“Has to be. No one’s going to view it for thrills, Nadine. If it helps, you don’t show up that much. He angled things so he’s in the spotlight, so to speak.”
“Yes, he would. Dallas, if the media gets hold of that—”
“They won’t. If you want my advice, go back to work. Keep your mind busy, and let me do my job. I’m good at it.”
“If I didn’t know that, I’d be on tranqs.”
Inspiration struck. “How about a girl night instead?”
“Huh?”
“Mavis and Trina are all set. I don’t have time for it, and there’s no point in Trina dragging her whole bag of tricks over here and not putting it to full use. Take my place. Go have the works.”
“I could use some relaxation therapy.”
“There you go.” Eve hauled her out of the chair. “You’ll feel like a new woman in no time. Go for the body paint,” she suggested as she pulled Nadine out of the room. “It’ll give you a fresh outlook and sparkling boobs.”
Moments later, Eve came back into the parlor, dusting her hands.
“Well done. Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, that was pretty slick. They’re all down there cooing like…what coos?”
“Doves?” he suggested.
“Yeah, like doves. Now everybody’s happy, and I can go back to work. So, you up for a video?”
“Nadine’s? Can we have popcorn?”
“Men are perverts. No, not Nadine’s, funny guy. But the popcorn’s a good idea.”
• • •
She’d intended to set up in her office, to keep it official. She should have known better. She ended up in one of the second-level lounging rooms, snuggled into the sinfully soft cushions of the mile-long sofa, watching the taped play on a huge wall sc
reen, and with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.
The size of the screen had been Roarke’s selling point. It was impossible to miss even the smallest detail when every feature was larger than life.
It was, she realized, almost like being onstage herself. She had to give Roarke points for that one.
Eliza, she noted, had embraced her role of the fussy, irritating nurse assigned to monitor Sir Wilfred. Her period costume was anything but flattering. Her hair was scraped back, her mouth a constant purse. She affected an annoyingly lilting voice like the ones Eve had heard some parents use on recalcitrant offspring.
Kenneth hadn’t stinted on his portrayal of the pompous, cranky barrister. His movements were jerky, restless. His eyes sly. His voice would, by turns boom loud enough to shake the rafters, then drop into a crafty murmur.
But it was Draco who owned the play during the first scenes. He was undeniably handsome, outrageously charming, carelessly amused. Yes, she could see how a vulnerable woman would fall for him—as Vole or as himself.
“Freeze screen.” She pushed the bowl at Roarke and rose to move closer to the image of Draco. “Here’s what I see. The others are acting. They’re good, they’re skilled, they’re enjoying the roles. He is the role. He doesn’t have to act. He’s an egocentric, as arrogant and as smooth as Vole. It’s a part tailored for him.”
“So I thought, when I put his name forward for the play. What does that tell you?”
“That whoever planned his murder probably thought the same thing. And saw the irony of it. Vole dies in the last act. Draco dies in the last act. A dramatic bit of justice. Executed, before witnesses.”
She walked back to sit. “It doesn’t tell me anything new, really. But it solidifies the angles. Resume play.”
She waited, watched. Areena’s entrance, she saw now, was brilliant in its timing. That was the writer, of course, the director, but the style of it had to come from the actor.
Beautiful, classy, mysterious, and coolly sexy. That was the role. But that wasn’t the true character, Eve remembered. The real Christine Vole revealed herself to be a woman consumed by love. One who would lie for the man she knew to be a murderer, who would sacrifice her dignity, her reputation to save him from the law. And who, in the end, executed him for dismissing that love.