“Bet you did,” Eve murmured.
“I didn’t hear about the murder until I was back in my hotel. And putting two and two together, made an anonymous call, leaving a tip with his name and description. They couldn’t pin him, but I’m told he spent considerable time in the French version of your box being questioned.”
“Nothing since then?”
“I’ve kept tabs on him since that night—not careful enough, I suppose, but I rarely gave him a thought. But no, he’s made no move. He kills for money, and if it’s otherwise, he goes for the weak. He thought I was.”
“You’ve never been weak.” When he just looked at her, she shook her head. “I’m not your weakness, Roarke. I’m your goddamn weapon.”
“Darling Eve, you’re both and so much more.” He took her hand. “I won’t ask you to tuck yourself away any more than you’ll ask me. We can want to, but we know each other too well for that. And we know we have to deal with this.”
“I can’t let you kill him.”
“I missed my chance there in a lively bar on the Côte d’Azur. I will promise you this: If he dies by my hand, it won’t be in cold blood, as it might have been before you. I’d rather prison for him, I’d rather think of him in a concrete cage far, far from what I love. I’d rather think of him spending what I hope will be a long, long life knowing me and my cop put him there.”
She turned her hand under his, gripped it hard. “That’s fair. I’m not going to let him use me to hurt you. You have to trust me.”
“He’ll think I’m with you, using you as cover. He won’t understand what you are to me, but that won’t stop him from trying to end you.”
“He’s already made a mistake. He should never have let you see him. I’d have figured out, and damn quick, Tween hired the hit, but Cobbe could and would have been in the wind. He’s on our turf now, Roarke. And he’s going to pay for Galla Modesto because she’s mine now. Ours now,” she corrected.
“Ours.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “How’d I do on the board?”
“You’re a pretty solid aide. It’s good.”
“And will you call it now, get some sleep? I could use the quiet and the dark with my wife, and the cat who’s likely already sprawled over our bed.”
“What time is it in Italy?”
He glanced at his wrist unit. “About half eight in the morning.”
“That’ll work. I need to track down the victim’s parents. If they’re in Italy, I want to notify them now, and get a feel for things.”
“They’re in Florence. I checked while I was running other matters.”
“Saves time. I’m going to do that now, then text Peabody on it, then I’ll call it.”
“All right then. I’ve a couple things I can deal with in my office. I’ll wait for you.”
She watched him go before turning to her ’link.
“No more coffee tonight,” he called out.
And the hard knot in her stomach loosened. If he could still nag her about drinking too much coffee, he was smoothing out.
3
The scent of coffee stirred Eve awake so she opened one eye and spotted Roarke. He stood at the bedroom AutoChef in the dim morning light with a towel slung around his waist.
Not a bad image to wake up to, she thought. Not bad at all.
“Aren’t you late for some ’link conference on buying the Southern Hemisphere?”
Without missing a beat, he programmed a second cup of coffee. “I put that off until later this morning.”
He crossed to her with the coffee as the fat lump of cat curled into the small of her back rolled over lazily and stretched.
Having a mostly naked husband bring her coffee in bed equaled a pretty good perk of the whole marriage deal. She sat up, took it. “Did you sleep okay?”
“I did.” After skimming a hand over her hair, he walked over and into his closet.
Eve exchanged a long look with Galahad. “I think okay’s relative,” she muttered, but rolled out of bed to shower.
The best—and only real thing—she could do was work the case, work it hard, and get this thorn out of Roarke’s side.
Thorn, hell, she corrected as the hot jets pummeled her fully awake. More like a shiv right now.
She’d see what, if anything, the ME could tell her about Modesto’s death she didn’t already know, do a more comprehensive study of the security feeds—and check with McNab on that.
Modesto’s family—parents, brother, brother’s wife—all planned to arrive in New York this morning. So she’d have a conversation there and push for some straight talk regarding what they knew of her marriage to Tween.
Then she wanted to talk to the housekeeper.
Eve stepped out of the shower, opted—as always—for the fast, swirling heat of the drying tube.
Live-in staff, she understood from personal experience (Summer-set!), knew a hell of a lot about what went on inside a household.
She hopped out of the drying tube, grabbed the robe on the back of the door.
She needed to dig into any intelligence on Cobbe, and might need her commander’s assistance with that. And she wanted a consult with Mira, wanted the top profiler and shrink’s take on both Cobbe and Tween.
Truth? she admitted. She’d take help wherever she could get it to shut Cobbe down, to lock him away.
When she walked back into the bedroom, Roarke, already in one of his king-of-the-business-world suits, stood tying one of his fancy ties in some fancy knot.
“We’re in for fine weather today,” he told her while Galahad inhaled his morning kibble.
She’d intended to keep things practical and pragmatic, but instead went with her heart instead of her head. Crossing to him, she took his face in her hands. “I’m going to get him.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Good.”
She went to her own closet, grabbed a pair of trousers at random. She shimmied into them and a support tank, thought of good weather so grabbed a short-sleeved shirt and a jacket.
As she pulled on the shirt, Roarke stepped to the opening of her closet. “Are you doing that deliberately to distract me?”
“What?” She reached for a belt.
“Pairing that jacket with those pants—and put that belt back.”
“Why? The pants are black, the jacket’s black, the belt’s black.”
He took the jacket, hung it up again. “The pants are indigo.”
She rolled her eyes behind his back as he picked another jacket.
“And roll your eyes all you like,” he said without turning around. “If you’re going to wear indigo—which is a deep navy, not black—with the accent of gray-influenced celadon—”
“What the hell is celadon? It sounds contagious.”
“It’s green—in this case a gray-green. As is this jacket.” He pulled one out. “With its indigo buttons. Take off that shirt.”
“I don’t have time for closet sex, pal.”
He pulled it over her head himself, then pulled her in, just held her. “Wish we did.”