Witness in Death (In Death #10)(67)

Summerset simply strode over, the cat at his heels. "So I observe. If you wish to know the contents of the house, I suggest you discuss it with Roarke."

"I can't because I've killed him, disposed of his body, and now I'm going to hold the biggest auction, on or off planet, in the history of civilization."

She jabbed a finger against something called Waterford, Dublin pattern, only because she recognized it as the city where Roarke had been born. Then she looked up with a scowl toward the hovering Summerset. "Go away."

But his attention had shifted from her to the table under the glass dome of the observation balcony. She'd used the Irish linen, he noted. An excellent choice, which was probably blind luck. The Georgian candlesticks, white tapers. There were dozens of other candles, all white, scattered around the lounging room, as yet unlighted.

Galahad the cat pranced over and leaped onto the satin pillows on the love seat.

"Jesus Christ, they're just forks and knives!"

The combination of horror and frustration in her tone had Summerset's lips twitching. "Which china pattern have you selected?"

"I don't know. Will you get out of here? This is a private party."

He tapped her hand aside before she could select, scanned her other choices, and ordered the proper flatware. "You've neglected to order napkins."

"I was getting to them."

He turned a pitying eye on her. She was wearing a cotton robe, had yet to enhance her face. Her hair was standing in spikes from the constant swipe of her fingers.

But he gave her points for the attempt. In fact, he was pleasantly surprised by her taste. Though some of her selections were unconventional in combinations, they managed to blend into a rather charming ambiance.

"When one plans a special meal," he said, taking care to look down the long line of his nose at her, "One requires the proper accompaniments."

"What am I doing here? Playing Space Attack? Now, if you'd just go slither under the door again, I could finish up."

"Flowers are necessary."

"Flowers?" Her stomach pitched to her feet. "I knew that." She wasn't going to ask. She'd saw her tongue off with her teeth before she asked.

For a humming ten seconds they simply stared at each other. He took pity on her, though he told himself he was simply maintaining his authority as majordomo. "I would suggest roses, the Royal Silver."

"I guess we've got those."

"Yes, they can be accessed. You'll also require music."

Her palms started to sweat. Annoyed, she rubbed them on the robe. "I was going to program something." Or other.

"I assume you intend to dress for the evening."

"Shit." She heaved out a breath, stared hard at the cat who was staring hard back at her. She suspected he was grinning.

"It's part of my duties to organize matters such as this. If you'll go put on something... more, I'll arrange the rest."

She opened her mouth to agree. Already the knots in her stomach loosened. Then she shook her head and felt them tighten right back up again. "No, I have to do it myself. That's the point." She massaged her forehead. She was getting a headache. Perfect.

His face remained stern, cold, but inside, he softened like jelly. "Then you'd better hurry. Roarke will be home within the hour."

She would, Summerset concluded as he left her alone, need every minute of it.

His mind was on business when he got home. His last meeting of the day had involved a textile conglomerate looking for a buyout. He had to decide if he was looking to buy.

The company, and most of its subsidiaries, had been sloppily run. Roarke had no sympathy for sloppy business practices. As a result, his initial offer had been insultingly low.

The fact that their negotiator hadn't been nearly as insulted as he should have been sent up red flags. He would have to do more research before he took the next step.

The problem would be on one of their two off-planet sites, he calculated. It might be worth a trip to study them firsthand.

There had been a time he would have simply arranged his schedule and done so. But in the past year it had become increasingly less appealing to leave home, even for the short term.

He had, he thought with some amusement at himself, become rooted.

He stopped by Eve's office on the way to his own, was mildly surprised not to find her there, neck deep in her current case. Curiosity had him setting his own work aside and moving to the house scanner.

"Where is Eve?"

Eve is currently in Lounging Room Four, third level, south wing.

"What the hell is she doing in there?"

Would you like to engage monitor?

"No, I'll go see for myself."

He'd never known her to loiter in that area of the house. The fact was, he'd never known her to lounge unless he nagged, seduced, or conned her into it.

It occurred to him it might be pleasant to have their meal there, relax together with a bottle of wine, and shake their respective days from their minds.

He'd have to talk her into it.

Thinking this, he walked into the room. If she'd been looking in his direction, she would have caught one of the rare moments when her husband was completely flabbergasted.

The room was lit with dozens of white candles, and the fragrance of them waltzed with the tender perfume of dozens of silver roses. Crystal glinted, silver gleamed, and the romance of harp strings wept in the air.