“Yes, isn’t she?” He got to his feet. “Anton.” He spoke softly, but his voice carried and the maître d’ snapped to attention. “Would you see we have another chair and place setting for my wife?”
“Wife?” Anton nearly turned white, which wasn’t an easy process with his dark olive complexion. “Yes, sir. Immediately.”
He began snapping his fingers as Eve stepped to the table. Deliberately, she looked at faces, any faces, and ignored the view. “Sorry I’m late.”
After some necessary shuffling, and her waving away the waiter by saying she’d just have some of Roarke’s dinner, she was able to sit as far away from the glass shield as possible. This put her between Magda’s son, Vince, and Carlton Mince, so she resigned herself to being bored brainless for the rest of the evening.
“I assume you’ve been on a case.” Vince went back to his appetizer as he spoke. “I’ve always been fascinated with the criminal mind. What can you tell us about your current quarry?”
“He’s good at his work.”
“But then, so are you, or you wouldn’t be where you are. Do you have . . .” He waggled his fingers as if trying to pluck the word out of the air. “Leads?”
“Vince.” Magda smiled across the table. “I’m sure Eve doesn’t want to talk about her work over dinner.”
“Sorry. I’ve always been interested in crime, from a safe distance. Since I’ve been somewhat involved with the security arrangements for the display and auction I’ve become more curious how the whole process works.”
Eve picked up the wine one of the waiters had, with some ceremony, put in front of her. “You go after the bad guy until you catch him, then you put him in a cage and hope the courts keep him there.”
“Ah.” Carlton scooped up some creamy seafood dish and nodded. “That would be frustrating, I’d think. Having done your job, then having the next phase circumvent it. It would feel like failure, wouldn’t it?” He studied her kindly. “Does it happen often?”
“It happens.” Yet another waiter slid a plate under her nose. On it was a lovely little pinwheel of grilled prawns. One of her favorites. She glanced at Roarke, caught his smile.
He had a way of making such small miracles happen.
“You have solid security,” she said. “As tight as it gets under the circumstances. I’d prefer you’d selected a more private venue, one with less access.”
Carlton nodded enthusiastically. “I tried to argue for that, Lieutenant. And my arguments fell on deaf ears.” He sent Magda an affectionate look. “I can’t bear to think just now of the costs of security and insurance, or I’d spoil my appetite.”
“Old fogey.” Magda winked at him. “The venue is part of the package. The elegant Palace Hotel—the very fact that the display can be viewed by the public before the auction just adds to the buzz. We’ve generated invaluable media attention, not only for the auction itself but for the Foundation.”
“And an impressive display it is,” Mick commented. “I wandered over there today and had a look at it.”
“Oh, I wish you’d told me you wanted to see it. I’d have taken you through personally.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose on your time.”
“Nonsense.” Magda waved that away as the first course was cleared. “I do hope you plan to be in town for the auction.”
“I hadn’t been, to tell you the truth, but after meeting you and seeing it all myself, I’m determined to go and to bid.”
While his guests chatted, Roarke signaled to the sommelier. As he shifted to order another bottle of wine, he felt a bare foot—a small, narrow bare foot—slide suggestively up his calf. Without a flicker, he finished his request, shifted back.
He knew Eve’s foot, it was narrow but long, and she was just a bit too far away to be able to play with him under the table. One casual glance gave him the angle, and his lifted eyebrow was his only reaction as he noted the secret, catlike smile on Liza Trent’s face as she began to nibble on her second course.
He debated ignoring the overture or being amused by it. Before he could decide, she looked up. The gleam in her gaze wasn’t for him, but for Mick. She had, Roarke realized, simply missed her mark.
Interesting, he thought, as those bare toes tried to work their way under his cuff. And complicated.
“Liza,” he said and had the pleasure of feeling her foot jerk like a spring. When he looked at her, coolly, he could see understanding and a faint embarrassment cross her features. Her foot slid away. “How is everything?” he asked pleasantly.
“Lovely, thanks.”
Roarke waited until the meal was done, the dessert champagne consumed, and he was driving home with Mick.
He took out a cigarette, offered the case. For a moment, they smoked in companionable silence.
“Do you remember when we boosted that lorryload of smokes? Christ, what were we, ten?” Pleased with the memory, Mick stretched out his legs. “We went through near a carton between us that same afternoon—you, me, Brian Kelly, and Jack Bodine, and Jack, bless him, got sick as six dogs from it. And the rest we sold to Six-Fingers Logan for the prettiest of profits.”