She knew a violent offender in the making when he tried to kick her in the shins.
But for now, she could cross them off her list. No question in her mind Jefferson loathed his ex-wife, but he also believed her unworthy of his attention. That bled over to his daughters.
He didn’t think of them, didn’t care about them.
Whoever murdered Rosie Kent and Chanel Rylan cared a great deal about Blaine DeLano.
From what Eve could see, the ex-husband made sure he knew no one who cared about his first wife.
Too bad, she thought. She’d have gained great satisfaction from making the asshole’s life a living hell, even just for a few days. She’d have enjoyed screwing with his regimented life where he reigned as a god the moment he walked in the door.
Since the possibility of that remained slim to zip, she’d just have to settle for catching a killer, and making her life a living hell. For a couple of life sentences.
Bolstered by that, she drove through the gates of home, saw lights gleaming in the windows, and the sweep of outdoor lights illuminating the grounds, tossing the glamour of the house into relief against a moody sky.
She thought of Roarke, a man with the money and power to reign as a god if he’d chosen. And she decided he probably did in areas of his business—or at least gave that impression to any who tried to cross him.
Inside that castle of a house no rigid schedules were made or even suggested. No dismissive wrist flicks on either side. Pissy behavior on both sides? Sure, now and then.
If he’d wanted a woman who’d have a hot meal on the table at six-thirty sharp, or who scurried to make him some stupid cocktail when he walked in the door, he sure as hell wouldn’t have married a cop.
She pulled up, got out to leave her car where it sat, and decided if the murky sky had opened up to show even a single lucky star, she’d have thanked it.
9
She walked into an empty foyer, just stood there a moment to breathe it in. Stripping off her coat, she tossed it and the rest of her cold-weather gear over the newel post.
She looked around, taking stock. She couldn’t compare it to DeLano’s, or Jefferson’s. It was uniquely Roarke’s, and now hers.
Full of art and antiques, rich colors and fabrics, gleaming wood. Lush and plush, rich and privileged. Warm and welcoming.
And, she was pretty sure, empty except for the cat.
She went to the house comp. “Where’s Roarke?”
Good evening, Darling Eve. Roarke is not currently in residence.
“Okay.” She started upstairs, intending to head to her office, dig into work.
Then detoured to the library.
Roarke loved books, and had the space and means to create a small cathedral for them inside his home. Shelves, full of them, lined the walls. And not for looks, though she had to admit they added a distinct style. He read them, enjoyed them, preferred the weight of a physical book in his hands, she knew, to the same words on a screen.
It occurred to her he might have some of DeLano’s books.
Though she hadn’t spent much time in the room—big enough to earn the term house in some circles—she knew the books ranged in a kind of order.
He had shelves of the classic literature the state school had tried to pump into her brain. She’d been okay with some of it.
He owned prose and poetry, plays and philosophies. Religious texts, art books, histories, biographies, books on mechanics and mathematics—that would no doubt make her brain bleed.
She circled the two-level room, marveling at Roarke’s capacity and interest in collecting. Books, weapons, properties, vehicles. Clothes.
But she knew, with books, whatever he collected, he preferred novels and poetry for pleasure reading. She paused, slipped out the book she’d given him their first Christmas together.
Yeats. An old copy because he valued the old, the history of what lasted. And Yeats because as a young boy in Dublin, living in hell, he’d found a discarded copy of Yeats. And had taught himself to read from it.
So he loved poetry and great literature and …
Yeah, a good, solid murder mystery.
Skimming those shelves she found not just a couple of DeLano’s books, but several.
She pulled out the two that currently applied, added the one she feared would before this was done. She carried them to one of the long, low leather sofas and, what the hell, ordered the fire to light as she hunted through Dark Falls for the murder of Pryor Carridine.
The cat found her while she read, jumped up. Galahad started to cozy right in beside her, then froze. Every hair on his pudgy body stood up. He hissed.
“What? What?”
His eyes, feral in their light, fired at her before he sniffed her arm. His back arched like a Halloween cat.
“What the hell … Jesus, the dog? Are you kidding me? It was hours ago. I was wearing my coat. You can’t possibly …” She sniffed her own arm. “I absolutely do not smell like big, sloppy dog. Besides, it wasn’t my fault. He had the crazy eyes.”
Galahad snarled, sniffed her leg. Let out a bitter, throaty sound.
