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“There’s a message from Trina for you on the house ’link.”
Eve froze on the steps. Freezing was a natural byproduct of blood running cold. “If you let her into this house, there will be murder. Double homicide when I beat both of you to death with a brick.”
“She’s occupied downtown assisting Mavis and Peabody, and will be unable to get here for your hair and makeup before the event. However,” he continued as relief trickled through panic, “she’s left detailed instructions for you.”
“I know how to get ready for some stupid dinner,” Eve muttered as she stomped upstairs. “I don’t need detailed instructions.”
In the bedroom, she stripped off her jacket, her weapon harness. And scowled at the house ’link. “You think I don’t know how to take a damn shower and slap on some face junk?” she demanded of the cat, who’d followed her up. “I’ve done it before.”
More in the last couple years, she judged, than in most of the years before combined. But still.
But the cat stared at her with his bicolored eyes. She hissed, stomped to the ’link, and called up the message.
Just do what I tell you and you’ll be good to go. I’ll know if you screw this up, so don’t. Now, start with a long, steamy shower and the pomegranate scrub.
As Trina’s voice droned on and on, Eve sat on the side of the bed. There were a zillion steps, she calculated. Nobody in their right mind took all those steps just to clean up for a party.
And who the hell would know whether or not she scrubbed with pomegranate?
Trina might, she thought.
Anyway, a long, steamy shower sounded fine. No problem.
By the time she’d finished the shower, the scrub, the body lotion, the face brightener, and the hair product that looked and felt a little too much like snot to suit her, she gave murder a more in-depth consideration.
She smeared stuff on her eyes, brushed stuff on her cheeks, smeared dye on her lips, and cursed whoever had invented facial enhancements.
Enough was enough, she decided, and walked back into the bedroom just as Roarke walked in.
How come he didn’t need all the fuss and gunk to look so damn pretty? she wondered. Nothing Trina could come up with could improve on that face—that carved-by-benevolent-angels face, and the wickedly blue eyes, the perfectly etched mouth that smiled now as he saw her.
“There you are.”
“How can you tell it’s me? I’ve got so much crap on my face I could be anybody under it.”
“Let’s see.” He stepped over, laid his lips on hers. “There you are,” he said again with that whisper of Ireland in his voice. “My Eve.”
“I don’t feel like your Eve, or mine either. Why can’t I just go around with my regular face?”
“Darling, it’s very much your face. Just partied up a bit. Sexy. And you smell the same.”
“It’s pomegranate, and some other stuff Trina ordered me to use. Why do I let her push me around?”
“I can’t say.” And wouldn’t. “How did it go at the studio?”
“It’s weird, but Durn’s okay. We didn’t stay the whole time because we caught a case.”
“Oh?”
“Caught and closed.”
He grinned. “And I feel I have to say I’m sorry it went so well. Why don’t you tell me about Marlo Durn and the others while I shower?”
“You probably know some of them. You’ve bumped elbows, and more, with the Hollywood crowd.”
“Hmm” was his non-answer as he undressed. “In any case I haven’t bumped anything with Marlo Durn, which should be a relief to all of us as I’ve seen some of the media coverage of her. She could pass for your sister at this point.”
“I guess. And it’s weird.” Hands in the pockets of her robe, she leaned against the door and watched his most excellent ass head for the shower. “The one playing Peabody’s a bitch.”
