Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“And what might you be reading on this cold winter’s night?”

“More reviewing. Or studying. You read Blaine DeLano.”

“I have.” He walked over, angling his head to read the titles of the books she’d taken off the shelf. “Is she victim or suspect?”

“Neither. Did you read this one?” She tapped Dark Days.

“I haven’t as yet. I’ve been through most of the Hightower series—and they’re quite good. I haven’t dived in to the series with his former partner. That one.” He gestured to the book in her hands. “I’ve read that one. Dark Falls, where she quits the force.”

“LC strangulations.”

“Ah, yes.” He flipped back in his mind, dropped down beside her. And God, it did feel marvelous to sit. “Serial killings. A white scarf.”

“Sash.”

“Six of one, but yes, sash. And a fancy bow. As I recall, the first victim was a friend, or the … sister of a friend of Dark’s, and it proved a breaking point for the detective.”

“It also inspired the actual murder of an LC—young and new like in the book. Last month. And the Dark Days follow-up? My vic. Vid theater, ice pick, Hitchcock vid, young actress.”

“And DeLano’s not a suspect?”

“She came to me with it this morning. Nadine brought her in—they’re friendly. DeLano’s clean.”

“So you’re pursuing a case of lethal plagiarism.”

“Funny, that’s how her kid put it, more or less. She’s got two, teenage daughters. Add an asshole ex, who’s also unfortunately clear.”

“I believe I need to catch up, and I’d say we should have some wine.” He rose. “I tend toward brandy or whiskey in here, but I think wine.”

She started to say she’d take coffee, then he distracted her. Just loosening his tie as he walked across the room to a fancy cabinet. Why was that sexy? she wondered. She didn’t even get why men insisted on wearing ties—and don’t get her started on Jenkinson. But the way Roarke loosened that knot, flipped open a couple buttons on the shirt?

It was kick-in-the-guts sexy.

“A full-bodied red, I think.” He glanced back, caught her look. “And what’s that about?”

“I spent about ten, fifteen minutes with the asshole ex before I came home. And it just struck me, you could toss away all your money—”

“Then how would we afford this very nice wine?”

“I mean without the money, or being so damn pretty, you’re everything he’s not.”

He opened the wine, brought it and two glasses back to the sofa. “I assume that’s a compliment.”

“You can bank on it, ace.”

He sat, leaned over, kissed her lightly. “Thanks for that then. And is that where you want to begin? With the asshole ex?”

“It sort of starts there, with DeLano and the books.”

While she talked, he poured the wine, sat back with her. Galahad rearranged his bulk, stretching out so he took up part of both laps.

“She could have destroyed him,” Roarke commented. “She’s a popular writer—add single mother supporting her two daughters, her own mother. She could have destroyed him by using the media. But she didn’t.”

“She built a good life for herself, for her family. They’re tight. It’s kind of admirable. A lot of—you know—estrogen in the house. It sort of simmers in the air.”

“Simmering estrogen.” Roarke sipped his wine. “Sounds bloody dangerous.”

“It’s plenty girlie, but not weak.”