“Then we should celebrate. God, I want a bloody glass of wine.”
She lifted his head with her hands, took a long look. “You had a bad day.”
“No, a bumpy one, a long one, but in the end not bad at all. Especially the homecoming portion.”
“Well that part goes without saying.”
“It should always be said.” He nudged up to kiss her.
“Then I’ll say it, too. And I want a shower, maybe some wine, and since I paid you in advance I want you to look at the vic’s file.”
“A deal’s a deal. Shower, wine, food—and my end of the bargain.”
“I had food before.”
“Before what?”
She laughed, rolled out of bed with him. “I had a fake Danish this morning, and magic chicken soup this afternoon.”
“More cause to celebrate.”
They walked into the shower, with Roarke already resigned to having his skin boiled off.
“It was really good soup from a deli near the crime scene.” She ordered jets on full, one-hundred-two degrees.
He winced and bore it.
“How about you?”
“Food?” He couldn’t recall she’d ever asked that question of him. “I had an actual breakfast, then lunch in the exec dining room where I talked to entirely too many people for entirely too long. It quite spoiled my appetite.”
“Is there a problem? Should I hock some of the zillion pieces of jewelry you’ve given me?”
“I think we can muddle through. No problem.” But he circled his neck under the spray. “Just a few people who needed to be reminded of their priorities, and who pays them.”
“Were you Scary Roarke?”
He smiled, flipped a finger down the dent in her chin. “I may have been. In any case, it’s done, and shouldn’t have to be repeated anytime soon.”
“You got to kick ass today. I didn’t. That would’ve been good. But I did intimidate a really rich idiot, so that’s something.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Probably. Candida Mobsley.”
“Ah yes. She is an idiot. Is she involved?”
“I don’t think so. She’s too much of a moron to have planned any of this, and if she’d paid to have it done, she’d have bollocksed it up when I was grilling her.”
He smiled at her use of his slang. “I suspect you’re right about that.”
“Anyway, I’ve got a whole list of firms—why do they mostly always have three names—I want to run by you. Just for an opinion if you know them.”
She stepped out, into the drying tube while he cut the water temperature by ten degrees and sighed at the reprieve.
Back in the bedroom, she put on comfortable clothes and frowned at the cat.
“He fucking curled his lip at me.” Thoroughly insulted, she turned to Roarke. “How does a cat curl his lip? Get over it, fatso,” she ordered. “I ditched the pants. I showered. It’s over.”