Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

And she was damned if she’d ask Summerset to consult here.

She grabbed black pants. Black went with everything, didn’t it? Then dug out a sweater—really soft—in a color than made her think of fall leaves, and with a sparkly band at the neck and hem. That way she didn’t have to deal with more sparkles.

Boots were probably wrong, she imagined, but she would not put on skyscraper heels.

It surprised her to find a pair of black shoes with a sparkly wedge-type heel. Shouldn’t surprise her, she thought as she veered into the quick change. She never knew what the closet fairy would stick in there next.

Given the circumstances, she slapped on some lip dye, some lash gunk, some face junk.

As good as he was going to get, she decided, and streaked for the elevator.

She leaped out, paused. She supposed she owed Summerset for the fact the sky roof was open to the deep indigo sky, and the internal heaters were spreading a comfortable warmth against the brisk November evening.

Now the rest was up to her.

Still carrying the dregs of the day’s irritation, Roarke stepped into the foyer. It surprised him to find it empty—no Summerset, no cat—particularly on a day he’d have appreciated a bit of a welcome home.

He shrugged out of his topcoat, and in a habit he’d picked up from his wife, tossed it over the newel post on his way upstairs. An hour in the gym, he decided, pummeling something, then a quick swim. That should scrape the annoyance away. And if not, a very large drink might do the job.

But when he walked into the bedroom, he saw Eve’s weapon, her badge on her dresser.

So the lieutenant was home, he thought. Maybe he could pull her away from her double murder—he followed the crime reports—talk her into a sparring match or that swim, better yet a good shag.

And that should take care of the dregs good and well.

In her home office, no doubt, he decided, pacing around her newest murder board or hunched over her computer. He imagined he was in for pizza and a great deal of coffee over the grisly details of her day.

He didn’t mind it, not a bit, he thought as he set aside his briefcase, loosened his tie. Her work was nearly as fascinating to him as she was, and the part he played in it made him feel … satisfied, he concluded, often involved and excited, but primarily satisfied.

No one would have believed—including himself—that the Dublin street rat, the well-accomplished thief, the man of wealth and power with such dubious and shady beginnings could or would work on the side of the law. Even if his line marking the sides tended to curve and sway a bit.

But she’d changed him—no, more, he corrected. She’d found him. And had made all the difference.

So he’d have pizza in her office, listen, think, and lend a hand to his cop as she stood for her newest dead.

And the frustrations of his own day? Well, they paled, didn’t they, against all the blood.

To save time, steps, and to be sure, he stepped to the in-house board. “Where is Eve?”

Eve is currently on the roof terrace, east sector.

Odd, he thought. It wasn’t the last place he’d expect, but it ranked high. Curious, he crossed to the elevator. “Roof terrace, east,” he ordered.

He doubted she’d gone up there to take in the view or the fresh air. His wife did little without specific purpose—especially when a case was hot. Just how did all this play into her case? he wondered. Something to do with height perhaps, or the view did play in and she needed that perspective and the scope to find something. Or ?

??

He stepped out into the flowers, candlelight, the soft warmth and sparkle of crystal, and his mind went momentarily and uncharacteristically blank.

“Hey.” She shot him a distracted look. “I’ve just about got it.”

“Do you?” Bemused, and rapidly flipping through his mental calendar, he walked to her. “And what’s all this?”

“It’s dinner.”

She’d surprised him like this once before, he recalled, and had been wearing a red dress meant to be peeled off. A little different, this, he thought if his sense of things was on target. But just as lovely.

“Are we celebrating?”