7
FATIGUE DRAGGED AT HER WHEN SHE TURNED through the gates. Out of the unrelenting noise, the crowds, the quick temper, and vicious pace of the city, she thought, and into Roarke’s world.
Exclusive, private, perfect. The long sweeping drive, which curved through the snow-covered grounds where no tromping feet, no impatient traffic had marred that pristine white carpet, led the way to the big stone house with its many windows.
They gleamed with light, warm and gold.
She’d grown used to it, she thought, to sliding through those iron gates, to seeing the stunning home spread and jut with its towers and turrets, like a fantasy in the dark.
Room after room ranged behind that glass and stone, some practical, some elegant, some fun. All beautiful, all reflecting his vision. What he’d needed to build, to have, to hold.
Not just for the status, the elegance, the privilege—though with Roarke those would play a part—but because he’d needed, very much needed, to make a home.
What had she added to that? she wondered. Some clutter, an orphaned cat, an office that was undoubtedly plain and lacking in style by his standards.
Hell, by most anyone’s.
But she’d learned to fit there, had made a home there with him. Hadn’t she? Despite the odds, they had a life there that mattered to both of them.
She wouldn’t let some ghost from the past put a blight on that.
She left the car in front, climbed the steps to the grand front doors. Roarke may have built it, but this was her territory now, too, her turf. No one was going to invade it without getting bloody.
She walked in, and Summerset slid out into the foyer, the cat a fat shadow at his heels.
“Let me just say kiss my ass and avoid the rest of the conversation,” she began. “I’ve got work.”
“He isn’t home yet.”
Her stomach squeezed, just a little as she shrugged out of her coat. “Thanks for the report.”
“He had to reschedule some meetings in order to take a personal lunch.”
Eve tossed her coat over the newel post and whirled. At least now she had a handy target for the rage that churned with the sickness in her belly. “Couldn’t wait to rub my face in that one. I bet you’re just dancing a jig that Maggie’s in town. Well, you can—”
“On the contrary,” he interrupted with absolute calm. “I couldn’t be less pleased. I’d like a moment of your time.”
“For what?”
His jaw tightened, and she saw she’d been wrong. There were ripples under the calm.
“I dislike discussing Roarke this way, and you’re only making it more difficult. However, my concerns leave me, I feel, little choice in the matter.”
Her mouth was dry now. “What kind of concerns?”
“Come into the parlor for a moment. There’s a fire.”
“Fine, fine.” She stalked in. The fire simmered, red and gold. All the rich fabrics gleamed while the antique wood, so lovingly tended, glowed. And standing in the room, she felt chilled to the bone.
“Will you sit?”
She only shook her head, walked to the window to stare out. “What do you need to say to me?”
“I’ll pour you some wine.”
“No.” She couldn’t handle wine with her head beginning to throb. “Just spill it.”
“She’s a dangerous woman, Lieutenant.”