Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

He’d known the old hag had some money, but he hadn’t known she had money. By the time he emptied her accounts, he’d have three million, nine hundred and eighty-four thousand in his brand-new name—or the name to come once they generated that new ID.

When he added it to what he’d, ha-ha, inherited from his parents, and gotten from his former bitch girlfriend, he’d be rolling in more than four fucking million dollars.

Jesus, he thought the hundred seventy-five thousand he’d had—minus what he’d spent—was a big deal. It was nothing compared to this.

He could have anything he wanted now. Anyone he wanted now.

He’d never have to work a day in his life to live like a king. Except for the killing, that is. But what was that old bullshit his father always tossed around?

If you love your work you’re never working. Something like that.

/> Who knew the stupid bastard would actually be right about anything?

And now he had a droid—a pretty classy one—reprogrammed to follow his orders, and only his.

He’d really enjoyed that when he’d ordered up a midnight snack.

“Ms. Farnsworth, you sneaky bitch. You’ve been sitting on all this money with that fat ass of yours. Why the hell did you waste all that time dragging it around the classroom?”

She only stared at him with dead-tired eyes, rimmed with red from fatigue and tears, and from the occasional backhand he delivered to keep her sharp.

She’d loved teaching, she thought. He’d never understand the satisfaction and fulfillment of honest work. He was rotten down to the core. And she knew now he’d kill her before he was done.

He’d make her suffer first; he’d hurt her in every way he could devise. Then he’d kill her.

“We’ve still got work to do, but some of it’s going to have to wait. I’ve got to get some shut-eye.” He rose, stretched luxuriously. “You oughta get some, too. You look like hell.”

He laughed, cracking himself up so much he bent over from the waist. “Tomorrow, we’re going to finish routing all that money. And the big new assignment? We’re going to work on that ID. I need your best work now, remember that? Remember how you said that a million times? ‘I need your best work, Jerry.’ Stupid bitch.”

He gave her a last backhand, in case she forgot.

“See you in the morning.” He gave her chair a good shove so it slammed against the wall, then strolled out, calling for lights off on the way.

She sat quivering in the dark. Then steeling herself began to squirm, rock, twist her aching limbs in the faint hope she could loosen her bonds.

Eve woke to the familiar and the not. The life-affirming scent of coffee hit first, to her eternal gratitude. The sense of an empty bed with Roarke close by. Those were every-morning things.

But the bed wasn’t her bed, and no sky window above it showed her the filtered roof of the world.

Hotel, she thought. Downtown, near work. And a dead body waiting for her at the morgue.

She sat up, glanced blearily around at the muted gold of the walls, the single white orchid (she thought it was an orchid) arching out of a deep blue pot on a dresser.

And caught the muted mumble from the parlor beyond. Media reports, stock reports, she concluded. Roarke usually kept the sound off as he reviewed all that from the bedroom sitting area.

She rolled out, snagged the robe draped at the foot of the bed where the cat would often be, and shrugging into it, went out to join him.

Already showered and dressed for business-world domination in a dark suit. Some blonde in hot red sat at a glass counter on screen talking about the market holding its breath in anticipation of the potential acquisition of EuroCom by Roarke Industries.

Eve wandered over to pick up his coffee cup, down the contents.

“You can have your own, you know.”

“I’m going to. What’s EuroCom, why are you potentially acquiring it, and how come it makes everybody hold their breath?”

“It’s been the major player in Europe’s joint communication development over the last decade or so. Because I can, and it will slide nicely into other holdings in that region. And because it’s been badly mismanaged the last few years, resulting in lost jobs and revenue, and the acquisition should right that ship as well as add to it.”

“Okay.” She walked to the table where plates already sat under silver warmers, got a cup of her own and came back to pour coffee from the pot on the low table in front of Roarke.