Connections in Death (In Death 48)

He had thick hair the color of good pewter; dark, canny eyes; a thin, angular face of deep hollows Eve liked to call ghoulish. And had, once upon a time, saved a ragged Dublin street rat from a life of misery, and worse.

Roarke lifted his whiskey in a toast. “Sláinte. And how was your day?”

“Wet this morning for the marketing. But that afforded me and our friend there,” he added as Galahad leaped onto Roarke’s lap, and sprawled—belly up—over it, “an enjoyable afternoon in the kitchen. I had a yen to make fresh pasta, which I haven’t done in some time.”

At Roarke’s puzzled look, Summerset sighed. “The noodles themselves, boy. Fresh. I’ve made up some capellini in a sauce with some bite. I think the lieutenant might enjoy it.”

“We’ll try it tonight.”

“Speaking of the lieutenant, I did a bit of laundry as well. The sweatshirt, or what’s left of it, from the Academy—”

“Isn’t worth your life,” Roarke interrupted.

“It’s a rag.”

“A sentimental one.” He sipped his whiskey, lazily scratched the cat’s belly with his other hand. And thought of the gray button he kept in his pocket. “We all need our talismans, don’t we? On another front, I met with Dr. Pickering this morning, and gave her a tour of An Didean. She’s taking the position.”

“I’ll make a note of it. She strikes me, from the reports I’ve read, as very suitable. And the progress on An Didean?”

“On schedule. They’ve finished the main kitchen, nea

rly completed all the bathrooms and the training kitchen. Most of the work’s down to cosmetics now. We should have the Use and Occupancy in about a month, time enough for the staff to set up, for us to load in furniture, supplies, and so on.”

“It’ll be a fine thing for the children who’ll make their home there.”

“It will.” Roarke set his glass aside, nudged the cat. “I’ve some work to finish up before Eve gets home.”

“Whenever that might be.”

“Whenever. Finish your whiskey, and thanks in advance for the pasta.”

When Roarke went out, the cat obviously considered his options, then decided on Summerset’s lap.

As Roarke had done, Summerset sipped his whiskey and scratched Galahad’s belly.

“Will she have made it through the day without getting bloodied, do you think? Well, we’ll hope for it.”

3

She came home unbloodied, but with her brain scorched. Why, why had she opted to end her day as she’d started it? With paperwork, with numbers, percentages, reports?

Whatever smug satisfaction she gained from being completely caught up would die within twenty-four hours when it piled up again.

She stepped in out of the whoosh of wind to face the looming presence of Summerset.

“Neither late nor bleeding.” His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “One expects a tympani.”

She didn’t know what the hell a tympani was, but knew damn well he’d had that one ready. Two could play. She studied him as she shrugged out of her coat and the cat did his greeting wind and rub.

“Did you go out in this today?”

“I had marketing.”

“That explains the reports of a flying skeleton.” She tossed her outdoor gear on the newel post and, considering it a draw, headed upstairs with Galahad trotting behind her.

She considered going straight to the bedroom, ditching the work clothes, but habit sent her to her home office. She heard Roarke’s voice from his adjoining office. Something about numbers—why was it always numbers? At least she didn’t have to decipher these.

He’d turned on the fire, and that made a nice welcome home. She decided the next step of welcome equaled a really big glass of wine.