Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(13)

“I’ll be Riff, which leaves you with Raff.”

He saw the momentary confusion on her face, then the quick glint—a reluctant humor—in her eyes. “Why do you get Riff? Because it’s first?”

“Because I like the sound of it. I think it suits me. You’re more a Raff, definitely. My Raff.”

“That’s Lieutenant Raff.”

“As you like.”

“You’re trying to calm me down so I don’t bust up the elevator.”

“It’s a by-product of calming myself. I don’t often have an urge to strike a woman—it’s just against my nature. But I had a powerful one up there.”

“When I mentally punched her, blood exploded out of her nose.”

“Well then, that will have to do us both. And yet . . .” He brought her fingers to his lips. “We’ll go home and work into all hours trying to find the breathtakingly rude bitch’s husband.”

“He has to be a dick. Nobody would stay married to that unless he was a dick. But yeah, we’ll work on it.”

He kept her hand in his as they crossed the lobby. “Maybe he faked an abduction to escape her.”

“It would be hard to blame him, except he’s a dick.”

She contacted Mira as Roarke drove home, let her know she’d notified Mandy Mira.

“How did she take it?”

“She claims it’s bullshit you and Mr. Mira cooked up, insulted me, Roarke, both of you, and intends to contact the governor and Whitney to report me. I told her to kiss my ass.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Hey, no. I don’t want you to—”

“I’ll take care of it, Eve. I insist. Expect an apology.”

“I don’t want her to—”

“Don’t argue with me on this.”

Eve started to do just that, but saw the fatigue, the strain. “Okay, fine. How’s Mr. Mira?”

“He’s all right. No worrying symptoms. I’ll keep an eye on him tonight, but I truly believe he’s fine. Worried about Edward, of course.”

“Let him know we’re working on it, and I’ll be in touch if and when.”

She clicked off before Mira could thank her again, and considered investigative approaches as they turned through the gates, and toward home.

Lights gleamed welcome in the dozens and dozens of windows, glowing against the dignified stone, even in the fanciful turrets.

She considered coming home to such a wonder after an endless day her personal miracle.

They got out opposite sides of the car, circled around.

“How long did it take you to design the house—the whole elegant fortress with a touch of castle?”

“Oh, I spent years building it in my head as a boy. Every time I went to bed hungry or bruised, it got bigger.”

Since his childhood had been as much a nightmare as her own, it surprised her he’d restrained himself to just huge.

“I pulled it in a bit,” he said, taking her hand again as they approached the door. “Eliminated the guard towers, the moat, and accepted that the catapults of my fancy had no practical purpose.”

“I don’t know. Catapults would be pretty frosty.”

When they stepped inside, she saw the first thing she’d have loaded into one: Roarke’s majordomo.

Summerset stood in his habitual black suit—the living corpse who haunted the house. The fat cat gave one of Summerset’s bony legs a rub, then jogged over to twine through Eve’s, Roarke’s, in a kind of pudgy feline ballet.

Eve waited a beat for the expected sneering remark on how late they’d come home, or some other insult. But he only said:

“Mr. Mira?”

“He’s right enough,” Roarke said, shrugging out of his coat. “Eve’s just spoken with Dr. Mira.”

“I’m glad to hear it. If there’s anything I can do, you’ve only to let me know.”

He drifted away in that nearly silent way of his, leaving Eve frowning after him.

“After a day like this, I don’t even get to take a shot at him?”

“You told a former senator’s wife to kiss your ass.” He slipped off Eve’s coat. “Be satisfied with that.”

“That was a professional kiss my ass.”

Roarke gave Galahad a quick rub before starting up the steps. “There’s always tomorrow.”

Since that would have to be good enough, Eve went up with him, and the cat thumped up the steps behind them.

“Dinner first,” he insisted. “We’ll have it in the bedroom with the fire, and the wine.”

She could live with that. After, she’d set up a board in her office, do some runs, harangue the detective in Missing Persons she’d alerted. Roarke could check finances, which would entertain him. She could—

“I’ll deal with the fire and the wine,” Roarke said. “You deal with the pasta.”

“Right. Okay. I’m going to contact his two kids, just see if they have any information. I can hit this brain trust of his in the morning if nothing’s turned up.”

“You mean a body. You think like a murder cop, don’t you?”

“I am a murder cop. A body, because if this was kidnapping, a straight deal, there’d have been a demand for ransom. If someone just hauled him off to get something out of him, maybe they let him go after.”