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“It’s good.” It was the equivalent of sipping gold.
“I’m glad. The Montcart was my first venture into wineries. Shall we sit and enjoy the fire?”
It was tempting. She could almost see herself sitting there, legs angled toward the fragrant heat, sipping wine as the jeweled light danced.
“This isn’t a social call, Roarke. It’s a murder investigation.”
“Then you can investigate me over dinner.” He took her arm, lifting a brow as she stiffened. “I’d think a woman who’d fight for a candy bar would appreciate a two-inch fillet, medium rare.”
“Steak?” She struggled not to drool. “Real steak, from a cow?”
A smile curved his lips. “Just flown in from Montana. The steak, not the cow.” When she continued to hesitate, he tilted his head. “Come now, lieutenant, I doubt if a little red meat will clog your considerable investigative skills.”
“Someone tried to bribe me the other day,” she muttered, thinking of Charles Monroe and his black silk robe.
“With?”
“Nothing as interesting as steak.” She aimed one long, level look. “If the evidence points in your direction, Roarke, I’m still bringing you down.”
“I’d expect nothing less. Let’s eat.”
He led her into the dining room. More crystal, more gleaming wood, yet another shimmering fire, this time cupped in rose-veined marble. A woman in a black suit served them appetizers of shrimp swimming in creamy sauce. The wine was brought in, their glasses topped off.
Eve, who rarely gave a thought to her appearance, wished she’d worn something more suitable to the occasion than jeans and a sweater.
“So, how’d you get rich?” she asked him.
“Various ways.” He liked to watch her eat, he discovered. There was a single-mindedness to it.
“Name one.”
“Desire,” he said, and let the word hum between them.
“Not good enough.” She picked up her wine again, meeting his eyes straight on. “Most people want to be rich.”
“They don’t want it enough. To fight for it. Take risks for it.”
“But you did.”
“I did. Being poor is . . . uncomfortable. I like comfort.” He offered her a roll from a silver bowl as their salads were served—crisp greens tossed with delicate herbs. “We’re not so different, Eve.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You wanted to be a cop enough to fight for it. To take risks for it. You find the breaking of laws uncomfortable. I make money, you make justice. Neither is a simple matter.” He waited a moment. “Do you know what Sharon DeBlass wanted?”
Her fork hesitated, then pierced a tender shoot of endive that had been plucked only an hour before. “What do you think she wanted?”
“Power. Sex is often a way to gain it. She had enough money to be comfortable, but she wanted more. Because money is also power. She wanted power over her clients, over herself, and most of all, she wanted power over her family.”
Eve set her fork down. In the firelight, the dancing glow of candle and crystal, he looked dangerous. Not because a woman would fear him, she thought, but because she would desire him. Shadows played in his eyes, making them unreadable.
“That’s quite an analysis of a woman you claim you hardly knew.”
“It doesn’t take long to form an opinion, particularly if that person is obvious. She didn’t have your depth, Eve, your control, or your rather enviable focus.”
“We’re not talking about me.” No, she didn’t want him to talk about her—or to look at her in quite that way. “Your opinion is that she was hungry for power. Hungry enough to be killed before she could take too big a bite?”
“An interesting theory. The question would be, too big a bite of what? Or whom?”
