Dark in Death (In Death 46)

Too bad, she thought. She’d have gained great satisfaction from making the asshole’s life a living hell, even just for a few days. She’d have enjoyed screwing with his regimented life where he reigned as a god the moment he walked in the door.

Since the possibility of that remained slim to zip, she’d just have to settle for catching a killer, and making her life a living hell. For a couple of life sentences.

Bolstered by that, she drove through the gates of home, saw lights gleaming in the windows, and the sweep of outdoor lights illuminating the grounds, tossing the glamour of the house into relief against a moody sky.

She thought of Roarke, a man with the money and power to reign as a god if he’d chosen. And she decided he probably did in areas of his business—or at least gave that impression to any who tried to cross him.

Inside that castle of a house no rigid schedules were made or even suggested. No dismissive wrist flicks on either side. Pissy behavior on both sides? Sure, now and then.

If he’d wanted a woman who’d have a hot meal on the table at six-thirty sharp, or who scurried to make him some stupid cocktail when he walked in the door, he sure as hell wouldn’t have married a cop.

She pulled up, got out to leave her car where it sat, and decided if the murky sky had opened up to show even a single lucky star, she’d have thanked it.

9

She walked into an empty foyer, just stood there a moment to breathe it in. Stripping off her coat, she tossed it and the rest of her cold-weather gear over the newel post.

She looked around, taking stock. She couldn’t compare it to DeLano’s, or Jefferson’s. It was uniquely Roarke’s, and now hers.

Full of art and antiques, rich colors and fabrics, gleaming wood. Lush and plush, rich and privileged. Warm and welcoming.

And, she was pretty sure, empty except for the cat.

She went to the house comp. “Where’s Roarke?”

Good evening, Darling Eve. Roarke is not currently in residence.

“Okay.” She started upstairs, intending to head to her office, dig into work.

Then detoured to the library.

Roarke loved books, and had the space and means to create a small cathedral for them inside his home. Shelves, full of them, lined the walls. And not for looks, though she had to admit they added a distinct style. He read them, enjoyed them, preferred the weight of a physical book in his hands, she knew, to the same words on a screen.

It occurred to her he might have some of DeLano’s books.

Though she hadn’t spent much time in the room—big enough to earn the term house in some circles—she knew the books ranged in a kind of order.

He had shelves of the classic literature the state school had tried to pump into her brain. She’d been okay with some of it.

He owned prose and poetry, plays and philosophies. Religious texts, art books, histories, biographies, books on mechanics and mathematics—that would no doubt make her brain bleed.

She circled the two-level room, marveling at Roarke’s capacity and interest in collecting. Books, weapons, properties, vehicles. Clothes.

But she knew, with books, whatever he collected, he preferred novels and poetry for pleasure reading. She paused, slipped out the book she’d given him their first Christmas together.

Yeats. An old copy because he valued the old, the history of what lasted. And Yeats because as a young boy in Dublin, living in hell, he’d found a discarded copy of Yeats. And had taught himself to read from it.

So he loved poetry and great literature and …

Yeah, a good, solid murder mystery.

Skimming those shelves she found not just a couple of DeLano’s books, but several.

She pulled out the two that currently applied, added the one she feared would before this was done. She carried them to one of the long, low leather sofas and, what the hell, ordered the fire to light as she hunted through Dark Falls for the murder of Pryor Carridine.

The cat found her while she read, jumped up. Galahad started to cozy right in beside her, then froze. Every hair on his pudgy body stood up. He hissed.

“What? What?”