Delusion in Death (In Death #35)(29)

“When?”

“I can’t get into this now.” Leave it alone. Push it back. “Jesus, Roarke, look at those boards, at those faces.”

He took her shoulders. “Look at me. And let me tell you what I’m looking at. You’re pale and shadowed. You’re still trembling. So look at me, Eve, and understand I love you beyond anything and everything there is. And I need this from you.”

She preferred the temper. Temper she could fight. But he defeated her with the restrained—although barely—calm. And the utter misery in his eyes.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Tomorrow.”

“I have to—”

“Tomorrow, Eve. I want your word on it. For me.” He laid his lips on her forehead. “And for them,” he added, turning her to face her victim board.

He knew how to draw a weapon, and use it so skillfully you barely felt the blow. She’d beaten the tears, but she couldn’t beat him, not on this.

“All right. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. My word on it.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m a little pissed you maneuvered me into this.”

“All right, I won’t thank you. I’m a little pissed I had to maneuver you into it. Let’s go sleep it off. I’ll have you up early enough,” he began as she started to protest. “You can go over what you’ve got, and what I dug out for you well before the briefing. You’ll need a booster if you don’t get a few hours down. You hate taking them almost as much as you hate losing … let’s call it a debate, with me.”

He had that right. “Five-thirty should do it.”

“Five-thirty then.”

Without discussion, they walked to the bedroom. In silence they readied for bed. She slipped in, shut her eyes. And saw his face—the worry, the temper, the misery. Heard all that as she replayed his words to her.

“I know this is hard for you,” she said in the dark. “I’m sorry.”

His arm came around her. “I know it’s hard for you to talk of it even to someone you trust as you trust Mira. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. But I’m still a little pissed.”

“It’s all right. So am I.”

She turned to him, curled to him, and let herself sleep.

6

She woke to the scent of coffee, And wondered if that was how mornings in heaven smelled. She opened her eyes to soft light, and Roarke sitting on the side of the bed.

Definitely had earmarks of heaven.

“Your wake-up call, Lieutenant.”

She grunted, shoved up, reached for the coffee he held. He moved it out of reach.

“What makes you think this is yours?”

“Because you’re you.”

“So I am.” He brushed at her hair, a light, easy touch, but his eyes took a deep and thorough study of her face. “You slept well enough, I think.”

“Yeah.” Taking the coffee, she breathed in the scent like air, then drank. Then gave her mind a chance to catch up.

He’d dressed, though he’d yet to put on his jacket and tie. The cat ignored them both, sprawled on the foot of the bed like a lumpy blanket.

A glance at the clock showed her it was precisely five-thirty.

She didn’t know how he did it.

He watched her come around, watched the sleep glaze fade until her eyes were alert, focused.

“And now you’re you,” he decided.

“If there wasn’t coffee, the entire world would shuffle around like zombies.”

She moved quickly now, and by the time she’d dressed he had breakfast set up in the sitting area. She eyed the oatmeal suspiciously.

“It’s what you need,” he said, anticipating her. Then trailed a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Don’t be a baby about it.”

“I’m an adult. I thought when you got to be an adult you could eat what you want.”

“You can, when your stomach also reaches maturity.”

Because arguing about it would waste time she didn’t have, she sat, spooned some up. Since it was loaded with apples and cinnamon, she tried to think of it as a weird apple Danish.

“I’ve copied the data I compiled and sent it to your computer,” he began, “but I can give you a summary.”

“Summarize away.”

“There are some life insurance policies large enough to be tempting.”

She loaded a piece of toast with some sort of jam. Enough jam, she thought, might disguise the weird apple Danish. “You have a different level of what’s tempting, monetarily, than the rest of the population.”

“It wasn’t always so, was it?” He ate his own oatmeal with apparent contentment. And probably actually thought of it as oatmeal. “While it’s true a certain type will kill for loose change, that’s not what you’re after here. We have a couple of victims who stood to inherit family money, and some substantially. There’s also the matter of salaries, pay scales, positions, bonuses. A large percentage of the victims were executives, junior executives, which means they certainly stood ahead of someone, or several someones on that corporate ladder.”

As he spoke he simply lifted a finger, and the cat—who’d been bellying over like some furry combatant, stopped.