He took the photograph of a young woman with red hair and pretty green eyes holding the dark-haired little boy. “Thank you. I’d very much like to have it.”
A guy in a white suit sang about love being quiet and tricky. Eve sipped champagne and had to agree. At least about the tricky part. Why else was she struggling to take her mind off murder and pretending to do something more than taking up space in a Philadelphia ballroom?
God knew love—and she would kick Roarke’s ass later for deserting her—was the only reason she was standing here while some woman in lavender silk rambled on and on and on about fashion designers.
Yes, yes, yes, she knew Leonardo personally. Jesus, he was married to her oldest friend. And she could’ve used a good dose of Mavis at the moment. Yes, for God’s sake, he’d designed the dress she was wearing.
So the fuck what? It was clothes. You put them on and you weren’t naked or cold.
Love obliged her to edit her thoughts so her part of the conversation—when she could shove a word through the wall of noise the woman built around her—went something like: Yes.
“Ah, there’s the most striking woman in the room. Excuse us, won’t you?” Charles Monroe, smooth and handsome, beamed a smile at Eve’s tormentor. “I simply have to steal her.”
“Kill me,” Eve mutt
ered as Charles drew her clear. “Take my weapon out of my bag, press it to the pulse in my throat, and fire. End my torment.”
He only laughed and swung her to the dance floor. “When I spotted you I thought you might be on the point of drawing that weapon and blasting the woman between the eyes.”
“I imagined ramming it into her mouth. It was never shut anyway.” She gave a quick shudder. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Running a bit late, only just arrived.”
“Working?” Charles was a top-level LC.
“I’m with Louise.”
“Oh.” And because he was a man who made his living selling himself, Eve couldn’t quite figure how he and the dedicated Dr. Louise Dimatto developed, and maintained, a relationship.
Took all kinds, she reminded herself.
“I was going to get in touch with you,” he continued. “About Jacie Wooton.”
The cop shifted back to the forefront. “You knew her?”
“I used to. Not well, really. I don’t think anyone knew Jacie well. But we ran in similar circles, so we’d bump into each other now and then. Or did, before she got busted.”
“Let’s find a corner somewhere.”
“I don’t know that this is the time—”
“Works for me.” Taking charge, she pulled him from the dance floor, scanning the little packs of people, the tables, and decided to take it outside.
There was a terrace festooned with flowers, scattered with more tables, more people. But it was quieter.
“Tell me what you know.”
“Next to nothing.” He wandered to the edge of the terrace, looked out over the lights of the city. “She was well-established before I got into the life. She liked everything top drawer. The best clothes, the best venues, the best clients.”
“The best dealer, then?”
“I don’t know about her dealer. I don’t,” he insisted. “I’m not going to claim I don’t know anything about that end of the business, but I stay clean. Spotless now that I’m dating a doctor,” he added with a smile. “Jacie’s busts took everybody by surprise. If she was an addict, she hid it well. If I knew anything, Dallas, I’d tell you. No hesitation, no bullshit. As far as I know she didn’t have friends. Not real friends. Or enemies. She was the job.”
“Okay.” She started to slip her hands into her pockets, remembered the little copper-colored number didn’t have any. “If something occurs to you, however small or remote, I want to hear about it.”
“That’s a promise. It’s shaken me, the way it happened, the rumors I’m hearing. Louise is worried.” He glanced back toward the terrace doors. “She hasn’t said anything, specifically, but she’s worried. When you love someone you can tell when they’re carrying stress.”
“Yeah, I guess so. You’re going to want to be careful, Charles. You don’t fit the vic profile on this, but you’re going to want to be careful.”