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“Thank God you were there. I hate to think what might have happened if he’d been alone and unable to call for help.”
“You could have let me know,” Liza interrupted. “I waited and waited for him at Rendezvous. I was worried sick about Vinnie.”
“Sorry. Didn’t think of it. At the time, he was my priority.”
“Of course.” And breathing a little easier, Magda smiled. “The important thing is Vince got treatment quickly.” She glanced toward the ballroom. “He’s going to hate missing all this, after all his hard work.”
“Yeah,” Eve said. “Bad break.”
“Man, Dallas, you were so good.” Peabody beamed as they rode the private elevator to base control. “Maybe you should have thought about becoming an actor.”
“Yeah, that was a big mistake on my part. Magda’s going to have to take it on the chin tomorrow when it comes out about her son. I’m sorry for that.”
She stepped out of the elevator and into Roarke’s conception of base control.
“Oh. Oh, Dallas,” Peabody whispered, overcome by the sheer glamour of the owner’s suite.
“Don’t drool, Peabody, it’s unattractive. And try to remember, we’re here to work.”
The living area was a long sweep of warm color, plush fabrics, thick rugs in gracious patterns over acres of blond wood. A gleaming copper sculpture sleeked down one wall, spilling deep blue water in a gentle arch into a small, free-form pool decked with flowers and ferns.
Tumbling from the dome ceiling was a chandelier formed of hundreds of slim globes in that same deep blue. The tone was repeated in the grand piano and the marble hearth and mantel of a cozy fireplace.
A spiral of copper led up to a second level. On its landing, pots trailed tangled vine roses.
The atmosphere was so rarefied even the presence of cops, stacked equipment, and a half-dozen portable surveillance monitors couldn’t lower it.
It was embarrassing.
When she heard a burst of laughter, Eve strode through the luxury, rounded a curve, and stared hard at the scene in the dining room.
The long table was loaded with food. The banquet, she thought, had been going on for some time from the looks of it. Plates and platters and bowls had been scavenged for their contents. The air still hung with the scents of roasted meat, spices, sauces, and melting chocolate.
Ranged around the scene of the crime were McNab, a pair of uniforms—including the young and promising Officer Trueheart, whom she’d assumed would know better—Feeney, Roarke’s head of security, and the culprit himself.
“What the hell is this?”
At her voice, McNab quickly swallowed what was in his mouth, started to choke and turn beet-red, while Feeney pounded him helpfully on the back. The two uniforms came to rigid attention, Roarke’s man looked elsewhere. And Roarke greeted her warmly.
“Hello, Lieutenant. Can I fix you a plate?”
“You, you—” She jabbed her finger at the uniforms. “At your stations. McNab, you’re a disgrace. Wipe that mustard off your chin.”
“It’s cream sauce, sir.”
“You.” She aimed the finger at Roarke. “With me.”
“Always.”
He strolled out behind her, through a pretty den where another cop was snacking on cocktail shrimp and studying yet another monitor. Eve gave him a hard look, but kept going until she’d reached the relative privacy of the master bedroom suite.
Then she whirled.
“This is not a goddamn party.”
“Certainly not.”
“What are you doing, ordering up half the food in New York for my men?”
