Roarke’s arm came around her, drew her close against him. Anchored her. “I’m here.”
“It’s nothing. I have to get up, get started.”
“Ssh.”
She closed her eyes again. She hated this waking fragility, this thin, shaky sensation as if she’d crack if she moved too quickly. She knew it would pass, it would smooth away again, but she hated it nonetheless. Hated, too, knowing he’d broken his habit of being up, dressed, and having accomplished God knew what in the business world before she stirred.
“Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” she repeated, but he brushed his lips over her hair. Undid her.
“Stella, in the bedroom of the place she had in Dallas. The one we searched. But it’s like the bedroom from before, too, when I was a kid. I don’t know where we were then. It doesn’t matter. She’s sitting at this little table, with all her lip dyes and creams and paints—all that stuff. I can smell her, that perfume—too sweet. It makes my stomach hurt. Her back’s to me, but she’s looking at me in the mirror with all that hate, that contempt. I can smell that, too. It’s hot and bitter.
“I need some water.”
“I’ll get it.”
She didn’t argue, no point. In any case, she felt a little better, a little stronger. Just a dream, she reminded herself. And she’d known it for what it was while she’d been in it.
That had to matter.
She took the water Roarke brought her, ordered herself to drink it slowly.
“Thanks.”
He said nothing, only set the empty glass aside, took her hand.
“Her throat,” Eve continued, bringing her fingers to her own. “Blood pouring out of her throat, down the front of the pink dress she was wearing when I busted her, when I wrecked the van. She’s so angry. It’s my fault, she says. Look at her dress. I ruined it. I ruined everything. Then I see him in the mirror, I see him behind me. McQueen. Or my father. It’s so hard to tell. I reach for my weapon, but it’s not there. I don’t have my weapon. And she smiles. In the mirror, she smiles, and it’s horrible.
“I have to get out, I have to wake up. So I wake up.”
“Is it always the same?”
“No, not exactly. I’m not afraid of her. I want to ask why she hated me so much, but I know there’s no answer. I’m not afraid until, at whatever angle the dream takes, I go for my weapon and it’s not there. Then I’m afraid. So I have to wake up.”
“None of them can touch you, not ever again.”
“I know. And when I wake up I’m here. It’s okay; I’m okay, because I’m here. I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll just feel guilty.”
“I’ll try to worry only a little so you’ll only feel a little guilty.”
“I guess that’ll have to do.” She shifted so they were nose-to-nose and heart-to-heart. “Don’t change your routine because of this. That’ll get me wired and worried. Besides, if you don’t keep up with your predawn quest for world financial domination, how are you going to keep me in coffee? If you slack off, I’ll have to find another Irish gazillion-aire with coffee bean connections.”
“That would never do. I’ll continue my quest if you promise to tell me when they come.” Gently, he trailed his hand over her hair. “Don’t keep them from me anymore, Eve.”
“Okay.”
“And since it appears the very core of my happiness rests on your addiction to coffee, I’ll get you some.”
“I won’t say no, but I’ve got to get moving. I’m meeting Peabody at Asner’s place. I want to hit his apartment early before he gets out.”
“Asner?” Roarke said as he rose and walked to the AutoChef.
“The PI.”
“Ah, yes. A light breakfast then.” The cat bumped against his legs, wound through them. “For some of us.”
She got up, knowing he’d try to pamper her into taking her coffee—and possibly the light breakfast—in bed. She took the mug from him, knocked some back.