Secrets in Death (In Death 45)

“One must have one’s standards,” Summerset said. “I trust you’ve had a meal of some sort.”

“We have, thanks.” Roarke removed his coat, which Summerset took from him even as Eve tossed hers over the newel post. Galahad trotted forward to wind himself through three pair of legs.

“Standards? I’m betting most people would rather have the contents of their wallets than a book that ended up on the shelf.”

In that way he had, Summerset looked down his blade of a nose. “Books feed the mind and the spirit. We—”

“‘Don’t take bread from the hand of a hungry man,’” Roarke finished.

Summerset gave Roarke a nod of approval. “You learned well. But then, your mind and spirit both had a voracious appetite. If your body has an appetite, there’s pie. I had some time on my hands today and a nice basket of apples from New Zealand.”

She had a weakness for pie, enough of one to overshadow any sarcasm she might have leveled.

Besides, they were only a couple days away from Summerset’s winter vacation.

“There’s always an appetite for pie,” Roarke said as they started up the stairs. “Good night.”

“Why New Zealand?” Eve demanded as the cat jogged up beside them. “We have apples from here. We’re the Big Apple.”

“Because it’s February, and he’d prefer organic, naturally grown over agridomes or sims.”

“It’s February in New Zealand, right?”

“It is, but it’s in the Southern Hemisphere, which means it’s summer.”

“How can it be summer?” Frustration shimmered all around her. “It’s freaking February.”

Simply delighted with her, Roarke draped an arm over her shoulders and, knowing her, headed to her office. “As with the time zones that baffle and annoy you, it’s all about the planet, darling, its rotation and orbit. In the Northern Hemisphere freaking February equals winter. In the Southern Hemisphere, summer. You can’t change the basic laws of science to your own rather adorable logic.”

“Well, it’s stupid, and it’s no wonder people are perpetually fucked up, as nobody can depend on something as basic as February. Which is already screwed up because it insists on having less days, then adding one like a little prize every four years even though everybody wants February to get the hell over so we can move on.”

Adorable, he thought again, and really unassailable logic. “Who would argue with that?”

“And anyway—” She broke off.

It still gave her a little jolt to walk into her office, to see everything changed. For the better, she thought, for a whole hell of a lot better. But still, a jolt.

“Never mind,” she decided. “It all got me off track. I don’t get what books have to do with the house, the design.”

“Ah, yes, and I’ll explain. First, I know you want to set up your board, but I think we’ve earned some wine.”

He walked over, selected a bottle from the storage behind the wall while Eve drew out her board.

“Books, history, and Summerset saw to it that Irish history was included. So illustrations, descriptions, photographs of great houses, forts, castles, ruins, and so on. I’d think, I’ll have that one day, and build it just as I like. A great house in a great city with towers and treasure rooms, and every comfort I could devise.”

With a smile, he poured the wine. “Sometimes, in more fanciful moods, it might have run to moats and drawbridges as well.”

He brought her the wine, tapped his glass to hers. “But you asked is it Irish, this house. When I began to build it, I had—or thought I had—left Ireland behind me. So much of my life there had been brutal, even bloody. I felt no ties there—so I believed. And yet, this house I built springs from those books, those dreams, those needs and ambitions. It comes from Ireland, and so do I.

“Summerset was right. It matters who and what we come from.”

He felt her stiffen, saw her eyes go flat.

“It matters, Eve, that you came from monsters. Matters,” he continued, gripping her chin in his hand, “because, coming from them, you chose to make yourself into a woman who hunts the monsters. Not for vengeance, as would surely have been my choice, but for justice. I built a house. You built a hero.”

“I built a cop,” she corrected, relaxing again. “Had some help there, same as you. And you don’t give me hours of your time on an investigation for vengeance. If we don’t always toe the same line on justice, we do on truth. And you work with me for truth.”

His eyes stayed warm on hers as he skimmed his thumb over the shallow dent in her chin. “It wouldn’t have been my choice once, but then I met you, and loved you, and things changed. Like summer in February.”