Reunion in Death (In Death #14)(42)

He took a disc out of his pocket. "My schedule for the next five days. You'll be updated on any changes to it."

"Thanks." She took it, then looked up at him. "Thanks," she repeated. "Roarke, I shouldn't have taken it all out on you last night. But you're so damn handy."

"It's all right. The next time you get drunk and surly, I'll just slap you around."

"I guess that's fair." She eased back when he leaned in. "I haven't cleaned up yet. I was going to catch a quick workout while the lists are compiling."

"A workout sounds perfect."

"You're already dressed," she said when he took her hand and started for the elevator.

"The brilliant thing about clothes is you can put them on and take them off as often as you like." He turned, tugged up her sweatshirt when they were in the elevator. "See?"

"We've got house guests wandering all over the place," she reminded him.

"So, we'll lock the door." His clever hands trailed up and closed over her br**sts. "And have a quick, private workout."

"Good thinking."

...

While Eve was finishing off a very satisfying exercise program with a swim, Henry Mouton strode across the polished marble floors of Mouton, Carlston, and Fitch, attorneys at law.

He was sixty-two, film-star handsome athletically trim, and one of the premier corporate attorneys on the East Coast.

He walked with purpose. Lived with purpose. In the thirty-odd years he'd been a lawyer, he had arrived at his office at precisely seven o'clock, five days a week. That routine hadn't altered when he'd established his own firm twenty-three years ago.

Self-made men, Henry liked to say, were works in progress. And work was the key word.

He loved his, loved climbing the slippery, tangled vine of the law.

He approached his life the same way he approached his work. With dedication and routine. He maintained his health, his body, and his mind with habitual exercise, a good diet, and exposure to culture. He vacationed twice yearly, for precisely two weeks in each locale. In February, he selected a warm weather clime, and in August earmarked an interesting location where museums, galleries, and theater would be offered in abundance.

The third weekend of every month, he stayed at his shore home in the Hamptons.

Some said he was rigid, including his two ex-wives, but Henry thought of himself as organized. As his current wife was nearly as detail- and routine-oriented as he was himself, Henry's world was in perfect order.

The main floor of Mouton, Carlston, and Fitch was as grand as a cathedral, and at seven a.m. quiet as a grave.

He walked straight to his corner office, with its eagle-perch view of uptown Manhattan. His desk was a perfect rectangular island topped only by his data and communication center, his sterling pen set, a fresh blotter bordered in burgundy leather, and a silver-framed photo of his wife, the third image to grace that same frame in the past twenty-four years.

He set his briefcase on the blotter, opened it, and removed his memo book and the disc files he'd taken home with him the night before.

While commuter trams streamed the sky at his back, Henry closed the briefcase, set it on the shelf beside his desk for easy access.

A faint sound had him glancing up, and frowning in puzzlement at the neatly dressed brunette in his doorway.

"And who might you be?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Mouton. I'm Janet Drake, the new temp. I heard you come in. I didn't realize anyone would be in this early."

Julianna folded her hands at her waist and offered a shy smile. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You're in early yourself, Miss Drake."

"Yes, sir. It's my first day. I wanted to familiarize myself with the office and organize my cube. I hope that's all right."

"Initiative is appreciated around here." Attractive, Henry thought, well-spoken, eager. "Would you be hoping for a permanent slot here, Miss Drake?"

She worked up a faint flush. "I'd be thrilled to be offered a permanent position with your firm, sir. If my work warrants it."

He nodded. "Carry on, then."

"Yes, sir." She stepped back, stopped. "Could I bring you a cup of coffee? I just programmed fresh."

He let out a grunt as he slid a file disc into his desk unit. "Light, no sugar. Thank you."

In her practical pumps, Julianna clipped back to the staff break room. There was plenty of time. Her careful research told her that the head of the firm arrived in the offices at least thirty minutes, often a full hour before anyone else. But there was always a chance some eager-beaver law clerk or drone, some maintenance droid could come in and interrupt things.

She preferred getting the job done and moving on while the day was young. She was sure Henry himself would applaud the efficiency.

The idea tickled her so much she chuckled as she poisoned his coffee.

"Could've worked out this way nine years ago, Henry," she murmured as she stirred in the cyanide. "But you didn't draw the short straw." She patted her short, dark hair. "Sort of a pity, really. I think you'd have enjoyed being married to me. For the short-term."

She carried the thick, practical mug back into his office. His computer was already blathering about some legal precedent. Outside the glass wall a traffic copter whisked by as the morning commute heated up. Julianna set the coffee by his elbow, stepped back.