Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(85)

Oh aye, his cop knew her nuances, he mused as he chose a shirt, gray as storm clouds. “I’ll manage.”

“Because you’re good at multitasking.”

“There is that,” he agreed, reaching for the tie he wanted that slashed bold blue over storm-cloud gray. He wandered closer to the bed as his clever fingers fashioned the tie into a perfect Trinity knot. “It’s also that over and under and through being a little bit pissed off and worried with it, I love you with all I am, and ever hope to be.”

Her eyes stung again, but she kept them trained on him. “There is that.”

He smiled, leaned down to brush his lips to hers. When her arms wrapped around him, he sat, drew her in. “Rescheduling’s not a problem.”

She shook her head, but burrowed for one more minute. “No, I’m good. Besides, you went from naked to god of all he surveys in about six and a half minutes.” Easing back, she tapped the complicated knot of the tie. “How’d you do that without even looking?”

“Talent.”

“Well, go do your business god thing with your classy tie. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

“Or so.” He pressed his lips to her brow, left her.

She sat another moment, stroking the cat into thunderous purrs. She’d told him she wanted a workout mostly to stop him from worrying. Still, maybe a good sweat would drown the dregs of the dream.

Rising, she knocked back a quick shot of coffee, pulled on a tank, baggy shorts, and running shoes while Galahad watched her.

“I’m fine,” she told him. “Or I will be. You could use a workout yourself, pudge boy.”

He blinked his bicolored eyes, rolled over to stretch out on his back. Cat of leisure.

She took the elevator down. In the gym she programmed the beach, took a minute to just bask in the sights, sounds, and feel of blue ocean, white sand. And with the surf rolling, she ran three miles full out. Somewhere in mile two, she stopped thinking.

With her skin cased in a good, heathy sweat, she guzzled water, then turned to weights, lifted until her muscles trembled.

As she stretched, she eyed the sparring droid. She wouldn’t have minded a good, vicious bout, but she’d nearly hit the hour.

“Next time.” She pointed a finger at the droid. “I’m kicking your ass.”

Upstairs she found Galahad had deserted his post. Probably down with Summerset for breakfast, she decided and hit the shower—and there she washed away the last of the dream in blissfully hot water, steam, pulsing jets.

By the time Roarke came back, she’d pulled on black trousers, a crisp white shirt and her weapon harness. Breakfast sat under warming domes.

“Were you a benevolent god or a wrathful one?”

“A bit of both. Keeps them guessing.” She looked herself, he thought, strong and ready. Most of the worry he carried drained.

He poured himself coffee, topped off hers. It didn’t surprise him to find waffles under the domes.

He sat with her. “And what’s first on your agenda today?”

“Briefing. I’m going in early to set that up, and to work out the interview assignments.” She drowned her waffles in butter and syrup. “With two teams, we should be able to knock a good chunk off that list. Or pin somebody to the freaking wall.”

“I’ll hope for the latter. What would you like me to do for you today?”

“Just focus on world domination.”

“I always do, as I find it entertaining and profitable. But multitasking, I’d enjoy an assignment.”

“Follow the money. Yeah, yeah, you always do that, too.” She ate waffles. “Every day would dawn brighter with waffles.”

“We haven’t quite hit dawn yet.”

“When we do, it’ll be brighter. Anything you can scrape up on the stocks, the art. If we don’t make real progress today . . .” She stabbed another bite of waffle. “Eightteen dead. When I weigh that against the line crossed by using the unregistered, the dead win.”

“It’s likely I’d find more without being hampered by CompuGuard.”

“Yeah, and it wouldn’t be the first time. I need to push the interviews first. If I thought they were done, if I didn’t feel dead certain they’ve got another scheme in the works—”

“You could push through it your way. And you’d find them, I’ve no doubt of it, sooner or later.”

“It’s the later that’s burning my gut. Contingencies. They had to have them, at least one contingency. One more they could work either to replace one that went south, or for the triple play.”

“You think they’d always planned for three, even four,” Roarke concluded.

“They had to rush the timing of the first two when the merger meeting scheduled on top of the art opening. They probably planned to hit both, but with a little more time between. And then a third. They’re gamblers. Three’s a lucky number, right?”

“All number’s are lucky when you hit them. But,” he added. “The gamblers I’ve known—the professional, the passionate, the addicted, they’re a superstitious lot. Added to it, they’d believe in the streak.”

“These two are on one. Another stock or art deal? Those are most logical. But I can’t find anything that fits, not in New York. How many major mergers, how many artists on the brink? Not that many right in New York City, not on top of each other.”