For better or worse, she thought as she swung through the gates. There was plenty of better with Roarke in her life. She couldn’t begin to measure it. And if the worst was a skinny, sour-faced snake, well, she was stuck with him.
But when the hour was up, she thought as she jogged up the steps to the front door, she was back on the clock and Roarke would just have to deal with the patient on his own.
The house was cool and quiet. Her first thought was that there’d been complications, or some holdup at the hospital and she’d beaten Roarke home. She turned to the monitor in the foyer.
“Where is Roarke?”
DARLING EVE, WELCOME HOME . . .
The endearment, in the computer’s polite tones, had her rolling her eyes. Roarke had some weird-ass sense of humor.
ROARKE IS IN SUMMERSET’S QUARTERS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SPEAK WITH HIM?
“No. Hell.” Did this mean she had to go back there? Into the snake’s pit? She never went into Summerset’s private quarters. Jamming her hands in her pockets, she paced in a circle. She didn’t want to go back there. He might be in bed. Would she ever be able to erase the horror of Summerset in bed from her vision once seen?
She didn’t think so.
But her only choice was to sneak out of the house again, and feel like an idiot for the rest of the day.
Stupidity or nightmare, she wondered, then hissed out a breath. She’d go back, but she was not going in the bedroom. She’d stay in the living area, consider it a courtesy to both herself and the patient. She’d see if Roarke needed anything—though what that might be she couldn’t imagine—and get the hell out.
Duty done, life goes on.
She wasn’t often in this section of the house. Why would she need to go to the kitchen when there were AutoChefs in virtually every other room? Summerset’s private habitat was off the kitchen, with access via elevator and stair to the rest of the house. She knew he sometimes used some of the other rooms for music, for entertainment, and she liked to think for secret rituals.
The door to his suite was open, and the laughter that poured out put Eve in a better frame of mind. There was no mistaking Mavis Freestone’s happy cackle.
Eve looked in and saw her oldest friend, still in mid-laugh as she stood in the center of the room. Mavis was made for the center, Eve thought.
She was such a little thing, almost fairylike. If you imagined your fairies in skin-baring sunsuits and neon gel sandals.
Mavis’s hair was summer blonde today, a conservative color until you got to the pink and blue tips, and noted those curling tips were topped by tiny silver bells that rang cheerfully with every movement. The sunsuit was short and backless with a complex series of crisscrossing strips of that same pink and blue over each breast, to a bare midriff and a pair of micro-shorts.
Though the belly was flat as a board, Eve was reminded—with a sharp jolt—that Mavis had a baby cooking in there.
It was, probably, some sort of high-fashion, I’m pregnant getup, Eve mused, designed by Mavis’s one true love, Leonardo, who was currently looking down from his great height on the stylish mother-to-be with such adoration Eve was surprised his pupils weren’t shaped like little hearts.
Looking on from a mobile chair, his sour face wreathed in smiles, was Summerset.
She felt a stir of pity as she saw the stiff angle of his supported leg, wrapped in the skin cast, and the sling support on his shoulder. She knew what it was to break bones and tear muscles—and how much worse the cure could seem to anyone used to doing for himself.
She might have said something consolatory, even marginally friendly, but he shifted his head, spotted her. She saw surprise flicker an instant before his face shut down into an icy sneer.
“Lieutenant. Is there something you need?”
“Dallas!” Mavis gave a shout of greeting and threw out her arms. “Come on in, join the party.”
Eve followed the direction of Mavis’s hands and saw the colorful banner that shouted: WELCOME HOME, SUMMERSET, hanging between the elegant draperies on his windows.
Only Mavis, Eve thought.
“Want a drink? We got fizzy ices.” Mavis spun over to an antique server that currently held a carnival setup of crushed ices, sparkling water, and syrups. “Nonalcoholic,” she added, “because, you know. Hitchhiker in here’s too young to drink.” She patted her belly, wiggled her hips.
“How’s it going?”
“I’m totally mag. Absolutely ult. Leonardo and I got the word on what happened to Summerset. Poor sweetie pie,” she murmured, and whirled back to kiss the top of his head.
Eve felt her gag reflex engage at the thought of Summerset and sweetie pie in the same sentence.