Memory in Death (In Death 22)

To each his own.

Knowing her, she’d be pacing her office, kicking whatever was handy, and cursing his name. She’d have to get over it. Never in his life, he thought as he pumped his way through bench presses, had he known such a rational woman who could flip so quickly and so stupidly into irrational behavior.

What the bloody, buggering hell had she expected him to do? Give her a shout and ask her to pinch that ridiculous Texas fly off his neck for him?

Well, she’d married the wrong man for that, hadn’t she? Too bad for her.

She didn’t want to be protected when she damn well needed protection, didn’t want to be looked after when she was blind with grief and stress? That was too fucking bad for her as well, wasn’t it?

He ripped through the session, taking dark satisfaction in the burn of his muscles, the ache of the healing wounds, and the drip of his own sweat.

* * *

She was exactly where he’d assumed she’d be, doing precisely what he’d assumed she’d be doing. She stopped pacing long enough to give her desk three hard kicks.

And the hip she’d injured battling beside Roarke protested.

“Damn him. Damn him! Can’t he stay out of anything?”

The fat cat, Galahad, padded in, plopped down in the doorway of the kitchen as if prepared to enjoy the show.

“Do you see this?” she demanded of the cat, and slapped a hand on her sidearm. “You know why they gave me this? Because I can handle myself. I don’t need some—some man charging in to tidy up my mess.”

The cat angled his head, blinked his dual-colored eyes, then shot a leg in the air to wash it.

“Yeah, you’re probably on his side.” Absently, she rubbed her sore hip. “Male of the fricking species. Do I look like some wilting, helpless female?”

Okay, maybe she had, she admitted as she resumed pacing. For a couple of minutes. But he knew her, didn’t he? He knew she’d pull it together.

Just like he’d known Lombard would come sniffing around him.

“But did he say anything?” She threw her hands up. “Did he say: ‘Well now, Eve, I think perhaps the sadistic bitch from your past will likely be paying me a visit?’ No, no, he did not. It’s all that damn money, that’s what it is. It’s what I get for getting hooked up with a guy who owns most of the world, and a good chunk of its satellites. What the hell was I thinking?”

Since she’d exhausted a good portion of her energy with her anger, she flopped into her sleep chair. Scowled at nothing in particular.

Hadn’t been thinking, she admitted as the worst of the blind, red rage faded. But she was thinking now.

It was his money. He had a right to protect himself from poachers. She sure as hell hadn’t stepped up to do it.

She sat up, dropped her head in her hands. No, she’d been too busy wallowing and whining and, screw it, wilting.

And she’d attacked the one person who fully understood her, who knew everything she kept bottled inside. Attacked him because of that, she realized. Mira would probably give her a big gold star for reaching that unhappy conclusion.

So, she was a bitch. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t made full disclosure before the I do’s. He’d known what he was getting, damn it. She wasn’t going to apologize for it.

But she sat, drumming her fingers on her knee, and the scene in the parlor began to play back in her head. She closed her eyes as her stomach sank, and twisted.

“Oh God, what have I done?”

* * *

Roarke swiped sweat off his face, reached for a bottle of water. He considered programming another session, maybe a good, strong run. He hadn’t quite worked off all the mad, and hadn’t so much as started on the resentment.

He took another chug, debated whether to sluice it off in the pool instead. And she walked in.

His back went up, he swore he could feel it rise, one vertebra at a time.

“You want a workout you’ll have to wait. I’m not done, and don’t care for the company.”