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“Until I say different, you don’t open the door to any delivery person. You don’t open the gates unless you’re expecting said delivery and verify the identification of the delivery company and the individual or individuals making that delivery.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because I don’t want to have to actually bury that coffin I suspect you sleep in. No exceptions,” she added, and hurried upstairs with the cat racing behind her.
She arrowed straight toward the bedroom, struggling to think how she could toggle around from cop to Roarke’s wife in thirty minutes.
When it came to public appearances, she could barely manage it with thirty days’ notice. Which, of course, she’d had. And forgotten.
Carnegie Hall—a benefit for . . . Oh, what the hell did it matter? She’d screwed up, again.
She dashed into the bedroom to see her husband completing the knot on his elegant black tie.
Christ, he was gorgeous. All that silky black hair framing a face artists and angels wept over. Madly blue eyes, full, sculpted mouth, bones that would keep him deliriously handsome after he hit the century mark.
He looked as if he’d been born wearing a tux. No one could look at him and see the Dublin street rat he’d once been.
“There you are.” Ireland wafted through his voice as he smiled, as those magic eyes met hers in the mirror.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“No need.” He turned, moved to her—a living poster for tall, dark, and handsome. He cupped her chin, brushed his thumb over the shallow dent in it before he lowered his head to kiss her. “Being a bit late isn’t a crime—and I’ll be with a cop in any case.”
“Right. Well, I’ll . . .” What? she wondered. What would she do?
“Your gown, shoes, bag, appropriate coat are all in the front of your closet. Jewelry, unless you want something else, in the boxes on your dresser.”
“Okay, right.” She got as far as the sitting area, then just dropped down on the sofa. Galahad changed directions from his journey to the bed and leaped up beside her.
“I have a feeling I’m overdressed for what we’ll be doing this evening,” Roarke commented.
“I’m sorry. I need a minute.” She scrubbed her hands over her face, then just left them there.
“Eve.” Amused resignation shifted to concern as Roarke went over, sat on her other side. “Is someone hurt?”
“Bastwick. Leanore Bastwick. She’s dead.”
“Yes, I heard that on the media bulletin, assumed you’d caught it, and that’s why you were late. But you barely knew her.”
“It’s not her. Of course it’s her,” Eve corrected. “But it’s me. I didn’t let it hit me until just now. It can’t get in the way.”
“What can’t?”
“It doesn’t make any sense. But that’s nothing new, is it? You have to remember a lot of the time it doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re not.” And that concerned him. “Tell me.”
“Better show you.” She pulled out her PPC, then glanced at the wall screen. “Put this up on there, will you? You’ll do it faster.”
“All right.”
He took her handheld, keyed in a few commands. The wall screen went on.
And the image of the message from the crime scene flashed on.
“This was on the wall, over her bed. She’d been garroted. Fully dressed. Slight stun burns, center mass. No other signs of violence. No defensive wounds. She—”
“Hush,” he muttered, eyes cold as he read the message.
