She kept herself back in that bedroom. Elegant, stylish, quiet colors, rich fabrics.
Bastwick’s sanctuary? she wondered. Or had she taken work there, too? Reading over case files in bed, planning strategies, studying the style of opposing counsel. Studying information on any witnesses for the prosecution.
A woman who seemed to prefer her own company to the company of oth
ers, who was skilled, dedicated, ambitious—and who enjoyed the media spotlight when she could get it.
Yeah, she’d taken work into her sanctuary.
Had the killer known her?
More and more Eve doubted that genuine personal link.
Known of her, yes. Researched and studied her just as Bastwick researched and studied. Watched her.
Had to know, had to be certain the target was alone.
Some way of accessing her calendar?
That could take it back to a coworker again, or support staff at the law firm. And that took it back to personal, didn’t it?
It didn’t feel personal.
Set up the board and book at home, she told herself as she drove through the gates. Start fresh, start over. Back to the beginning.
The house dazzled, the rise and spread of gray stone with its towers and turrets all sparkling with lights, draped with greenery. It reminded her they’d barely finished Christmas, were days away from a new year.
And a planned getaway. To the warm, Eve thought as she parked and stepped out into the bite of the wind. To the quiet, just the two of them, on an island surrounded by blue water, as far away from murder and business as they could get.
A place she could have mai tais of her own, if she wanted.
And now . . .
She had an UNSUB—no gender, no age, no face, only the probability of race. And the only tangible motive was herself.
Blue water, white beaches, and solitude weren’t looking very likely.
She stepped inside the lofty foyer, sparkling like the exterior with lights of the season. And spotted Summerset, naturally, in his funereal black, with their pudge of a cat sitting at his feet.
Both eyed her coolly.
“Ah, you remembered your home address.”
“I thought if I stalled long enough, you’d crawl back in your coffin. No luck there,” she added as the cat padded over to wind through her legs like a fat ribbon of fur.
“It’s a pity you didn’t have the luck to remember to make contact when you intend to be late, particularly on an evening when plans are in place.”
She had her coat half off, stopped dead. “What plans?”
“If you bothered to consult your calendar—ever—you’d be aware you and Roarke are booked to attend a benefit at Carnegie Hall in . . .” Deliberately he looked at his wrist unit. “Thirty-six minutes.”
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” she said a third time as she tossed her coat over the newel post. She started to rush up the stairs, stopped herself.
He irritated the marrow from her bones, but that was beside the point. Or could very well be a dangerous point.
“You get deliveries here all the time, right?”
“We do, yes.”