Through all the other miseries in his life there’d been no one to offer him the simple soothing of understanding. It swamped him, washed away the worst edge of grief, and left him steadier for it.
“I can’t get a handle on it,” he said quietly. “And I can’t see through the murk of it to any answers.”
“You will.” She eased back, skimmed her fingers through his hair. “Try to put it aside for a little while, and you will.”
“I need you with me tonight.”
“I’ll be with you tonight.”
He took her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles. And let her go. “Thanks.”
She waited until he’d gotten into his car, until he’d pulled away from the curb. She was tempted to send a black-and-white out to follow him back to midtown. But he’d make a tail, and be just annoyed enough to lose it.
Instead, she let him go as well.
When she turned around, she noted a number of cops get very busy looking in other directions. She refused to waste time being embarrassed. She signaled to Peabody.
“Let’s get to work.”
In his midtown base, Roarke rode the private elevator to his suite of offices. He could feel the anger building inside of him again. He couldn’t permit it, not until he had time alone, time to find an outlet.
He knew how to strap it down. It was a hard-learned skill that had kept him alive during the bad years, and the building years. A skill that had helped him create what he had now, and who he was now.
And what was he n
ow? he wondered as he ordered the elevator to stop so he could have another moment to find a grip on that fine skill. A man who could buy whatever he chose to buy so he could fill his world with all the things he’d once starved for.
Beauty, decency, comfort, style.
A man who could command what he chose to command so that he would never, by God never again, feel helpless. Power. The power to amuse himself, to challenge himself, to indulge himself.
One who reigned over what some called an empire and had countless people dependent on him for their livelihoods. Livelihoods. Lives.
Now two had lost theirs.
There was nothing he could do to change it, to fix it. Nothing he could do but hunt down the one who had done it, and the one who had paid for it to be done. And balance the scales.
Rage, he thought, clouded the mind. He would keep his clear, and see it through.
He ordered the elevator to resume, and when he stepped off his eyes were grim but cool. His receptionist popped up from her console immediately, but still wasn’t quite quick enough to ward off Mick, who strolled over from the waiting area.
“Well now, boyo, it’s a hell of a place you’ve got here, isn’t it?”
“It does me. Hold my calls for a bit, would you?” Roarke ordered the receptionist. “Unless it’s from my wife. Come on back, Mick.”
“That I will. I’m hoping for the grand tour, though from the size of this place of yours that might take the next several weeks.”
“You’ll have to make due with my office for now. I’m between meetings.”
“Busy boy.” As he followed Roarke down a glass breezeway snaking over Manhattan and through a wide art-filled corridor, he looked around, his eyes bright and scanning. “Jesus, man, is any of this stuff real?”
Roarke paused at the black double doors that led to his personal domain, managed a half-smile. “Not still dealing in art that finds its way into your hands, are you?”
Mick grinned. “I deal with whatever comes, but I’m not looking toward yours. Christ, do you remember that time we hit the National Museum in Dublin?”
“Perfectly. But I’d as soon members of my staff aren’t entertained with the story.” He opened the door, stepped back so Mick could precede him.
“I’m forgetting you’re a law-abiding soul these days. Holy Mother of God.” Just over the threshold, Mick stopped.