Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(31)

“How about you?”

“Food?” He couldn’t recall she’d ever asked that question of him. “I had an actual breakfast, then lunch in the exec dining room where I talked to entirely too many people for entirely too long. It quite spoiled my appetite.”

“Is there a problem? Should I hock some of the zillion pieces of jewelry you’ve given me?”

“I think we can muddle through. No problem.” But he circled his neck under the spray. “Just a few people who needed to be reminded of their priorities, and who pays them.”

“Were you Scary Roarke?”

He smiled, flipped a finger down the dent in her chin. “I may have been. In any case, it’s done, and shouldn’t have to be repeated anytime soon.”

“You got to kick ass today. I didn’t. That would’ve been good. But I did intimidate a really rich idiot, so that’s something.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Probably. Candida Mobsley.”

“Ah yes. She is an idiot. Is she involved?”

“I don’t think so. She’s too much of a moron to have planned any of this, and if she’d paid to have it done, she’d have bollocksed it up when I was grilling her.”

He smiled at her use of his slang. “I suspect you’re right about that.”

“Anyway, I’ve got a whole list of firms—why do they mostly always have three names—I want to run by you. Just for an opinion if you know them.”

She stepped out, into the drying tube while he cut the water temperature by ten degrees and sighed at the reprieve.

Back in the bedroom, she put on comfortable clothes and frowned at the cat.

“He f**king curled his lip at me.” Thoroughly insulted, she turned to Roarke. “How does a cat curl his lip? Get over it, fatso,” she ordered. “I ditched the pants. I showered. It’s over.”

“He’s annoyed, Summerset tells me, as you were around another cat.”

“It wasn’t a cat. It was a goddamn panther.”

“You were at the zoo?”

“The rich idiot has a white panther cub to go with her white penthouse, which made me snow-blind. Everything’s white, except her assistant wore black. I figure so she can find him in that snowstorm she lives in. And I need to check and make sure she’s got the proper license for that panther. What kind of idiot keeps a jungle cat as a pet?”

“She would, if someone told her it was fashionable or rebellious.”

Eve narrowed her eyes. “Did you do that moron?”

Roarke shook his head. “That’s a very crass term considering our personal welcome home. No, I didn’t do, bang, nail, or bounce on that particular moron.”

“Because?”

“Moron would or certainly should be self-explanatory. Add she’s not, in any way, my type. Booze, illegals, stupidity, reckless behavior, and spoiled right down to the marrow.”

“Good to know. How about Alva Moonie?”

“While not a moron, no, I’ve not done, banged, etc., Alva Moonie. Is she involved as more than a witness?”

“No. No, not that I can see, or feel. I liked her. She said I met her before.”

“It’s likely we exchanged greetings at some fund-raiser or event. Any other women on the list I may have potentially banged?”

She grinned at him. “Not really. I wondered about those two since you’re all filthy rich.”

“You’ve some grime on you, Lieutenant.”

“That’s just transferred grime.” She held out a hand. “You’re going to come in handy on this one because you’re filthy rich and you’re not a moron, and you actually understand portfolios and all that crap.”

“All that crap is what’s paid for the wine we’re both going to have—and the food.”

“I get a paycheck,” she reminded him. “I say I paid for the food tonight.”

“As you like.” He gave her hand a tug, brought her close, kissed her again. “But I’m by God not having pizza after this endless day.”

“Good. I want a steak. A really, big, fat steak.”

“There we are in perfect accord. Let’s eat, drink, and talk murder and money.”

She let out a satisfied breath. “I love you.”

7

IN YEARS PAST, THE CLOSEST EVE CAME TO real cow-meat steak on a cop’s salary was an anemic soy burger. She’d have matched that with fake fries, burying them in salt and been fine with it. Now a perfectly grilled New York strip sat on her plate, beside actual fried potatoes piled like golden shoestrings, and crispy green beans mixed with slivers of almonds.

Not a bad deal.

But the better one, better than real meat and potatoes, was having someone sitting across from her she could run through the case with. In those years past most of her meals, such as they were, had been eaten alone or on the fly. Maybe she’d catch something with Mavis, and there’d been plenty of crappy food chowed down with another cop.

But sitting in her own home, with a real meal, and a man who not only listened but got it? She’d won life’s trifecta.

“You’ve eliminated a personal motive,” Roarke commented after she’d laid out the basics.

“It was business. I can’t find one whiff of personal for motive or in execution. I’m going to ask Mira for a profile,” she added, referring to the department’s top shrink and profiler. “But this was what I think of as a semi-professional hit.”