“That’s the thing. Alexander, Young-Sachs, and Biden are all such assholes. And Pope’s such a measly little no-balls, he’s annoying. That colors it. They all fit neatly enough. Ingersol? He says too much, talks too fast, pushes too hard. A lot of impulse there, I think. On the other hand, Newton’s contained, genial, smooth—and that equals clever and smart to me. Somebody in this mess has to be smart. I need to push on the auditors, and that’s tomorrow. If one of them rings for me, that’ll fit the lock. But it’s just gut and circumstances without solid evidence. So I need to break one of them down, once I figure out which one.”
“Sterling Alexander’s considered a bit of a tool in some circles,” Roarke began as he ran the wand over her shoulder. “Those who respect him do so—according to those I spoke with—primarily for what he’s inherited, not what he’s done with it. The sense is he spends far too much on personal travel, income, perks while holding the line at a contrasting low end for employees.”
“None of that surprises me, but it’s good information.”
“Pope’s hardly considered at all,” Roarke continued, “but those who bother see him as the one dealing with the internal glitches, problems, numbers. Both Alexander Senior—Sterling’s father—and Pope Senior—the mother they share—hold controlling interests, though both have essentially retired. I’m told if it was discovered anything underhanded was going on inside the company, the mother would come down like the wrath of God.”
“What about Alexander Senior?”
“Apparently he’s enjoying his golf—” Roarke rose, moved into the bath. She heard the water spewing into the tub. “And his current wife. That would be wife four who’s a full half century younger.”
“Gee, could it be love?”
“Cynics say no, and I can guess which camp you’d fall in.” He went to a panel in the wall, tapped it, and took out a bottle of red wine. “He made his fortune, and to his and Mum Pope’s credit, built good facilities, donated generously, funded a number of excellent causes. Now he’s firmly entrenched in enjoying his later years with his five iron and his—some say—dim-witted young wife.
“Into the tub now.”
“It’s a big tub. Why are you still wearing clothes?”
Roarke shook his head as he poured wine. “Does getting bruised from head to foot make you think about sex?”
“I think it’s more having you tend to the wounded. You’re a pretty sexy nurse.”
He laughed. “Into the tub, Lieutenant. We’ll see how you do with a soak and some wine.”
“You said I should relax and loosen up.” She held out a hand for him to help her up, then slid her body against his.
“So I did.” He answered her kiss, but gently. And when she started to lift her arms, wrap around him, she gasped.
“Okay, the shoulder’s still a problem,” she admitted. “That just means you have to do all the work.”
After setting the wine down, he took off his tie, his jacket, his shirt—watching her smile spread, and the gleam light in her eyes.
He picked her up, taking care, gave her a soft, warm kiss as he carried her into the bath. And slowly, gently, lowered her into the warm, frothing water.
“Oh God, yes.” She moaned in glorious relief. “That’s what I mean.”
“Relax,” he said again.
“Hey!” She scowled after him when he walked out.
She wanted some sex, so what? Some nice, loosen-up-the-aches-in-the-bubbling-tub sex. Bubbling tub he’d put something in she realized with a sniff. Something that smelled good and probably had some medicinal purpose.
She gave him a steady stare when he came back with her wine, with a second glass, and with some sort of cream in a bottle.
“What’s that?”
“Something that will help ease up that shoulder. Have some wine.” He passed hers off, set down the rest as he finished undressing.
“That’s more like it.”
“I haven’t finished giving you my report, have I?”
On a sudden, uncomfortable thought, she studied her glass with suspicion. “You didn’t tranq the wine, did you?”
“You took a blocker like a good girl. You’ve tolerated the ice packs with minimal complaint, and had a session with the wand. You’re stiff and sore, and will be tomorrow, but you don’t need a tranq. Still, the shoulder troubles me.”
“I bet it troubles me more.”