Connections in Death (In Death #48)(10)

“I’m glad to hear that. She’s extremely qualified, clearly has the passion. And while I know you’re sorry to lose someone of Dr. Po’s standing, Rochelle Pickering’s relative youth may add something. Plus, I got a good feeling from her.”

“Did you?”

“She was overwhelmed, and struggling not to show it. Grateful for the opportunity, and not afraid to show that. I liked the mix.”

“So did I. You can start juggling in those meetings you juggled out, Caro.”

“You’ve got the ’link conference with Hitch in San Francisco and Castor’s team in Baltimore in . . .” She checked her wrist unit. “Eight minutes. I juggled that back in when you texted you were on the way back.”

“What would I do without you?”

“To prove your point, I switched your lunch meeting to the executive dining room. Why go out in that ugly weather again? And it’ll save you the time you lost this morning.”

“Perfect, as usual. Are you due for a raise?”

She fluttered her lashes. “Always.”

He laughed, walked to his office.

*

By the time he got home that night, the rain had sputtered out, and the wind had toned down to stiff with the occasional angry gust. It flapped at his topcoat—a treasured Christmas gift from Eve—streamed through his hair, and made him grateful for the warmth of home.

Summerset, always at the ready, took his coat while the cat wound pudgily through his legs.

“An evening made for a whiskey by the fire,” Summerset commented.

“You’re not wrong.” He had work yet, Roarke thought, but he’d get to it. “Let’s have one.”

He wandered into the parlor, dealt with the fire while Summerset poured the whiskey.

He had a fondness for this room, the rich colors, the gleam of antiques, the art he’d chosen. He settled into it while the wind rattled the bare branches of the trees outside the windows.

Summerset—his father in all but name, and the person who ran the house as efficiently as Caro ran his office—sat across from him.

He had thick hair the color of good pewter; dark, canny eyes; a thin, angular face of deep hollows Eve liked to call ghoulish. And had, once upon a time, saved a ragged Dublin street rat from a life of misery, and worse.

Roarke lifted his whiskey in a toast. “Sláinte. And how was your day?”

“Wet this morning for the marketing. But that afforded me and our friend there,” he added as Galahad leaped onto Roarke’s lap, and sprawled—belly up—over it, “an enjoyable afternoon in the kitchen. I had a yen to make fresh pasta, which I haven’t done in some time.”

At Roarke’s puzzled look, Summerset sighed. “The noodles themselves, boy. Fresh. I’ve made up some capellini in a sauce with some bite. I think the lieutenant might enjoy it.”

“We’ll try it tonight.”

“Speaking of the lieutenant, I did a bit of laundry as well. The sweatshirt, or what’s left of it, from the Academy—”

“Isn’t worth your life,” Roarke interrupted.

“It’s a rag.”

“A sentimental one.” He sipped his whiskey, lazily scratched the cat’s belly with his other hand. And thought of the gray button he kept in his pocket. “We all need our talismans, don’t we? On another front, I met with Dr. Pickering this morning, and gave her a tour of An Didean. She’s taking the position.”

“I’ll make a note of it. She strikes me, from the reports I’ve read, as very suitable. And the progress on An Didean?”

“On schedule. They’ve finished the main kitchen, nearly completed all the bathrooms and the training kitchen. Most of the work’s down to cosmetics now. We should have the Use and Occupancy in about a month, time enough for the staff to set up, for us to load in furniture, supplies and so on.”

“It’ll be a fine thing for the children who’ll make their home there.”

“It will.” Roarke set his glass aside, nudged the cat. “I’ve some work to finish up before Eve gets home.”

“Whenever that might be.”

“Whenever. Finish your whiskey, and thanks in advance for the pasta.”

When Roarke went out, the cat obviously considered his options, then decided on Summerset’s lap.

As Roarke had done, Summerset sipped his whiskey and scratched Galahad’s belly.

“Will she have made it through the day without getting bloodied, do you think? Well, we’ll hope for it.”





3

She came home unbloodied, but with her brain scorched. Why, why had she opted to end her day as she’d started it? With paperwork, with numbers, percentages, reports?

Whatever smug satisfaction she gained from being completely caught up would die within twenty-four hours when it piled up again.

She stepped in out of the whoosh of wind to face the looming presence of Summerset.

“Neither late nor bleeding.” His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “One expects a tympany.”

She didn’t know what the hell a tympany was, but knew damn well he’d had that one ready. Two could play. She studied him as she shrugged out of her coat and the cat did his greeting wind and rub.

“Did you go out in this today?”