New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(102)

“So, how’s your wife?”

“Same as always. She’s out taking one of those pottery classes. Why?”

“No reason.” Jesus, she was actually making small talk. She needed to get the hell back to New York. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

“Get some sleep, Dallas. A pair of B-and-E men could hide in the shadows under your eyes.”

“I’ll get there.”

Since even the idea of sleep made her twitchy, she rose, walked over to Roarke’s office. “He has to have another account.”

“For paying the rent or the mortgage, the expenses of the unidentified second location,” Roarke finished. “I’m looking.” He sat back, studied her. “I need to deal with Hong Kong. That should give you time to start your search on the security and soundproofing.”

“That’s next.” She left him to it, started her own work.

High-end location, high-end services. Everything aboveboard on this one, she mused. Everything clean and shiny.

New?

She thought of the cranes all over the city, the new buildings popping up like glossy weeds. Custom-build maybe. He could have the amenities installed as it was constructed, designed with his needs in mind rather than rehabbing, tearing out, patching up.

She started to get up again, give Roarke that angle. And remembered Hong Kong. Maybe he was faster, but she could handle the task.

“Computer, run search on buildings constructed in Dallas within the last two years. Central location, residential accommodations.”

She closed her eyes, went through her list of requirements.

He was there, she thought. Right now, sitting in his new digs, stewing over the change of plans. But putting things in order, oh yeah, putting everything in place. And telling himself he liked it better this way. This added more challenge, more fun, would make the kill more meaningful.

But wishing, really wishing, he could start his latest collection.

Can’t let that happen, she told herself. Can’t have another pair of eyes in my head.

When she felt herself drifting, she straightened in her chair. And when the computer announced the results—what the hell was with this city that it couldn’t make it work with the buildings it already had?—she got up for more coffee.

Roarke found her hunched over the machine. He could all but see the fatigue sitting on her shoulders like stones.

“Finished with Hong Kong?”

“For the moment.”

“I’m working this angle that he bought or leased something recently constructed. He could have the work done during the build, customize the design. The problem is they build too damn much down here, but I’m filing it down.”

“Good thought.” He’d had the same thought himself, and was doing an ancillary search. But didn’t see the point in mentioning it. “Come with me.”

“You got something.”

“It’s running, and will continue to run—as yours will,” he said, leaning over and keying in a command, “without both of us sitting here until blood tears out of our eyes.”

“I need to cross-reference the—”

“Which the machine will do.” He simply lifted her to her feet.

“Look I’m not ready to sleep yet.”

“All right. There are other ways to rest, relax, and take a break.”

“Yeah.” She smirked. “You’d think that.”

“Sex, sex, and more sex. And you wonder why I married you.”

“You’ll just have to put that program on hold,” she said, but he pulled her through the bedroom, bypassing the bed, and into the bathroom.

He’d filled the enormous tub sunk into the floor. She could smell the fragrance of the water, something slightly floral and earthy. Soothing. He’d lit candles so the light shimmered soft, and again soothing.

“A warm bath,” he began. “Or as I know you, hot. Some quiet, and a VR program designed to relax and restore.”

As she’d taken off her jacket and weapon harness in the office, he simply lifted her shirt over her head. “Sit and we’ll deal with the boots.”

“I can undress myself.”

“There you are, denying me my small pleasures.”

So she sat on the padded stool, let him undress her. When she stepped down, then sank into the pale blue perfumed water, her sigh was long and deep.

“Okay, it’s good.”

“Jets on low,” he ordered, and now she moaned as the water pulsed against her aching muscles.

“Okay, even better.”

“Let’s shoot for best. Try the VR.”

She didn’t want virtual reality, and though it made her feel weak and stupid, she didn’t want to be alone. What she wanted was standing there watching her with far too much concern.

“You could stand to rest, relax, and take a break.”

“God, couldn’t I.”

“It’s a really big tub. You could practically do laps.”

“Then I’ll join you. One minute.”

When he left she eased back, looked up. The ceiling wasn’t mirrored—thank Jesus—but some sort of reflective material that caught the candlelight and sparked into little stars.

Nice touch.

He came back with two glasses of wine, which she eyed suspiciously.