“What part was she up for?” Roarke wondered.
“Some new play. Second lead. Not even the headliner.”
Roarke rose, drew her in against him. “You’ll just keep circling the board and the same thought pattern. You can’t talk to anyone else until tomorrow, dig into it until. Let’s shut it down for the night.”
“Everyone I talked to who knew her liked her. But they’re actors, so they all know how to put on a show.”
He tapped a finger to the dent in her chin. “You’re a cop, and you excel at seeing through a show.”
“Yeah, and what I saw came off as real. People liked her. Still, somebody killed her—specifically—and more, did it in a way that involved unnecessary risks. Something’s missing.”
“If there is, you’ll find it. But not tonight.”
“No, not tonight.” She drew back to shut down, and abruptly remembered. “We’re Summerset-free.”
“And, since I’m sure you’re interested, he’s very much enjoying his winter break.”
“Yeah, great. We have to have sex.”
“Well now, if you insist.”
When he reached for her, she gave him a light shove back. “Not so fast, pal. I’ve got logistics to consider.”
“It’s all right. I remember how it’s done very well, and can walk you through it.”
“We’ll see who walks who where. I’ve got it. Count to thirty.”
He let out a laugh. “Seriously?”
“You want sex or not?”
Arching his eyebrows, his gaze locked on hers, he said, “One.”
She gave him a hot, noisy kiss, then jogged out of the room.
He counted it off as he shut down her machine, the fireplace, the lights, strolled into his own office to do the same.
When he hit thirty, he stepped into the hall, spotted one of her boots.
“Ha.” He walked to it, picked it up, continued in that direction. He found the second boot after a turn to the right.
Amused, he picked that up as well. “So she’s after a game.”
He’d play. He could, of course, simply ask the house system where she was, or call up the monitors and see for himself.
But that would be cheating.
He followed the trail, found her jacket on a doorknob. Though he recognized a ploy, he also understood the double bluff, so opened the door, ordered the lights.
No, they wouldn’t be making good use of the big gel bed in that particular guest room.
He put her jacket and the boots on a bench in the hall, continued on.
When he’d worked with architects and engineers on the design of the house, when he’d watched it built layer by layer, he hadn’t imagined himself wandering through it some night, following the trail of his wife’s stripped-off clothing.
And there a sock.
He paused to study a painting he’d stolen, oh, six or seven years before. A lonely hooded figure crossing a windswept moor under brooding skies. He’d taken it for his own collection, as it had pulled at him, that resolve, the loneliness, while his primary target of a small, exquisite Corot he’d sold for a very tidy fee.