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Like Mary, he was a virgin. He had been taught that his innocence and his purity were the paths to glory. Whenever lust crept its stealthy way into his heart, heating his blood, slickening his skin, he fought that whispering demon with all his might. Both his body, well trained, and his mind, well honed, were dedicated to his faith.
And the seeds of his faith were sown in blood, rooted in vengeance, and bloomed with death.
*** CHAPTER FIFTEEN ***
Eve could hear the low murmur of an international news report from the parlor screen when she awoke. Her body clock was a mass of confusion. She figured it was still the middle of the night according to her system, and a nice, rainy dawn where her body happened to be.
She didn't think Roarke had slept long, but accepted that he needed less sleep than anyone she'd ever known. He hadn't been talkative when they'd gotten back from the Penny Pig the night before, but he had been…hungry.
He'd made love like a man desperate to find something, or to lose it, and she had little choice but to grab hold and join the ride.
Now he'd already been up and working, she imagined. Scanning the news reports, the stock reports, making calls, pushing buttons. She decided it was best to leave him to it until her mind cleared.
She eyed the bathroom shower dubiously. It was a three-sided affair of white tile that left the user's butt exposed to the room. Search as she might, she found no mechanism that would close her in and protect her privacy.
It was nearly six feet in length, with ceiling heads angled down to soak or spray. She went for spray, hot, and struggled to ignore the opening behind her as she soaped and rinsed.
Brian had been little help, she mused, though he had promised to put out the word, discreetly, and try to gather any information on the families of the men who'd killed Marlena. A few of them he knew personally and had laughed off the idea of any of them having the skill, the brains, or the nerve to choreograph a series of murders in New York.
Eve preferred to look at police records and solicit the opinion of a professional colleague. All she had to do was nudge Roarke in a different direction so that she would have the morning free to brainstorm with Inspector Farrell.
Confident that would only take a bit of maneuvering, she ordered the spray off, turned to step out of the shower, then yelped as if scalded.
Roarke was standing behind her, leaning back against the wall, hands dipped casually in his pockets.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Getting you a towel." Smiling, he reached for one on the warming rack. Then held it out of reach. "Sleep well?"
"Yeah, well enough."
"I ordered breakfast when I heard the shower running. Full Irish. You'll like it."
She dragged her dripping hair out of her eyes. "Okay. Are you going to give me that towel?"
"I'm thinking about it. What time is your appointment with the guarda?"
She'd started to make a grab for the towel, then pulled back, wary. "Who?"
"The police, darling Eve. The Dublin cops. This morning, I imagine. Early. By, what, nine?"
She shifted, crossed her arms over her breasts, but it didn't help. "I never said I was meeting anyone." When he only lifted a brow, she swore. "Know-it-alls are very irritating to mortals. Give me that damn towel."
"I don't know it all, but I know you. Are you meeting someone in particular?"
"Listen, I can't have this conversation naked."
"I like having conversations when you're naked."
"That's because you're a sick man, Roarke. Give me that towel."
He held it up by two fingers, and his eyes gleamed. "Come and get it."
"You're just going to try to get me back into bed."
Now his smile spread and he moved toward her. "I wasn't thinking of the bed."
"Step back." She held up a hand, feinted to the right. "I'll hurt you."
