Obsession in Death (In Death #40)(20)

Had the killer known her?

More and more Eve doubted that genuine personal link.

Known of her, yes. Researched and studied her just as Bastwick researched and studied. Watched her.

Had to know, had to be certain the target was alone.

Some way of accessing her calendar?

That could take it back to a coworker again, or support staff at the law firm. And that took it back to personal, didn’t it?

It didn’t feel personal.

Set up the board and book at home, she told herself as she drove through the gates. Start fresh, start over. Back to the beginning.

The house dazzled, the rise and spread of gray stone with its towers and turrets all sparkling with lights, draped with greenery. It reminded her they’d barely finished Christmas, were days away from a new year.

And a planned getaway. To the warm, Eve thought as she parked and stepped out into the bite of the wind. To the quiet, just the two of them, on an island surrounded by blue water, as far away from murder and business as they could get.

A place she could have mai tais of her own, if she wanted.

And now…

She had an UNSUB – no gender, no age, no face, only the probability of race. And the only tangible motive was herself.

Blue water, white beaches, and solitude weren’t looking very likely.

She stepped inside the lofty foyer, sparkling like the exterior with lights of the season. And spotted Summerset, naturally, in his funereal black, with their pudge of a cat sitting at his feet.

Both eyed her coolly.

“Ah, you remembered your home address.”

“I thought if I stalled long enough, you’d crawl back in your coffin. No luck there,” she added as the cat padded over to wind through her legs like a fat ribbon of fur.

“It’s a pity you didn’t have the luck to remember to make contact when you intend to be late, particularly on an evening when plans are in place.”

She had her coat half off, stopped dead. “What plans?”

“If you bothered to consult your calendar – ever – you’d be aware you and Roarke are booked to attend a benefit at Carnegie Hall in…” Deliberately he looked at his wrist unit. “Thirty-six minutes.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” she said a third time as she tossed her coat over the newel post. She started to rush up the stairs, stopped herself.

He irritated the marrow from her bones, but that was beside the point. Or could very well be a dangerous point.

“You get deliveries here all the time, right?”

“We do, yes.”

“Until I say different, you don’t open the door to any delivery person. You don’t open the gates unless you’re expecting said delivery and verify the identification of the delivery company and the individual or individuals making that delivery.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I don’t want to have to actually bury that coffin I suspect you sleep in. No exceptions,” she added, and hurried upstairs with the cat racing behind her.

She arrowed straight toward the bedroom, struggling to think how she could toggle around from cop to Roarke’s wife in thirty minutes.

When it came to public appearances, she could barely manage it with thirty days’ notice. Which, of course, she’d had. And forgotten.

Carnegie Hall – a benefit for… Oh, what the hell did it matter? She’d screwed up, again.

She dashed into the bedroom to see her husband completing the knot on his elegant black tie.

Christ, he was gorgeous. All that silky black hair framing a face artists and angels wept over. Madly blue eyes, full, sculpted mouth, bones that would keep him deliriously handsome after he hit the century mark.

He looked as if he’d been born wearing a tux. No one could look at him and see the Dublin street rat he’d once been.

“There you are.” Ireland wafted through his voice as he smiled, as those magic eyes met hers in the mirror.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No need.” He turned, moved to her – a living poster for tall, dark, and handsome. He cupped her chin, brushed his thumb over the shallow dent in it before he lowered his head to kiss her. “Being a bit late isn’t a crime – and I’ll be with a cop in any case.”

“Right. Well, I’ll…” What? she wondered. What would she do?

“Your gown, shoes, bag, appropriate coat are all in the front of your closet. Jewelry, unless you want something else, in the boxes on your dresser.”

“Okay, right.” She got as far as the sitting area, then just dropped down on the sofa. Galahad changed directions from his journey to the bed and leaped up beside her.

“I have a feeling I’m overdressed for what we’ll be doing this evening,” Roarke commented.

“I’m sorry. I need a minute.” She scrubbed her hands over her face, then just left them there.

“Eve.” Amused resignation shifted to concern as Roarke went over, sat on her other side. “Is someone hurt?”

“Bastwick. Leanore Bastwick. She’s dead.”

“Yes, I heard that on the media bulletin, assumed you’d caught it, and that’s why you were late. But you barely knew her.”

“It’s not her. Of course it’s her,” Eve corrected. “But it’s me. I didn’t let it hit me until just now. It can’t get in the way.”