“I’m on duty.”
“Yes, of course you are. I’m not.”
When he rose, Eve saw the cat spring from his lap. Galahad examined her with his bicolored eyes before plunking down to wash. She was too busy scowling at the cat to note that Roarke’s hands weren’t quite steady as he stood at the carved liquor cabinet pouring brandy from decanter to snifter.
“Well,” he said, swirling the glass with half the width of the room between them. “Is that all?”
No, she thought, that was far from all. If he wouldn’t help her voluntarily, she would poke and prod and use his canny brain without mercy and without a qualm. “The last time you’re noted in her diary was a year and a half ago.”
“So long,” Roarke murmured. He had regret, a great deal of it, for Yvonne. But he had his own problems at the moment, the biggest of which was standing across the room, watching him with turbulent eyes. “I didn’t realize.”
“Was that the last time you saw her?”
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t.” He stared into his brandy, remembering her. “I recall dancing with her at a party, last New Year’s Eve. She came back here with me.”
“You slept with her,” Eve said evenly.
“Technically, no.” His voice took on a clip of annoyance. “I had sex with her, conversation, brunch.”
“You resumed your former relationship?”
“No.” He chose a chair and ordered himself to enjoy his brandy and cigarette. Casually, he crossed his feet at the ankles. “We might have, but we were both quite busy with our own projects. I didn’t hear from her again for six weeks, maybe seven.”
“And?”
He’d brushed her off, he recalled. Casually, easily. Perhaps thoughtlessly. “I told her I was . . . involved.” He examined the bright tip of his cigarette. “At that time I was falling in love with someone else.”
Her heartbeat hitched. She stared at him, jammed her hands in her pockets. “I can’t eliminate you from the list unless you help me.”
“Can’t you? Well, then.”
“Damn it, Roarke, you’re the only one who was involved with both victims.”
“And what’s my motive, Lieutenant?”
“Don’t use that tone with me. I hate it when you do that. Cold, controlled, superior.” Giving up, she began to pace. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with the murders, and there’s no evidence to support your involvement. But that doesn’t break the link.”
“And that makes it difficult for you, because your name is, in turn, linked with mine. Or was.”
“I can handle that.”
“Then why have you lost weight?” he demanded. “Why are there shadows under your eyes? Why do you look so unhappy?”
She yanked out her recorder, slapped it on his desk. A barrier between them. “I need you to tell me everything you know about these women. Every small, insignificant detail. Damn it, damn it, damn it, I need help. I have to know why Towers would go to the West End in the middle of the night. Why Metcalf would dress herself up and go out to the patio at midnight.”
He tapped out his cigarette, then rose slowly. “You’re giving me more credit than I deserve, Eve. I didn’t know Cicely that well. We did business, socialized in the most distant of fashions. Remember my background and her position. As to Yvonne, we were lovers. I enjoyed her, her energy, her zest. I know she had ambition. She wanted stardom and she earned it, deserved it. But I can’t tell you the minds of either of these women.”
“You know people,” she argued. “You have a way of getting inside their heads. Nothing ever surprises you.”
“You do,” he murmured. “Continually.”
She only shook her head. “Tell me why you think Yvonne Metcalf went out to meet someone on the patio.”
He sipped brandy, shrugged. “For advancement, glory, excitement, love. Probably in that order. She would have dressed carefully because she was vain, admirably so. The time of the meeting wouldn’t have meant anything to her. She was impulsive, entertainingly so.”
She let out a little breath. This was what she needed. He could help her see the victims. “Were there other men?”
He was brooding, he realized, and forced himself to stop. “She was lovely, entertaining, bright, excellent in bed. I imagine there were a great many men in her life.”