Connections in Death (In Death 48)

“Of course.” He rose, strolled across the room to a little alcove, took a bottle of water from a cold box, poured a glass. “If you have an interest in the position, we can discuss more details. Job description, structure, salary, and so on.”

“That would be…” She took the water he brought her, took three careful sips. “It’s an important decision, life changing really. I should take some time, think it through before we…”

She set the water down, turned to him. “Am I crazy? Am I stupid? No, I’m not either of those things.” She let out a rolling laugh. “Of course I’m interested. I’m staggered and flattered and working up to giddy while I’m trying to be sober and dignified.”

She had to stop, laugh again, pat a hand on her heart while he smiled at her.

“And, yes, I’d like very much to talk about the details of your amazing offer. I’d really like to tour the building. I’d like to see where the children will live, the educational and recreational facilities, the group and individual counseling areas. All of it.”

“Of course,” he said again. “How about now?”

Her eyes widened, blinked. “How about … now?”

“We can discuss those details while I give you a tour. I’m interested in what you think.”

She picked up the water, drank again. “Now works.”

* * *

After the tour, and the handshake that concluded it, Roarke went back to his headquarters. He stopped by Caro’s office.

“You can send the contract, as is, to Dr. Pickering, Caro.”

“I’m glad to hear that. She’s extremely qualified, clearly has the passion. And while I know you’re sorry to lose someone of Dr. Po’s standing, Rochelle Pickering’s relative youth may add something. Plus, I got a good feeling from her.”

“Did you?”

“She was overwhelmed, and struggling not to show it. Grateful for the opportunity, and not afraid to show that. I liked the mix.”

“So did I. You can start juggling in those meetings you juggled out, Caro.”

“You’ve got the ’link conference with Hitch in San Francisco and Castor’s team in Baltimore in…” She checked her wrist unit. “Eight minutes. I juggled that back in when you texted you were on the way back.”

“What would I do without you?”

“To prove your point, I switched your lunch meeting to the executive dining room. Why go out in that ugly weather again? And it’ll save you the time you lost this morning.”

“Perfect, as usual. Are you due for a raise?”

She fluttered her lashes. “Always.”

He laughed, walked to his office.

* * *

By the time he got home that night, the rain had sputtered out, and the wind had toned down to stiff with the occasional angry gust. It flapped at his topcoat—a treasured Christmas gift from Eve—streamed through his hair, and made him grateful for the warmth of home.

Summerset, always at the ready, took his coat while the cat wound pudgily through his legs.

“An evening made for a whiskey by the fire,” Summerset commented.

“You’re not wrong.” He had work yet, Roarke thought, but he’d get to it. “Let’s have one.”

He wandered into the parlor, dealt with the fire while Summerset poured the whiskey.

He had a fondness for this room, the rich colors, the gleam of antiques, the art he’d chosen. He settled into it while the wind rattled the bare branches of the trees outside the windows.

Summerset—his father in all but name, and the person who ran the house as efficiently as Caro ran his office—sat across from him.