Strangers in Death (In Death #26)(24)

Her eyes, gilded by firelight, stayed on his; her lips curved. When they sprang over that shining edge together, his heart simply soared.

Under him, limp, her heart still pounding, she sighed. “Now, that,” she said, “should definitely do it.”

In the morning, she glugged down coffee to spark her brain into handling the basic chore of getting dressed. Roarke, already dressed, alert—as was his irritating habit—scanned the stock reports while he drank his coffee in the bedroom sitting area.

“Warmer today, if you’re interested.”

She spoke from the depths of the closet. “Warmer than what?”

“Than a witch’s teat.”

Considering that, she buttoned on a plain white shirt. “I’m going to work here this morning, have Peabody meet me. Easier to go from here to the address Ava’s staying at. Do you know a Brigit Plowder?”

“Socialite, married to Peter Plowder—architect. Her family builds—bridges and tunnels most particularly. She’s a respected philanthropic figure. Puts her money where her cause is. Would this be where the widow’s staying?”

“Yeah.” Eve came out, sat down to put on her boots. Then narrowed her eyes at Roarke’s long look. “What? It’s a jacket. It’s just a damn jacket. I don’t care if it goes with the pants.”

“Pity then, as it goes very well. I was thinking how stylishly professional you look, which is probably a happy accident. But nonetheless.”

“Stylishly professional.” She sniffed, leaned over to steal a wedge of melon from his plate. “I’ve got to get my stylishly professional ass to work.”

“Eat.”

“I’ll get a bagel or whatever in my office. I need to hit those financials, since somebody interfered with police business last night.”

“I should be arrested.”

“Pal, that goes without saying.” She leaned over to kiss him. “Later. Oh, nearly forgot. Peabody’s going on Now tonight.”

“Is she? She must be…” He thought of Peabody. “Terrified.”

“Yeah. She’ll get over it.”

In her office, she tackled the financials. She remembered the bagel, then forgot it again. When she heard the clump of Peabody’s winter boots, she rubbed her already blurry eyes.

“You take over here.”

Peabody stopped, blinked. “Take over where?”

“These stinking financials. Give them another fifteen minutes, then we’ll take Ava.”

“Okay.” Peabody draped a bag over the back of Eve’s sleep chair.

“What’s that?”

“It’s an outfit. For tonight. In case I spill something on what I’m wearing, or in case what I’m wearing’s stupid. McNab liked it, but he wears Day-Glo half the time.” Peabody pulled off her outerwear to reveal a ruby-red suit with small silver buttons running down the front. “What do you think? Does it look right?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” Nerves pumping, Peabody brushed at her hair. “And I got stupid hair day going. They fix that, right? They fix that sort of thing. Nadine hired Trina to do hair and makeup so…” Peabody trailed off, pursed her lips. “You look all good and everything today. Seriously up.”

Eve shook her head. Gray pants, white shirt, navy jacket over her weapon harness. What was the deal ? “If we’ve finished our fashion consultation, maybe you could spare a minute for the damn financials.”

“Okay. What do you think about the earrings?”

Eve gave the silver drops a passing glance. “About you wearing them, or about me ripping them off and stuffing them up your nose?”

“Okay,” Peabody said again, and hotfooted it to the desk.

“The computer hasn’t popped out anything from standard searches,” Eve told her. “One more shot, then I’m thinking to pass it on to Roarke. He popped something straight out of the widow’s in about ten minutes last night.”

“He’s got the knack.”

“He popped Charles out.”

Peabody’s head jerked up. “Our Charles?”

“In a manner of. Ava’s been a regular bimonthly client of our favorite LCs for a year and a half.”

“Shit. We’re going to have to interview him.”

“We went over there last night. He is, as expected, coy about the details. We need Ava to clear him for that. But he did tell me that she was a referral.”

“If she was fooling around with a pro it might go to motive.”

“It might. Hitch is she wasn’t hiding it, at least not well. There were straight payments out of her personal debit account. No cover.”

As she considered, Peabody played with one of the short dangles at her ear. “So, she doesn’t think to hide the payments. The husband finds out, they go around about it. Fight, divorce is threatened. And she kills him, sexual overtones.”

“She was out of the country.”

“Right. Hired hit?”

“Too elaborate.” Just too damn fussy, Eve thought. “Unless, it plays out like that, and she hired someone who tailors the hit to the client’s specifications.”

“Fantasy Hits R Us.”