniffed. "Smells like a forest in here. I guess we're going to hang stuff on it."