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He said nothing for quite some time, and Eve had been on this side of enough victim survivor calls to know how much grief and confusion were pouring out of Talbot’s mother.
And into Roarke.
“Yes, of course,” he said at length. “Please contact me if there’s anything else I can do for you. No. No, it’s not. I will. Good-bye, Mrs. Talbot.”
He drew the headset off, but stayed at the window, his back to the room. Saying nothing, Eve crossed to him, slipped her arms around his waist, pressed her cheek to his back.
She felt his body, already tensed, brace.
“Jonah’s mother.”
“Yeah.” She held on. “I heard.”
“She’s grateful to me for offering to help. For taking the time to offer my personal condolences.” His voice was quiet, too quiet, and violent with sarcasm. “Of course, I didn’t mention he’d be alive if he hadn’t worked for me.”
“Maybe you’re right, but—”
“Fuck maybe.” He snapped the headset in two, heaved it out the window. The abrupt movement knocked Eve back a step, but she had her feet planted and was ready to face him when he whirled.
“He’d done nothing. Nothing but be mine. Just like that young maid. And for that alone they’re beaten and raped, and their lives ended. I’m responsible for those who work for me. How many more? How many will be betrayed to death simply because they’re mine?”
“This is what he wants. You questioning yourself, blaming yourself.”
The mad that Feeney had predicted was there now. Ripened to bursting. “Well, he can have it. I’ll take a bloody ad out.”
“Give him what he wants,” she said evenly. “Let him know he got to you, he’ll want more.”
“Then what?” He lifted his hands, and they were fists. “I can fight what comes at me. One way or the other I can take it on. But how do I fight this? Do you know how many work for me?”
“No.”
“Neither did I. But I ran figures today. I’m a wonder with figures. There are millions. I’ve given him millions to pluck from.”
“No.” She moved forward, wrapped her fingers firmly around his forearms. “You know better. You’ve given him nothing. He takes. Your mistake will be to give him part of you. To let him know he has it.”
“If I let him know, maybe he’ll come at me.”
“Maybe. I’ve thought of that, and it worries me. But . . .” She ran her hands up his arms, down again in an unconscious effort to soothe. “That’s mostly when I’m thinking with my heart. When I use my head, it doesn’t play. He doesn’t want you dead. He wants you wounded. Do you understand what I mean? He wants you broken or in turmoil or . . . he wants you like this.”
“For what purpose?”
“That’s for us to figure out. We will figure it out. Sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.”
“Sit,” she repeated, using the cool, unbending tone he often used with her. When his eyes flashed, she turned away to pour out a snifter of brandy.
Briefly, she considered slipping a soother into it, but he’d know. She could attempt to pour it down his throat as he’d done to her, but she didn’t think she could pull it off.
Then they’d both be mad.
“Have you eaten?”
Too distracted to be amused by the sudden role reversal, he let out an impatient breath. “No. Why don’t you go to work?”
“Why don’t you stop being so stubborn?” She set the brandy on the low table in the sitting area, put her hands on her hips. “Now, you can sit down or I can take you down. A little hand to hand might make you feel better, so I’m up for that.”
“I’m not in the mood for a fight.” And because he wasn’t, but in the mood to brood, he walked over and sat. “Screen on,” he ordered.
