"Ice. We understand each other. Anyway, I was out partying all night. You know, while the cat's away." She wanted to ask, and couldn't bring herself to ask, if he knew when Roarke was expected back.
He'd know, she thought as she started upstairs. He knew every fucking thing. She could call Roarke herself, but that would make her feel nearly as stupid. Hadn't she talked to him twenty-four hours ago? Hadn't he said he hoped to wrap things up and be home in another couple of days?
She walked into the bedroom, thought about a shower, thought about a meal. And decided she wasn't in the mood for either. Better to go up to her office, run some probabilities, read through her case notes. She removed her weapon harness, rolled her shoulders. And realized work wasn't the answer either.
What she needed was some thinking time.
It was a rare thing for her to go up to the roof garden. She didn't like heights. But despite the sprawling space of the house, being inside made her feel closed in. And maybe the air would clear her head.
She opened the dome so starlight sprinkled down on the dwarf trees, the lush blooms that speared and spilled out of pots. A fountain gurgled into a pool where exotic fish flashed like wet jewels.
She took her time walking to the wall, carved with winged fairies, that circled this section of the roof.
They'd entertained up here a few times, she remembered. For a man in Roarke's position, entertaining was a job. Though, for reasons that escaped her, it was something he actually enjoyed.
She couldn't recall ever coming up here alone before, or for that matter, ever coming up with just Roarke. And she wondered who the hell tended the masses of flowers and plants, fed the fish, kept the tiles gleaming, made certain the seats and tables and statuary were clean.
It was rare to see any sort of servant, human or droid, in the house other than Summerset. But then, she'd learned that people who held great wealth, great power, could easily command silent and nearly invisible armies to handle the pesky details of life.
Despite that wealth and that power, Roarke had gone personally to handle the final details of a friend's death.
And she spent her days handling the details of the deaths of strangers.
She let her mind clear, then filled it with Bryna Bankhead.
Young, eager, romantic. Organized. She'd surrounded herself with attractive things displayed in an attractive manner. Her closet had been full of stylish clothes, with everything hung neatly.
Both the dress and the shoes she'd worn on her fatal date had been new, with the debits efficiently listed in her log book. She'd gotten a manicure and had a facial as well, had put on pretty earrings purchased the afternoon of her date.
A very female woman, Eve mused. One who read and enjoyed poetry.
Which meant the killer had hunted the young, the romantic, the particularly female.
She had two bottles of wine in her kitchen, one white, one red. And neither approaching the label or price range of the bottle on the table. Had he brought it with him, in his black leather bag, along with the illegals, the rose petals, the candles?
She'd kept condoms in her goodie drawer, but the killer hadn't used one. Bryna had been too high on illegals to insist on such defenses, which meant the killer hadn't been concerned about protection, or leaving DNA evidence.
Because, had she lived, she wouldn't have been able to identify him by description. More, Eve thought, she wouldn't have been sure what had happened. They'd had drinks in public, where, according to the server Eve had interviewed that evening, she had been very cozy with her date. Hand-holding, kisses, quiet laughter, long, soulful looks. The server, according to his statement, had assumed they were lovers.
The security cameras would not only follow that theme but add to it. She'd not only let him into her apartment, she'd pulled him inside.
That had been clever of him, Eve thought now. Waiting, letting her make the move. For the record.
If she'd lived, he'd have gotten away clean.
She wondered now if he'd done it before.
No, no. She began to pace along the wall. If he had, why would he make the mistake of overdosing her? It seemed like a first time. But she'd run a probability on that.
If there were another it was another channel to explore, another route to tracking him. To stopping him.
Pulling out her memo book, she plugged in key words.
Chat rooms
Poetry
Rare, expensive illegals
Wig, cosmetic enhancements
Pink roses
Pinot Noir '49
Sexual deviant
Tech skills
Chemistry knowledge
After scanning her own words, she tucked the book back in her pocket. Maybe she'd have that shower, that meal, and work after all.
And turning, she saw Roarke.
It didn't matter that they'd been together more than a year. It occurred to her that she would, very likely, have this leap of heart, this dazzling rush, every time she saw him for the rest of her life.
Eventually, it might stop embarrassing her.
He looked like something fashioned from fantasy. The long, rangy body clad in black, would have looked just as natural in a billowing cape or tarnished armor.
His face, framed by that silky sweep of black hair, would have suited either poet or warrior with its chiseled bones and full sensuous mouth. His eyes, that wild and wonderful blue, still had the power to weaken her knees.
No, she realized, it would never stop embarrassing her.
It would never stop thrilling her.
"You're back early."
"A bit. Hello, Lieutenant."
At the sound of his voice, that subtle and rich lilt of Ireland, everything inside her tumbled. Then he smiled, just the faintest curve of his lips, and she took a step toward him. By the second she was running.
He caught her halfway, lifted her right off her feet even as his mouth found hers.
There was heat, one quick flash, and warmth beneath it, a spreading, settled warmth that reached down to the marrow.
Home, he thought as the taste of her coated over the grief and fatigue of the last days. Home at last.
"You failed to inform me of your schedule," she said in a reasonably accurate mimic of Summerset. "Now I guess I have to cancel the hot date I lined up with the lap-dancing twins."
"Ah, Lars and Sven. I've heard they're very inventive." He rested his cheek against hers as he set her on her feet again. "What are you doing up here?"
"I don't know exactly. Couldn't settle, wanted air." She eased back to study his face. "You okay?"
"Yes."
But she angled her head, took his face in her hands. "Are you okay?" she repeated.
"It was difficult. More than I expected it to be. I thought I'd put it away."
"He was your friend. Whatever else, he was your friend."
"One who died so I didn't. I've resolved that." He laid his brow on hers. "Or thought I had. This wake Brian wanted, the gathering of so many from my past, then seeing where Mick had been put in the ground… it was difficult."
"I should have gone with you."
He smiled a little. "Some of the mourners might have been a little uneasy with a cop in the midst. Even my cop. Still, I've a message from Brian for you. As he stood behind his bar at the Penny Pig he asked that I tell you when you've come to your senses and shed yourself of the likes of me, he'll be waiting for you."
"It's always good to have backup. You have dinner?"
"Not yet, no."
"Why don't we try a little role reversal? I'll make you eat, sneak a soother in your food, then tuck you into bed."
"You've shadows under your eyes, so it seems to me you're the one in need of food and bed. Summerset said you were out all night."
"Summerset is a big, fat tattletale. I caught a case last night."
He feathered his long fingers through her hair, letting all those shades of brown and blonde spill through. "Want to tell me about it?"