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“It costs the earth to keep all those costumes protected and stored,” Minnie put in, and earned the faintest of sneers from Magda.
“As a former bookkeeper, I’m sure you’ll agree, at the end of the day, the investment’s been well worth it.”
“Unquestionably.” Though he kept his attention focused on his duck, Carlton nodded his head. “The tax benefits alone from—”
“Oh, not taxes, Carlton.” Magda held up her hands in surrender. “Not at such a lovely meal. Even the thought gives me indigestion. Roarke, this wine is sinful. One of yours?”
“Mmmm. The Montcart ’49. Elegant,” he said, lifting his glass to the light. “Polished with just a hint of bite. I thought it suited you.”
She all but purred. “Eve, I’ll have to confess to being desperately in love with your husband. I hope you don’t arrest me for it.”
“If that was a crime in this state, I’d have three-quarters of the female population of New York in cages.”
“Darling.” Roarke looked down the table, met her eyes. “You flatter me.”
“That wasn’t flattery.”
Liza giggled, as if she didn’t know what else to do. “It’s so hard not to be jealous when you’ve got a handsome, powerful man.” She gave Vince’s arm a quick squeeze. “I just want to scratch their eyes out when they come on to my Vinnie.”
“Yeah?” Eve sipped the elegant ’49, enjoyed the little bite. “Me, I just punch them in the face.”
While Liza tried to decide whether to look shocked or impressed, Mick smothered a laugh behind his napkin. “From what I’ve seen, and heard, Roarke’s stopped collecting women. He found the jewel of the lot, one with numerous facets and who shines in the setting he had waiting. Now when we were lads, he could barely walk for all the girls throwing themselves at his feet.”
“You must have stories.” Magda danced her fingertips on the back of Mick’s hand. “Fascinating ones. Roarke’s always so mysterious about his past accomplishments. It only whets the curiosity.”
“I’ve stories in bushels and more. The pretty redhead with the rich father visiting Dublin from Paris, France. Or the little brunette with the lovely shape on her who baked scones twice weekly to curry his favor. I think her name was Bridgett. Do I have the right of that, Roarke?”
“You do. And she married Tim Farrell, the baker’s son, which seemed to suit everyone.” He recalled, just as clearly, that they’d plucked the Parisian redhead’s—whatever her name might have been—deep purse to the bottom while he’d seduced her.
No one had been dissatisfied with the end results.
“Those were the days.” Mick sighed. “But being a friend, and a gentleman, I’ll tell no tales on my old mate. No more collecting women for the likes of Roarke, but a collector he always was. Rumors are you’ve an impressive one of weapons.”
“I’ve picked up a few here and there over the years.”
“Guns?” Vince brightened up, and his mother rolled her eyes.
“Vince has been fascinated by guns all his life. Drove the property masters wild whenever I was in a period piece and he came on set.”
“I have a number of guns in my collection. Perhaps you’d like to see it.”
“I’d love it.”
It was a room that echoed with violence, and the tools men devised to wield against men. Pikes and lances, muskets, the Colts they’d called Peacemakers, and the auto-blasters that had made life among the cheapest commodities during the Urban Wars.
The tasteful setting with its soaring ceiling and sparkling glass didn’t disguise the grim purpose of each display. Nor did it dim the elemental and human fascination for the art of self-destruction.
“Lord.” Vince circled the room. “I haven’t seen anything like this outside of the Smithsonian. It must have taken you years to put your collection together.”
“A number of them.” He noticed Vince’s avaricious glance at a pair of nineteenth-century dueling pistols. Obligingly, Roarke used the palm plate and his code to release the lock on the reinforced glass case. He drew a pistol from its slot, passed it to Magda’s son.
“Beautiful.”
“Oooh.” Liza gave a little shudder, but Eve caught the bright lust in her eyes. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Not in its present state.” Roarke spared her a smile and showed her another case. “The little one there, the one with the jeweled grip. Designed for a lady’s hand and her purse. It once belonged to a wealthy widow who, in the unsettled days of the early part of the century, carried it with her whenever she took her morning walk with her Pomeranian. She’s reputed to have shot an unlucky mugger, two looters, a discourteous doorman, and a Lhasa a
pso with carnal intentions regarding her Pom.”
