“Dallas.” He caught up with her before she reached the curb again. He gripped her arm and braced himself for the storm when she whirled on him.
Instead, she met his eyes, her own cold, flat, empty. “Move your hand. Now.”
> He complied, slipping his into his pocket. “I’m just trying to tell you IAB wants this closed quiet.”
“What makes you think I give one good fuck about what IAB wants? You have something to say to me regarding my investigation into the death of Detective Taj Kohli, you do it in an official capacity. Don’t tail me again, Webster. Not ever.”
She climbed into her car, waited for a break in the mild traffic, and swung into a U-turn.
He watched her cover the distance, then turn into the high gates of the world she lived in now. He took three deep breaths, and when that didn’t work, kicked viciously at his own rear tire.
He hated what he’d done. And more, he hated knowing he’d never really gotten over her.
chapter three
She was steaming when she barreled down the drive to the great stone house Roarke had made his home. And hers.
So much, she thought, for checking your work at the door. What the hell were you supposed to do when it followed you to the damn threshold? Webster was up to something, which meant there was an agenda here, and the agenda was IAB’s.
Now she had to calm herself down so she could filter out her annoyance at being waylaid by him. It was more important to puzzle out what he’d been trying to tell her. And more important yet, to calculate what he’d been so damn careful not to tell her.
She left the car at the end of the drive because she liked it there and because it annoyed Roarke’s majordomo, the consistently irritating Summerset.
She grabbed her bag that held the files and was halfway up the steps when she stopped. Deliberately, she blew out a long, cleansing breath, turned, and simply sat down.
It was time to try something new, she decided. Time to sit and enjoy the pleasant spring evening, enjoy the gorgeous simplicity of the flowering trees and shrubs that spread over the lawn, speared into the sky. She’d lived here for more than a year now and rarely, very rarely took time to see. Time to appreciate what Roarke had built or the style with which he’d built it.
The house itself with its sweeps and turrets and dazzling expanses of glass was a monument to taste, wealth, and elegant comfort. There were too many rooms to count filled with art, antiques, and every pleasure and convenience a man could make for himself.
But the grounds, she thought, were another level. This was a man who needed room, who demanded it. And commanded it. At the same time, he was a man who could appreciate the simple appeal of a flower that would bloom and fade with its season.
He’d decorated his grounds with those flowers, with trees that would outlive both of them, with shrubs that spread and fountained. And closed it all away with the high stone walls, the iron gates, and the rigid security that kept the city outside.
But it was still there, the city, sniffing around the edges like a hungry, restless dog.
That was part of it. Part of the duality of Roarke. And, she supposed, of her.
He’d grown up in the alleys and tenements of Dublin and had done whatever was necessary to survive. She’d lost her childhood, and the flickers of memory, the images of what had been, of what she’d done to escape, haunted the woman she’d become.
His buffer against yesterday was money, power, control. Hers was a badge. There was little either of them wouldn’t do, hadn’t done, to keep that buffer in place. But somehow, together, they were . . . normal, she decided. They’d made a marriage and a home.
That was why she could sit on the steps of that home, with the ugliness of her day smearing her heart, look at blossoms dancing in the breeze. And wait for him.
She watched the long, black car slide quietly toward the house. Waited while Roarke climbed out the back, had a word with his driver. As the car drove off, he walked to her in that way he had, with his eyes on her face. She’d never had anyone look at her as he did. As if nothing else and no one else existed.
No matter how many times he did so, just that long, focused look made her heart flutter.
He sat beside her, set his briefcase aside, leaned back as she was.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi. Lovely evening.”
“Yeah. The flowers look good.”
“They do, yes. The renewal of spring. A cliché, but true enough, as most clichés are.” He ran a hand over her hair. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”