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He wanted to gather her in then, to push her to tell him what troubled her mind. But he let her go.
She would run the water too hot, he thought, as he rose to get robes for both of them, to select the sort of meal that would do her the most good. Then she would stand under the spray, willing it to beat the energy back into her.
She wouldn’t waste ti
me with a towel, but step directly into the drying tube, and more heat.
No, she wouldn’t sleep again, he knew as he set the meal in the sitting area. Not yet, not for a time yet. She would fuel, then she would work, then she would collapse. It was one of the most fascinating and frustrating things about her.
She came back wearing the robe he’d hung on the bathroom door, a thin and simple black robe he doubted she knew she owned.
“What is that green stuff?”
“Asparagus. It’s good for you.”
She thought it looked like something you’d whack out of a cartoon garden, but the fish and rice with it looked pretty good. So did the glass of straw-colored wine.
She went for the wine first, hoping it would make the green stalks go down easier. “How come stuff that’s good for you always has to be green and funny looking?”
“Because nutrition doesn’t come in a candy bar.”
“It ought to.”
“You’re stalling, Eve.”
“Maybe.” She stabbed one of the stalks, shoved it into her mouth. It wasn’t half bad, but she made a disgusted face for form.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” She flaked off a bite of fish. “I had a dream about my mother.”
“Dream or memory?”
“I don’t know. Both.” She ate, scooped up rice. “I think both. I was in an apartment, or a hotel room. I don’t know which, but apartment, I think. Some dump. I was three, four. How do you tell?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me, either. Anyway . . .”
She told him of being alone, of going into the bedroom, playing with the enhancements, the wig, though she’d been forbidden.
“Maybe kids always do what you tell them not to. I don’t know. But I . . . it was irresistible. I think I wanted to look pretty. I thought all that junk would make me look pretty. Dolling up, that’s what they call it, don’t they? I was dolling up because once, when she was in a good mood, she told me I looked like a little doll.”
“Children,” Roarke said carefully, “must, I think, have an instinctive need to please their mothers. At least during those early years.”
“I guess. I didn’t like her, I was afraid of her, but I wanted her to like me. To tell me I was pretty or something. Hell.”
She shoveled in more food. “I got so into it I didn’t hear them come back. She walked in, saw me. She belted me. I think she was jonesing—that’s the cop talking, but I think she was. There were works on the dresser. I didn’t know what they were. I mean as a kid I didn’t, but . . .”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Yeah.” She kept eating. She was afraid the food would stick in her throat, but she kept eating. “She was screaming at me, and I was crying. Sprawled on the floor bawling. She was going to clock me again, but he wouldn’t let her. He picked me up . . .” Her stomach roiled at the memory. “Shit. Oh shit.”
When her fork clattered to her plate, Roarke reached over, gently eased her head down between her knees. “All right then, long and slow. Take long, slow breaths.”
His voice was gentle, as was the hand on her head. But his face was murderous.
“I can’t stand him putting his hands on me. Even then, it made my skin crawl. He hadn’t touched me yet, hadn’t raped me yet, but some part of me must’ve known. How could I have known?”
