Portrait in Death (In Death #16)(60)

Surely a man was entitled to a little time to think, for Christ's sake, when his whole life had been turned inside out.

He dragged a hand through his hair and cursed under his breath as he walked back to Summerset's quarters.

He heard the blast of music from three rooms away, and nearly turned on his heel in retreat. Mavis. God knew he adored the woman, but he didn't have the energy for her just now.

On the other hand, with her there, he could make this duty visit all the quicker.

At any other time it would have amused him to see his dignified majordomo stripped to the waist and stretched out in a sleep chair having blue goo slathered on his face. Trina, one of the few people on or off planet who actively terrified his wife, was doing the honors as she shuffled her feet to the beat of one of Mavis's music discs.

She'd chopped off her raven black hair close to the scalp and had a neon pink design of a butterfly dyed over the crown. She'd repeated the motif with temporary tattoos-or so he assumed-at the corner of her mouth, and in a running line, necklace style, over her shoulders and along the tops of her impressive br**sts.

Her partner in crime was pouring some sort of pink foam into a wide pitcher. There was no way to tell whether it was intended for topical or internal use.

Mavis still had her bells on, and had donned a sunny yellow romper with a woman wearing a black g-string and leather boots painted across the butt.

The PA was wearing an eye mask and a headset while her feet soaked in bubbling blue water. Her hair was coated with something thick and green.

Pitcher in hand, Mavis turned and spotted him. "You're home! Welcome to Summerset's Totally Iced Salon. Want a strawberry smash?"

He assumed she meant the pink foam. "Thanks, no."

"Dallas is hiding upstairs. Drag her down for us, will you? Trina wants to use this new skin product on her, and she needs-"

She broke off as she got a good look at his face. There were shadows under his eyes. She'd known him more than a year, and this was the first time she'd seen him wear shadows. "Everything okay?"

"Fine." He stepped over to Summerset. "And you?"

The eyes that peered out of the blue registered mortification, a little panic, and the faintest flicker of hope. "They really shouldn't be bothering with me. I know we have a number of things to discuss now that you're home, so-"

"Actually, I have some work to see to."

"Yes, but-" Summerset groped for Roarke's hand, gripped it like a vice. "As I explained to everyone, we need to go over the Rundale report, and the other matter."

"Can't be working the old guy when he's busted up." Trina sent Roarke a dismissive glance. "He needs to relax. What he really needs is a full week of intensive treatments. I might be able to turn his skin around. Hair's not bad." She gave it a testing tug, transferring goo. "It'll be better when I'm done."

"No doubt."

"Roarke." Summerset all but croaked it, then cleared his throat. "If I could have a moment."

"Later."

"Now." This time he snapped it out. "If you ladies would excuse us, for just a few minutes."

"No problem," Mavis said before Trina could object. "Treen, let's take these smashes into the kitchen. Don't worry about her," she added with a gesture at the PA. "She's on a relaxation and meditation program. She's zonked."

With a last worried glance at Roarke, she grabbed Trina's hand and pulled her out of the room.

"They don't mean any harm," Roarke began.

"I'm not concerned about that. I'm concerned about you. You don't look well."

"I'm busy."

"You're always busy. Are you ill?"

"For Christ's sake. No, I'm not ill. Bloody hell, music off!" The blast crashed into silence. "I've a great deal to do. More as you're incapacitated."

"I'm hardly incapacitated. I'm-"

"You broke your f**king leg. So lie back and deal with it. If you've gotten yourself into the bog here with these women, you'll have to lie back and deal with that as well. I can't help you. There's no point in whining about it."

Summerset's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. "I don't whine, nor do I tolerate being spoken to by you in such a matter."

"Don't have much choice in that, do you? I'm not a child requiring lessons in manners any longer. As long as you're in my employ, I'll speak to you as I wish. And frankly, I'm not going to stand here wasting my time arguing with a half-naked man with God knows what all over his face."

Roarke strode out, leaving Summerset blinking after him. The twist in his gut had him doing something he'd never have considered otherwise. He reached for the in-house 'link.

"What?" Eve snarled, then grimaced at the image on her screen. "Mother of God, my eyes! Block the video for sweet Jesus' sake."

"Quiet. Something's wrong with Roarke. He's not well."

"What? What do you mean? He's sick?"

"I said he's not well. I expect you to do something about it as I'm unable to."

"Where is he?"

"He's home. Find him. Fix it."

"Done" was all she said.