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“You do.” He tapped her chin with his finger. “And, aren’t you lucky to be so well acquainted with someone with skills?”
She leaned in, kissed him. “I’ll program dinner first. How about Mexican?”
“Olé,” he said.
They ate on the terrace, washing down mole pablano with cold Mexican beer. It was, she thought, somehow indulgent—the easy meal, the evening air, the flicker of candles on the table. And, again, married.
Nice.
“We haven’t been to the house in Mexico for a while,” Roarke commented. “We should take the time.”
Eve cocked her head. “Have we been everywhere you’ve got a house?”
Obviously amused, he tipped back his beer. “Not yet.”
She’d figured. “Maybe we should make the complete circuit before we repeat any one place too often.” She dug into the nachos again, piling on salsa that carried the bite of an angry Doberman. “Why don’t you have one in Ireland?”
“I have places there.”
The salsa turned her mouth into a war zone. She scooped up more. “Hotels, businesses, interests. Not a house.”
He considered a moment, then found himself mildly surprised by his own answer. “When I left, I promised myself I’d only go back when I had everything. Power, money, and though I likely didn’t admit it, even to myself, a certain respectability.”
“You’ve hit those notes.”
“And I did go back—do. But a house, well, that’s a statement, isn’t it? A commitment. Even if you’ve a home elsewhere, having a house creates a solid and tangible link. I’m not ready.”
She nodded, understanding.
“Would you want one there?” he asked her.
She didn’t have to consider, and she wasn’t surprised by her answer. Not when she looked at him. “I’ve got what I want.”
4
AFTER THE MEAL, EVE DUMPED THE FLORES data on Roarke so they could separate into their connecting offices. In her little kitchen she programmed coffee, then took it back to her desk. She stripped off her jacket, shoved up her sleeves.
Curled in her sleep chair, Galahad stared across at her with annoyed bicolored eyes.
“Not my fault you’re too spooked to go outside.” She sipped her coffee, stared back. Time passed in silence. Then she stabbed a finger into the air when the cat blinked.
“Hah. I won.”
Galahad simply turned his pudgy body around, shot up his leg and began to wash.
“Okay, enough of this cozy evening at home stuff. Computer,” she began, and ordered it to open the Flores file, then do a second-level run on the list of people with confirmed access to the tabernacle.
Chale López, the boxing priest, born in Rio Poco, Mexico, interested her. She didn’t get a suspect vibe from him, but something about him gave her a little buzz. He’d had the easiest access to the wine—and as a priest, wouldn’t he be more likely to recognize a fake than a—what was it—layman?
But she didn’t get the vibe.
Nor could she poke her way through to motive.
A sexual thing? Three guys sharing a house, a job, meals, leisure time. Could get cozy. And that couldn’t be discounted.
Priests weren’t supposed to get cozy—with each other or anyone else—but they did, and had th
roughout the ages.
