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Both had worked for him. Both had died while on property he owned.
French had been a stranger to Roarke. A faceless employee. But Talbot had been a friend of sorts.
The third would be closer yet.
Would he come after her? She would have preferred that, but thought it was too large a leap. Another employee, if the pattern held. But one he worked with more closely. One he knew well.
Caro, his admin? That was a good bet, and precisely why Eve had called in some favors and had the efficient woman under surveillance.
But she couldn’t cover every member of his top-level teams in the city.
And if Yost jumped to another location, to one of the countless offices, plants, organizations Roarke had all over the planet and through the developed solar system, the potential targets were astronomical.
Couldn’t compute.
Still, she tried to level the field, to connect the dots through the mountain of data Roarke had given her. The primary result was a wicked little headache. How could the man own so much? Why would anyone want to? And how the hell did he keep track of it all?
She pushed that aside. It wasn’t the way. If Roarke himself couldn’t hazard an educated guess on potential targets, how could she?
She went for coffee, using the short walk to the kitchen and back to clear her mind.
A personal vendetta. If that was the motive, why not go after the man himself? Or at least those in his inner circle?
Business. It was business. What were Roarke’s most pressing projects?
She went back to his data, rubbed her throbbing temples. It looked as though he was juggling several dozen green-lighted deals even now. It was enough to make you dizzy.
Olympus. That was his baby, she thought. A kind of pet fantasy, and as complicated as they came. He was building a goddamn world there: hotels, casinos, homes, resorts, parks. And all of it lavish.
Homes, she thought. Vacation and retirement homes. Villas, mansions, sleek penthouses, presidential suites. Something for the man who had, and could afford, everything.
Right up Yost’s alley.
She turned toward Roarke’s office, then stopped at the doorway.
He was at his console, captain of his ship. He’d drawn his hair back so it lay on his neck in a short, gleaming black tail. His eyes were cool, cool blue, the way they were when his mind was fully occupied.
He’d taken off his dinner jacket. His shirt was loose at the collar, the sleeves rolled up. There was something, just something about that look that always and forever grabbed her in the gut.
She could look at him for hours, and at the end of it still marvel that he belonged to her.
Someone wants to hurt you, she thought. I’m not going to let them.
He lifted his head. He’d scented her, or sensed her. He always did. Their eyes locked, and for a moment stayed locked. A thousand messages passed between them in absolute silence.
“Worrying about me won’t help you get your job done.”
“Who says I’m worried?”
He stayed where he was; simply held out his hand.
She crossed to him, took it, gripped hard. “When I met you,” she said carefully, “I didn’t want you in my lif
e. You were one big complication. Every time I looked at you, or heard your voice, or so much as thought about you, the complication got bigger.”
“And now?”
“Now? You are my life.” She gave his hand one last squeeze, then released. “Okay, enough mushy stuff. Olympus.”
