“It’s great to be back in New York.”
As requests pounded out for photo ops, Marlo smoothly shifted position, slipped an arm around Eve’s waist.
Too close, Eve thought, then ordered herself to relax. With the sweep of blonde hair no one would mistake Marlo for her.
“We need to move inside,” Marlo murmured in her ear even as she struck another pose. “Even with the heaters, it’s cold out here, and they’ll keep us as long as we’ll stay.”
“Sounds good. And right on schedule.” Eve caught Peabody’s eye, signaled.
Of course that generated more greetings, more photos, a round of you-look-amazings.
“You’re getting cold,” Roarke commented, and in his easy, unstoppable way, guided them all into the theater.
The carpet continued. The crowd was smaller here, more exclusive, and the noise more subdued.
And there, she thought, was Sterling Alexander, looking smug as he sipped a cocktail and cornered Mason Roundtree, the director.
She caught glimpses of Biden, of Young-Sachs. Continued to track.
Alva Moonie, her housekeeper beside her, stood off from the main group and held both of Whitestone’s hands. Sympathy covered her face.
Across the lobby, Candida, in all but transparent white, held court with a gaggle of reporters.
“I wondered if they’d come,” Eve murmured to Roarke. “Whitestone, Newton and his fiancée.”
Roarke followed her direction. “It weighs on them. You can see it.”
“Why come here, with all this hype and hoopla?”
“Some need people, distractions, noise in grief. Others need solitude and silence. But both can offer solace,” he said as he watched Alva put her arms around Whitestone.
“I guess that’s true.”
Eve made her men, scattered throughout. Baxter, looking as though he’d been born in a tuxedo, chatted carelessly from all appearances with Carmichael who shined up very well.
But she saw the cop in their eyes, the alert in the set of their bodies.
She saw Feeney dragging at the knot of his tie. She wanted a quick word, but was intercepted by Julian Cross.
He caught her hands—looked at her with eyes not quite so blue, not quite so wicked as Roarke’s—then lifted them to his lips. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He’d played the Irish accent well in the few outtakes she’d seen, but there was no trace of it now. “I wanted another chance to thank you for saving my life.”
“Nadine saved your life.”
“She did. She kept me from dying. And you figured out Joel killed K.T., tried to frame me, and would have killed me. More, doing that you gave me the courage to change my life. I’m sober, and I intend to stay sober.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
He bent to brush a kiss over her cheek, then looked at Roarke. “You’re a lucky man.”
“So I say myself. Sobriety looks good on you, Julian.”
“And feels good on me. Thank you,” he said again. “Both of you. I need to speak to Connie, and I know she’d like to see you both before tomorrow’s . . . celebration,” he said with a glint of his innate charm. “Mason’s going to make a little speech before we go in, unless you can sneak in first and avoid the speech. We’ll have more time to catch up at the after-party, and tomorrow.”
“Sometimes you do more than save a life,” Roarke said as Julian walked off. “You change them.”
“He changed his own.”