She couldn’t argue. She glanced back at the warehouse, thought of flowers and food and tears. There was plenty of hard in the world.
She was deep into the search for a second space, playing with alternate names, anagrams, hidden meanings while running her own scenarios on secondary when Peabody tagged her.
“We finished up here, and I’ve checked in with the other teams. Flagged electronics are on their way in for analysis.”
“I want that diary.”
“McNab’s working on it. He’s decided it’s his personal mission to get past her journal security. We’re going to head home from here, if that’s okay. We’re already cutting it a little close.”
“Cutting what?”
“Prep time for Nadine’s party. Oh, and thanks again for the limo!” Peabody added as Eve thought, Shit, damn, fuck. “Summerset contacted me with all the info. So, we’ll see you at the do.”
“Yeah, right.” Eve cut Peabody off, saved all current data, ordered the whole works copied to her home office unit.
And fled.
She wasn’t late, she told herself as she slammed the brakes in front of the house. She had plenty of time since she didn’t take hours to primp in front of a damn mirror. Besides, nobody got to one of these deals on time.
Which made no sense to her. Why have a time, then ignore it?
Social functions were unwieldy and strange, and had their own set of rules that were even more unwieldy and strange.
She burst into the house, started to curl her lip at Summerset, then stopped and stared. He wore black—big surprise—but not his usual gear. He wore formal black, tuxedo black with a white shirt that looked as stiff as his neck.
“You might save the excuses for another time,” he began. “You’ll need all you have left to transform yourself.”
“Why are you wearing that monkey suit?”
“It’s a formal affair.”
“You’re going?”
He inclined his head. “Yes, and as I’ll be on time, I’ll explain to your friend why you are, as usual, late. They’re waiting for you.”
“I’m going. I’m going.” She dashed to the steps. “They?” she repeated, but Summerset had dematerialized.
“He can’t be human,” she muttered, and hurried up to the bedroom.
“I’m not late because everybody goes late, which is only another reason why—” She broke off in sheer horror. “What’s she doing here?”
Trina, all slitty eyes and exploding red hair, lifted what sure as hell looked like a glass of champagne. She sipped, long and slow.
“If you think you’re going to this shindig wearing that hair, somebody must’ve stunned you with your own weapon. We’re set up in that palace you guys call a bathroom.”
“I don’t have time. We’re going to be late.”
Trina’s smile sent a fast chill down Eve’s spine. “Everybody goes late,” she said, echoing Eve’s initial excuse. “It’ll take me about twenty minutes, because I’m a frigging genius.” She pointed a silver-tipped finger before Eve could speak. “I’ve got a rep. I’ve got a salon. I do Nadine’s hair for Now—and I finished her about an hour ago. Most who know anything know I have your hair.”
“I have my hair.” Eve tugged it. “It’s attached to my head.”
“You skated out before I could take care of it at Louise’s deal—murder and all that,” she added. “And it looks like somebody hacked it with an ice pick. Are you going to this mag deal with that hunk of superior man-flesh looking like you’ve been in a fight with a farm animal?”
“I thought it was an ice pick.”
“A farm animal with an ice pick. Do you look better when I’ve worked you or not?”
Eve opened her mouth, tracked her gaze over to Roarke. Let it burn there.