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"So everyone says. Affable enough to cheat on his lover?"
"I couldn't say. Sex causes the best of us to make mistakes."
"Really?" She arched her bro
ws. "Well, if you ever feel like making a mistake in that area, remember what an annoyed woman can do with a Branson power drill."
"Darling." He gave the back of her neck a quick squeeze. "I feel so loved."
A solemn-eyed maid opened the door, her slick, black jumpsuit conservatively cut, her voice smooth and faintly British. "Good evening," she began with the faintest of nods. "I'm sorry, the Bransons aren't accepting visitors at the moment. There's been a death in the family."
"Lieutenant Dallas." Eve took out her badge. "We're expected."
The maid studied the badge for a moment, then nodded. It wasn't until Eve saw the quick jitter in the eyes that indicated a security probe that she tagged the maid as a droid.
"Yes, Lieutenant. Please come in. May I take your coats?"
"Sure." Eve shrugged out of hers, then waited until the maid neatly laid it and Roarke's over her arm.
"If you would follow me. The family is in the main parlor."
Eve glanced around the foyer with its atrium ceiling and graceful curve of stairs. Urban landscapes done in spare pen and ink adorned the pearl gray walls. The heels of her dress boots clicked on tiles of the same hue. It gave the entranceway and wide hall a misty, sophisticated ambiance. Light slanted down from the ceiling like moonbeams through fog. The staircase, a pure white sweep, seemed to be floating unsupported.
Two tall doors slid silently into the wall at their approach. The maid paused respectfully at the entrance. "Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke," she announced, then stepped back.
"How come we don't have her instead of Summerset?"
Eve's muttered question earned her another light neck squeeze from her husband as they walked into the room.
It was high-ceilinged, spacious, the lighting muted. The monochromatic theme carried through here, this time in layers of blue from the delicate pastels of fan-shaped conversation pits to the cobalt tiles of the fireplace where flames flickered.
Silver vases of varying sizes and shapes were arranged on the mantel. Each held white lilies. The air was ripely funereal with their scent.
A woman rose from the near curve of the seating area and crossed the sea of carpet toward them. Her skin was white as the lilies against her black suit. She wore her wheat-colored hair pulled severely back, knotted at the nape in smooth, snaking twists, in a way only the most confident and beautiful of women would dare. Unframed, her face was stunning, a perfect creation of planed cheekbones, slim, straight nose, smooth brow, shapely, unpainted lips all set off with large, lushly lashed eyes of dark violet.
The eyes grieved.
"Lieutenant Dallas." She held out a hand. Her voice reminded Eve of her skin—pale and smooth and flawless. "Thank you for coming. I'm Clarissa Branson. Roarke." In a gesture that was both warm and fragile, she offered him her free hand so that, for a moment, the three of them stood joined.
"I'm very sorry about J. C., Clarissa."
"We're all a little numb. I saw him just this weekend. We had…we all had brunch on Sunday. I don't—I still don't—"
As she began to falter, B. D. Branson stepped up, slid an arm around her waist. Eve watched her stiffen slightly, saw the gorgeous eyes lower.
"Why don't you get our guests a drink, darling."
"Oh yes, of course." She released Eve's hand to touch her fingers to her temple. "Would you like some wine?"
"No, thanks. Coffee, if you have it."
"I'll arrange for some to be brought in. Excuse me."
"Clarissa's taking this very hard," Branson said quietly, and his gaze never left his wife.
"She and your brother were close?" Eve asked.
"Yes. She has no family, and J. C. was as much a brother to her as he was to me. Now we only have each other." He continued to stare at his wife, then seemed to pull back into himself. "I didn't make the connection until you'd left my office today, Lieutenant. Your connection to Roarke."
