Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

She needed Roarke, she admitted. His ear, his eye, his canny brain.

She’d run it through for him, run it by him, bounce it off him, she determined as she braked at the front entrance. Maybe she’d missed something he’d see, or think of.

He’d help. That wasn’t assumption, but fact. And as much home to her as the stone and glass they lived in.

She started to climb out, and Peabody’s date night arrowed into her mind. And for Christ’s sake, she didn’t have time for that.

Didn’t make time, she corrected, and slumped back.

He did. Roarke made time, and she couldn’t claim he wasn’t one of the busiest people on or off planet.

She hardly ever made time for the fussy stuff, and now that added one more weight. Even when she wasn’t neck-deep in an investigation she just didn’t think of it.

Now thinking of it stacked guilt on her head like boulders.

She couldn’t manage a date night, just couldn’t, but she should be able to put a nice meal together, with a few fancy touches.

And balance out his eye, ear, canny brain.

She shoved out of the car, bolted for the front door, and through.

And saw Summerset, looming in black, with the pudgy cat at his feet.

“I don’t have time for witty repartee,” she snapped.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Is he home?”

“Not as yet.”

“I need to put a meal together, on the roof terrace.”

Summerset’s eyebrows lifted. “There’s nothing on the calendar.”

“Just …” She waved that away as the cat padded over to ripple between her feet. “I can handle the setup, but tell me what he should eat—we should eat. And don’t make it something I hate out of spite.”

Even scarecrows could be amused, she noted.

“Very well. I’d start with the tomato soup with poached shrimp.”

“Wait.” She yanked out her PPC to note it down. “Go.”

“Then move to a green salad with seasonal pears in a champagne vinaigrette. For the main, I’d suggest Lobster Thermidor.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Delicious. You’ll enjoy it. I’d serve it with a sauvignon blanc or champagne, and finish with a vanilla bean soufflé, brandy, and coffee.”

“Okay. Got it.” She raced for the stairs.

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Shut up!”

She charged into the bedroom. Damn it, damn it, she wasn’t wearing some fancy dress. It wasn’t date-date. But she strode into the closet, and the cat danced at her heels as if they played a game.

She had enough clothes for a hundred normal people, she should be able to put one decent outfit together.