“He leaned on me. It was line of duty, so get over it.”
He turned his back on her, tubby body rigid, angry eyes focused on a wall of books.
“How come you don’t act this way when I come home with blood on me, or street thief stench?”
She could ignore his jealous ass, she thought, but …
It was, in its weird way, sort of flattering.
So, reaching over, she stroked a hand from his head to his tail. Twice. “Don’t be an asshole.”
She went back to the book, to the scene. The cat held out for nearly two minutes, then curled up against her. Absently, she scratched between his ears as she backtracked to study the plot, and tried to put herself in the mind of the killer.
Fictional and real.
Deciding she needed a more solid sense of the characters, she went back to the beginning, pulled out her notebook. Made notes as she read, and wished she’d hunted up the AutoChef—there had to be one in here—before she’d settled in. Before she’d ended up with a cat sprawled over her lap.
A little annoyed, somewhat frustrated, Roarke walked into the foyer. Unlike Eve—or what Eve wouldn’t admit even under threat of death—he actually enjoyed being met by Summerset and the cat after a workday.
Especially a workday that had been largely a pisser.
He’d spent far too much of it untangling a snafu before it could roll into a full-blown clusterfuck. And the fact that he’d eventually tracked the initial mistake back to one of his most valuable and reliable people in R&D only added to it.
A tiny miscalculation, really, he thought as he tossed his coat over Eve’s because he just didn’t feel like hanging it up. And that tiny miscalculation had led to another, and another, building like a bloody snowball rolling downhill.
He’d caught it, so a stroke of luck there, before it cost serious money or damaging PR. And his valued and reliable mechanical engineer had been so appalled and apologetic, had offered no excuses, Roarke hadn’t been able to relieve frustration with a verbal ass-kicking.
He considered heading down to the gym, taking Eve’s tack and ass-kicking the sparring droid.
Maybe Eve was down there, he thought. Or maybe he could talk her into going a round or two in the dojo. And capping it off with sex.
There’s a room we haven’t hit yet, he thought as he went to the house comm. She’d appreciate the thought.
“Where is Eve?”
Good evening, Roarke. Darling Eve is in the library.
“What? Where? Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, is in the library?”
Affirmative, that is her current location.
Baffled, fascinated, he wound his way through the house, came to the open doors of one of his favorite rooms.
There sat his wife, her boots up on the long bench table, the cat lengthwise across her lap, and a book in her hand.
A fire snapped and sizzled cheerfully. The cat snored.
“Well now, this looks cozy.”
She looked up—hard, flat cop’s eyes clearing slowly. She said, “Hey.”
“And what might you be reading on this cold winter’s night?”
“More reviewing. Or studying. You read Blaine DeLano.”
“I have.” He walked over, angling his head to read the titles of the books she’d taken off the shelf. “Is she victim or suspect?”
“Neither. Did you read this one?” She tapped Dark Days.
“I haven’t as yet. I’ve been through most of the Hightower series—and they’re quite good. I haven’t dived in to the series with his former partner. That one.” He gestured to the book in her hands. “I’ve read that one. Dark Falls, where she quits the force.”
“LC strangulations.”
“Ah, yes.” He flipped back in his mind, dropped down beside her. And God, it did feel marvelous to sit. “Serial killings. A white scarf.”
“Sash.”
“Six of one, but yes, sash. And a fancy bow. As I recall, the first victim was a friend, or the … sister of a friend of Dark’s, and it proved a breaking point for the detective.”
“It also inspired the actual murder of an LC—young and new like in the book. Last month. And the Dark Days follow-up? My vic. Vid theater, ice pick, Hitchcock vid, young actress.”
“And DeLano’s not a suspect?”
“She came to me with it this morning. Nadine brought her in—they’re friendly. DeLano’s clean.”
“So you’re pursuing a case of lethal plagiarism.”
“Funny, that’s how her kid put it, more or less. She’s got two, teenage daughters. Add an asshole ex, who’s also unfortunately clear.”
“I believe I need to catch up, and I’d say we should have some wine.” He rose. “I tend toward brandy or whiskey in here, but I think wine.”
She started to say she’d take coffee, then he distracted her. Just loosening his tie as he walked across the room to a fancy cabinet. Why was that sexy? she wondered. She didn’t even get why men insisted on wearing ties—and don’t get her started on Jenkinson. But the way Roarke loosened that knot, flipped open a couple buttons on the shirt?