Festive in Death (In Death #39)(88)

“We do, yes. You read it, had your lawyer go over it. We signed it and put it away where we never have to think of it again.”

“Yeah, right. I didn’t read it or do the lawyer thing. I just signed it.”

He stopped the car, annoying several cars behind him. “What? Christ Jesus, Eve.”

“Drive, before they get out the bats. What the f**k do I care? Your money was a big strike against you at the start anyway, pal. I never wanted it.”

“That’s not the bloody point.”

She heard the temper—very real—edge his tone and just shrugged it off. “It’s exactly the bloody point. You’ve got billions of billions, organizations, corporations, enterprises on and off planet, and I don’t even want to know all of it anyway. You have people depending on the income they earn from those organizations and the rest. All that needs to be protected, and if you didn’t you’re a moron. You’re not a moron or I wouldn’t have married you and we wouldn’t be talking about this anyway.”

“The bloody point is, you have rights, expectations, rights to those expectations. And speaking of morons, who signs a shagging legal document without reading it first?”

“Roarke Industries needed the legal document. You and I never did.”

Just like that, she saw the temper dissolve. “Ah, Christ, Eve.”

“You think I don’t know the difference? That I didn’t always know? I signed it because I thought: Great, this takes what gives me the jitters out of it. Not all the jitters because getting married gave me plenty. But the main jitters, signed away, and it gave me some peace of mind on it. And if you think I’d take a penny with me if you boot me, you are a moron. I take what I came in with. Except this.” She tapped her wedding ring with her thumb. “And this.” Lifted the diamond from under her shirt. “They’re mine, and if that’s not in there, it’s going to be amended.”

“You leave me speechless.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“I love you beyond speech. Beyond reason.”

“That works for me. You work for me.” She leaned back, looked down. “I might keep these boots, too, and the coat. Yeah, if you boot me, I’m definitely keeping the coat.”

He grinned at her, took her hand.

“You keep Summerset—that’s firm.”

“I’m completely agreeable to all your terms.”

She glanced over as he drove through the gates. “Can I get a lifetime supply of coffee tossed in? That should cover it all.”

Again he stopped the car. This time, he released his safety belt, hers, and pulled her into his arms. “I adore you. But none of this matters as I’d only boot you if you cheated on me. Then there’s the whole business of cutting out your heart and setting it on fire to follow.”

“Right. I forgot about that.” She held on a moment, content. “I’d love to read the Quigley-Copley prenup.”

“Would you like me to arrange that?”

“Tempting, but no. There’s no urgency on it, and I think I stirred up some dust. Maybe Peabody did the same.”

She leaned back. “I’m going to check in with her, write all this up. Then let’s pick a vid where lots of shit blows up, and eat ourselves sick with popcorn.”

“A fine plan, with one addition.”

“What?”

“Let’s drink considerable wine with the popcorn, and have crazed sex after the vid—as a double feature.”

“A better plan. Let’s get it done.”

18

It took some time, getting everything in place to the point she felt justified in taking another few hours off.

She talked to Peabody at length, briefly to McNab. Wrote her update, read Peabody’s. Updated her board, her book.

The Quigley-Copley household was a mess, she mused. Then again in her experience a great many households ran on rocky, pitted, often ugly ground.

“Sometimes we do,” she told the cat, who seemed more interested in taking the next of his long series of naps in her office sleep chair. “The rocky part. We’ve got the smooth running right now, but there are always going to be bumps ahead.”

Stepping back, she hooked her thumbs in her belt loops, studying the ID shots, the way they looked together. “Both attractive—got a polished-up look about them that says money even just in the IDs. They even look like a couple, like two people who should fit. But they just don’t.

“They just don’t,” she repeated, leaned back on her desk.

“People could say that about us,” she said when Roarke moved from his office to hers. “Probably a lot of them do.”

“What would that be?”

“That we don’t fit.”

“I beg to differ.” He walked to her, leaned on the desk beside her. “We fit as cleanly as a bespoke suit.”

“I’m saying what people outside it all might say. It’s perception, pal. Look at them—Quigley, Copley. They look like a set—that’s visual perception, and probable social perception. But when you crack the lid, it’s a bad fit. She’s never going to trust him, not down to the deep, and he’s always going to look for the easy way to get more. Sex, money, prestige. When threatened, or maybe just bored, they lash out. Both of them used sex for that.”