Calculated in Death (In Death 36)

“Apparently it’s you he doesn’t appear to think worth the effort.”

For a moment she was both puzzled and mortified. This was her cat—and he had very genuinely saved her life. Twice.

Now he stood like a bloated version of a Halloween cat, back arched, hair on end, snarling.

And she remembered the panther cub.

“It’s not my fault. I was conducting an interview. She had a freaking baby panther. I didn’t invite it over for milk and kibble.”

Galahad, obviously finding her excuses as lame as her daily insult, turned away, stuck up his tail in a nonverbal fuck you, and padded back to Summerset.

“Fine. Be that way.”

Grumbling to herself she stalked upstairs. “Who brought you into this cat palace anyway?”

She sulked her way to the bedroom. Stopped long enough to turn to the house comp.

“Where’s Roarke?”

Good evening, darling Eve. Roarke is not in residence at this time.

“Fine.” So she couldn’t even bitch about the cat to her husband.

Fine.

She stepped onto the platform, sat on the edge of the huge bed to take off her boots. She kicked them aside.

“Hell with it,” she managed before she crawled on, lay facedown across the bed, and tuned out.

• • •

An hour later, Roarke walked in. He’d had a long, rough day of his own, wanted his wife and a large glass of wine, more or less in that order.

The same tableau greeted him.

“The lieutenant’s upstairs,” Summerset began as Galahad—semi-arched now—crept over to sniff at Roarke’s trousers.

“Good.”

“She looked exhausted.”

“Small wonder. What’s this?” He bent to scratch at the cat who continued to sniff.

“Apparently he’s mistrustful you’ve been loyal, as he smelled another cat on the lieutenant.”

“Ah. Well, I haven’t had time for cats today.” As Roarke stripped off his topcoat, Summerset held out a hand for it. “Thanks. Let’s go up then,” he said to the cat. “I’m sure she’ll make it up to you.”

He started up, the cat strolling behind him.

If she’d gone to her office, he’d pour some wine into both of them, Roarke determined. And talk her into a short lie-down. He could use one himself. But he wanted out of the bloody suit first.

And he found her, still facedown across the bed.

“That works.”

He took off the suit, changed into loose pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Wine could wait, he decided, and slid onto the bed beside Eve. She stirred a little when he wrapped an arm around her, muttered something that sounded like numbers, then settled again.

The cat took a running leap, bounced on the bed beside Roarke’s hip. With his wife curled to his front, the cat to his back, Roarke, in turn, tuned out.