One
She spent the morning with a murderer.
Hed been under guard in a hospital bed recovering from a near-fatal woundcourtesy of a misstep by his partner in crimebut shed had no sympathy.
She was glad hed lived, wished him a long, long lifein an off-planet concrete cage. She believed the case she and her team had built to be solidas did the nearly gleeful prosecuting attorney. The sprinkles on the icing of this particular cupcake was the confession shed finessed out of him as hed sneered at her.
Given that hed tried to kill her less than twenty-four hours before, the sneer was small change.
Sylvester Moriarity would receive the best medical care New York could provide, then hed join his friend Winston Dudley behind bars until what promised to be a sensational, media-soaked trial, given their family fortunes and names.
Case closed, she told herself as she pushed her way through the heat-soaked Saturday afternoon traffic toward home. The dead now had the only justice she could offer, and their families and friends the comfortif comfort it wasthat those responsible would pay.
But it haunted her: the waste, the cruelty, the utter selfishness of two men who were so puffed up by their own importance, their station, that theyd considered murder a form of entertainment, a twisted sort of indulgence.
She manuevered through New York traffic, barely hearing the blasts of horns, the annoyingly cheerful hype of the ad blimps heralding midsummer sales at the Sky Mall. Tourists swarmed the cityand likely the Sky Mall as wellchowing down on soy dogs from the smoking glide-carts, looking for souvies and bargains among the shops and street vendors.
A boiling stew, she thought, in the heat and humidity of summer 2060.
She caught the lightning move of a nimble-fingered street thief, bumping through a couple of tourists more intent on gawking at the buildings and their ringing people glides than their own security. He had the wallet in the goody slit of his baggy cargos in half a finger snap and slithered like a snake through the forest of people lumbering across the crosswalk.
If shed been on foot, or at least headed in the same direction, shed have pursuedand the chase mightve lifted her mood. But he and his booty smoked away, and hed no doubt continue to score well on todays target shoot.
Life went on.
When Lieutenant Eve Dallas finally drove through the stately gates of home, she reminded herself of that again. Life went onand in her case, today, that included a cookout, a horde of cops, and her odd assortment of friends. A couple years before, it wouldve been the last way shed have spent a Saturday, but things had changed.
Her living arrangements certainly had, from a sparsely furnished apartment to the palace-fortress Roarke had built. Her husbandand that was a change, even if theyd just celebrated their second year of marriagehad the vision, the need, and, God knew, the means to create the gorgeous home with its myriad rooms filled with style and function. Here the grass was rich summer green, the trees and flowers plentiful.
Here was peace and warmth and welcome. And she needed them, maybe just a little desperately at the moment.
She left her vehicle at the front entrance, knowing Summerset, Roarkes majordomo, would send it to its place in the garage. And hoped, just this once, he wasnt looming like a scarecrow in the foyer.
She wanted the cool and quiet of the bedroom she shared with Roarke, a few minutes of solitude. Time, she thought as she strode toward the doors, to shake off this mood before the invasion.
Halfway to the doors, she stopped. The front wasnt the only way in, for Christs sakeand why hadnt she ever thought of that before? On impulse, she jogged aroundlong legs eating up groundcrossed one of the patios, turned through a small, walled garden, and went in through a side door. Into a parlor or sitting room or morning roomwho knew? she thought with a roll of tired brown eyesand made her way as sneakily as the street thief across the hallway, down and into the more familiar territory of the game room, where she knew the lay of the land.
She called the elevator and considered it a small, personal victory when the doors shut her in. Master bedroom, she ordered, then just leaned back against the wall, shut her eyes, while the unit navigated its way.
When she stepped into the bedroom, she raked a hand through her messy cap of brown hair, stripped the jacket off her lanky frame, and tossed it at the handiest chair. She stepped onto the platform and sat on the side of the lake-sized bed. If shed believed she could escape into sleep, shed have stretched out, but there was too much in her head, in her belly, for rest.
So she simply sat, veteran cop, Homicide lieutenant whod walked through blood and death more times than she could count, and mourned a little.
Roarke found her there.
He could gauge her state of mind by the slump of her shoulders, by the way she sat, staring out the window. He walked to her, sat beside her, took her hand.
I shouldve gone with you.
She shook her head but leaned against him. No place for civilians in Interview, and nothing you couldve done anyway if Id stretched it and brought you in as expert consultant. I had him cold and cut through his battalion of expensive lawyers like a fucking machete. I thought the PA was going to kiss me on the mouth.
He brought the hand he held to his lips. And still youre sad.
She closed her eyes, comforted a little by the solidity of him beside her, by that whisper of Ireland in his voice, even by the scent so uniquely him. Not sad, or... I dont know what the hell I am. I should be buzzed. I did the job; I slammed it shutand I got to look them both in the face and let them know it.
She shoved up, paced to the window, away again, and realized it wasnt peace and comfort she wanted after all. Not quite yet. It was a place to let it go, let it out, spew the rage.
He was pissed. Moriarity. Lying there with that hole in his chest his pal put into him with his freaking antique Italian foil.
The one meant for you, Roarke reminded her.
Yeah. And hes pissed, seriously pissed, Dudley missed and it wasnt me on a slab at the morgue.
I expect he was, Roarke said coolly. But thats not whats got you going.
She paused a minute, just looked at him. Stunning blue eyes in a stunning face, the mane of thick black hair, that poets mouth set firm now because shed made him think of her on that slab at the morgue.
You know they never had a chance to take me. You were there.
And still he drew blood, didnt he? Roarke nodded at the healing wound on her arm.
She tapped it. And this helped sew them up. Attempted murder of a police officer just trowels on the icing. They didnt make their next score. Now they have to end their competition with a tie, which oddly enough is what I think they always wanted. They just planned for the contest to go on a lot longer. And you know what the prize was at the end? Do you know what the purse for this goddamn tournament was?
I dont, no, but I see you got it out of Moriarity today.
Yeah, I wound him up so tight he had to let it spring out. A dollar. A fucking dollar, Roarkejust one big joke between them. And it makes me sick.
