Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(17)

3


Eve woke by sluggish degrees, like someone who’d been drugged. When her brain roused enough to work her eyes, she opened them. It had already revived enough—first degree—to smell coffee.

Roarke drank his on the sofa in the sitting area, a tablet in one hand, the morning stock reports scrolling on the wall screen.

He’d already dressed as the ruler of the business world. Dark gray suit today, a shirt a few shades lighter, a perfectly knotted tie that picked up the gray in thin stripes on a navy blue background.

Since his half boots were the exact shade of the suit, she imagined one had been made for him to match the other. His socks, she decided, probably matched, too.

And, though it was just shy of oh-six-hundred, she bet her ass he’d already wheeled deals or made decisions and given orders in any number of foreign countries and off-planet projects.

She, on the other hand, had to order herself to sit up, to get the hell out of bed, without groaning.

“Morning, darling.”

She grunted—best she could do—stumbled to the AutoChef for life-giving coffee and, gulping it, stumbled into the bathroom and the shower.

“Full jets, one-oh-one degrees.” She gulped more coffee while the glorious caffeine and the hot pump of water woke her the rest of the way.

If world order depended on it, maybe she could go back to all those years of fake coffee and piss-trickle showers.

Maybe.

And maybe it was a damn good thing she wasn’t responsible for world order, just murder in New York.

And, she decided, if her thoughts could wind around all that, she was definitely awake.

Ten minutes later, feeling human again, she came out wrapped in a robe, noted Roarke had two covered plates and a pot of coffee on the table. The man, as he’d proven countless times in countless ways, worked fast.

He lowered the tablet, closed it in a way that had her cop senses quivering, just a little.

“What’s on the tablet?” she asked as she walked over to join him.

“My tablet? Many things.”

She just twirled a finger, poured more coffee. “Let’s see it, pal.”

“It might be a lewd photo from my lover, Angelique.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll frame it with the ones from my lovers, Julio and Raoul, the twins. Meanwhile.”

Stalling, he lifted the covers from the plates, distracting her for a moment.

Oatmeal. She should have known. At least he’d surrounded the bowl with some bacon, a scoop of scrambled egg that looked cheesy, and there was a dish of berries, another of brown sugar—the real thing.

But still.

“This should start us both off well for the day.”

“Your day started a couple hours ago, easy.”

“Not my day with you.”

“Uh-huh.” She went for bacon first, saw Galahad’s whiskers twitch and he strolled—as if just out for a little exercise—toward the table. “Tablet.”

First Roarke gave the cat a look that had Galahad sitting down to vigorously wash. “Charmaine sent me the draft of a design for the bedroom, late last night, it seems. When we were otherwise occupied. She just wants to know if she’s going in the right direction. I didn’t think you’d want to see something this early on, or want to think about it.”

Eve just twirled her finger again as she added heaps of brown sugar, heaps of berries to the oatmeal.

“I’ll put it on the wall screen.”

Roarke swiped the tablet. The strange scrolling symbols faded to the design.

Eve ate, frowned at it.

“First, those curtain things, they’re too fussy. Too, I don’t know, regal or something.”

“I agree.”

“I guess I mostly like the way she’s got this area here laid out. The couch is roomier, but it’s—”

“Too ornate. I’ve actually seen a piece in the Sotheby’s catalog I like. I’ll send it to both of you, and see. And the bed itself?”

Ornate was the word there, too—and massive with its four tall and burly posts and both the high headboard and the long footboard edged with a frame carved with Celtic symbols. All dark, rich, glossy wood that looked old and . . . important.

Still.

“I . . .”

“If you don’t like it—”

“That’s the thing. I do, a lot. I don’t know why. It’s not simple, and I figured I’d talk you into simple. But—I don’t usually care about stuff like this, but, man, that’s a hell of a bed. Where did she find it?”

“I found it, months ago. It’s in storage as I bought it on impulse, then realized you’d more likely want the simple.” As she continued to study it, he picked up his coffee. “There’s a story with it, if you want to hear it.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Well then. There was an Irishman of some wealth and station who had this built as his marriage bed, though he had yet to find his bride.”

“An optimist.”

“You could say. When it was complete and moved into his manor, he was still a bachelor, so he had the room with the bed closed off. Years went by, and he was no longer young, no longer believed he would find the woman to share that bed with him, or his life, his home, to make a family with him.”