“I’ll wash your back, but it goes on the credit side of my account, to be counted the next time I’m a complete asshole.”
He patted a hand on her knee. “Done,” he said, then pushed up, and offered her a hand.
* * *
In a small hotel room on Tenth Avenue, Trudy Lombard studied herself in the mirror. He thought he’d scared her, and maybe he had, but that didn’t mean she’d just turn tail and run like a whipped dog.
She’d earned that compensation for tolerating that nasty little bitch in her home, nearly six months of her. Six months of having that dirty child under her roof. Feeding and clothing her.
Now, the mighty Roarke was going to pay for the way he’d treated Trudy Lombard—make no mistake about it. It was going to cost him a lot more than two million.
She’d taken off her suit, put on her nightgown. Preparation was important, she reminded herself, and washed down a pain blocker with the good French wine she preferred.
No point in chasing the pain, she thought. No point at all. Though she didn’t mind a little pain. It sharpened the senses.
She took slow, even breaths as she picked up the sock she’d filled with credits. She swung it at her own face, striking between jaw and cheekbone. Pain exploded, nausea rolled in her belly, but she gritted her teeth, struck a second time.
Woozy, she lowered herself to the floor. It hurt more than she’d bargained for, but she could take it. She could take a great deal.
Once her hands had stopped shaking, she picked up the homemade sap again, slammed it into her hip. She bit her lip to bring blood, and smashed it twice against her thigh.
Not enough, she thought, even as tears leaked out of eyes that glittered with purpose and a kind of dark pleasure. Not quite enough, as the thrill of the pain coursed through her. Every blow was money in the bank.
With a keening wail, she swung the sap into her belly, once, twice. On the third blow, her stomach revolted. She vomited in the toilet, then rolled away. And passed out cold.
* * *
There was more to it than she’d realized, Eve admitted. The house was full of people and droids, and at this point it was tough to tell which was which. It looked as though an entire forest had been purchased and replanted in the ballroom, with another acre spreading to the terrace. Several miles of garlands, a few tons of colored balls, and enough tiny white lights to set the entire state aglow, were hung, about to be hung, waiting to be discussed where they should be hung.
There were ladders and tarps and tables and chairs, there were candles and fabrics. The guy in charge of setting up the platform for the orchestra, or band-—she wasn’t sure which it was—was arguing with the guy in charge of some of the miles of garland.
She hoped they came to blows. That, at least, would be her territory.
It seemed Roarke had taken her at her word about supervising the ballroom decorations.
What had he been thinking?
Someone was always asking her what she thought, what she wanted, if she’d prefer this to that, or the other thing.
One of the crew had actually rushed from the room in tears the third time Eve said she didn’t care.
Okay, she’d said she didn’t give a gold-plated crap, but it meant the same thing.
Now she had a stress headache circling the top of her skull just waiting to clamp down on her brain and destroy it.
She wanted to lie down. More, she wanted her communicator to beep and have Dispatch inform her there was a triple homicide that needed her immediate attention.
“Had about enough?” Roarke whispered in her ear.
Such was her state that she jumped like a rabbit. “I’m fine. I’m good.” And she broke, spinning to him, gripping his shirt. “Where have you been?”
“Why, blathering with the caterer, of course. The truffles are spectacular.”
A steely light came into her eyes. “The chocolate kind?”
“No, actually, the sort the pigs snuffle out for us.” He ran an absent hand over her tousled hair while he scanned the room. “But we have the chocolate kind as well. Go, make your escape.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll take over here.”
She nearly bolted. Every instinct had her out the door, running for I her sanity. But it wasn’t only pride, it was marriage that held her in place. “What am I, stupid? I’ve run ops bigger than this when lives are on the line. Just back off. Hey, you!”
Roarke watched as she strode across the floor, cop in every swagger.
“I said you!” She shoved between Garland Guy and Platform Guy before blood was spilled. “Button it,” she ordered as each began to complain. “You, with the shiny stuff, put it where it belongs.”
“But I—”
“You had a plan, the plan was approved. Stick with the plan and don’t bother me, or I’ll personally stuff all that shiny stuff up your butt. And you.” She jabbed a finger in the other man’s chest. “Stay out of his way, or I’ll save some shiny stuff for you. Okay, you, tall blond girl with the flowers…”
“Poinsettias,” the tall blonde clarified with New Jersey so thick in her voice Eve could have driven on it across the river. “There were supposed to be five hundred, but there’re only four hundred and ninety-six, and—”
“Deal. Finish building your… what the hell is this?”
“It’s a poinsettia tree, but—”
“Of course, it is. If you need four more, go get four more from the poinsettia factory. Otherwise work with what you’ve got. And you, over there with the lights.”
Roarke rocked back and forth on his heels and watched her rip through the various crews. Some of them looked a little shaky when she’d finished, but the pace of work increased considerably.
“There.” She walked back to him, folded her arms. “Handled. Any problems?”
“Other than being strangely aroused, not a one. I think you’ve put the fear of God into them and should reward yourself with a little break.” He draped an arm over her shoulders. “Come on. We’ll find you a truffle.”
“The chocolate kind.”
“Naturally.”
* * *
Hours later, or so it seemed to her, she stepped out of the bathroom. She’d done the best she could with the lip dye and the eye gunk. On the bed, waiting for her, was what looked like a long panel of dull gold. She figured it became a dress of some kind once it was on a body.
At least it wasn’t fussy, she decided as she fingered the material. There were shoes of the same tone, if you could call a couple of skinny straps with an even skinnier heel shoes. She glanced at the dresser and saw he’d thought of the rest. A black case was open, and the diamonds— nothing sparkled like that but diamonds, she assumed, though they looked to be the color of champagne—formed a circle against the velvet. Another held the dangle of earrings, and still another a thick bracelet.
She picked up the panel of gold fabric, studied it, and concluded it was one of those deals you just wiggled into. Once that was done, she carried the shoes, which weren’t going on her feet until zero hour, and fumbled her way through the accessories at the dresser.
The bracelet was too big, she noted. She’d probably lose it, then someone would pawn it and have enough money to buy a nice little island country in the South Pacific.
“You’re wearing it wrong,” Roarke told her from the doorway. “Here.” He stepped in, walked to her, elegant in formal black. He slid the glittering triple band to just above her elbow. “A bit of a warrior touch, suits you.”
He stepped back. “You look like a flame. A long golden flame on a cold night.”
When he gazed at her like that, things started melting inside her, so she turned away, studied herself in the mirror. The dress was a column, sleek and fluid from just over her breasts to her ankles.
“Is this dress going to stay up?”
“Until the guests leave, at any rate.” He leaned over to brush his lips over her bare shoulder. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist so they studied the image they made in the glass.