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And no, he did nothing half-assed.
Thirty minutes down, and she’d topped out her heart rate, had broken a good sweat—and had a couple of virtual street thieves in custody.
She switched to hand weights, worked her oiled muscles with curls, flies, squats, lunges, kickbacks, presses, pushing through three sets.
The headache settled into a dull throb at the back of her skull, an improvement, but she couldn’t shake the mood.
The killer made a kind of victim of her, as well as a motive. She wouldn’t tolerate it, couldn’t. Yet even now he might be moving on the next target, and there was nothing she could do.
She set the weights back on the rack. She knew what sh
e wanted—had wanted all along. But now she was pumped and sweaty and pissed. And ready.
She moved on to the sparring droid, studying it—a new one—as she laced on light gloves.
Bigger than the last one, she noted, heftier. And with a face designed to appear as if it had taken years of punches. Crooked nose, scars around the eyes, a mouth that sneered even when turned off.
Roarke again, she mused, and had to appreciate his style.
She turned it on.
“Activated. Select program.”
“You got a name?”
“They call me Crusher,” he responded in a voice that sounded like he gargled gravel.
“What ya got, Crusher?”
“I’m programmed for boxing, kung fu, karate, street fighting, tae kwon do, wrestling—”
“Bring it,” Eve ordered. “All of it.”
He punched first, a straight jab to the face. She barely dodged it, and even the air displacement near her ear was impressive.
She bounced back on her toes, set. Smiled fiercely. “Okay, then.”
• • •
Roarke stepped into the house wanting nothing more than a glass of wine and a quiet hour. Getting a late start had crowded the rest of his day, and a quick, unplanned trip to one of his plants in Trenton had stolen more time.
Not that he minded. If he wanted less to do he could sell holdings instead of acquiring more.
“Where’s your feline companion?” he asked Summerset.
“I believe he’s upstairs with the lieutenant.”
Roarke lifted an eyebrow as he took off his coat. “Eve’s home?”
“And has been for nearly an hour now. Uninjured,” Summerset added before Roarke could ask. “Concerned, apparently, about my routine outside the house, and—as I mentioned before—about those who may come into it.”
“You saw the media conference?”
“I did.” Taking Roarke’s coat, Summerset hung it in the closet hidden in the foyer wall—where he’d already hung Eve’s. “Adding her concern to that, I assume she’s pursuing someone who’s drawn her in on a more personal level.”
“He—or she—leaves messages, to Eve, at the crime scenes. She had a loose connection to both victims.” Roarke glanced upstairs as he spoke. “The killer claims to be her friend, and bringing true justice to those who’ve shown her disrespect.”
“Ah well, that clarifies things. I’d make a prime candidate. Both you and the lieutenant,” Summerset continued when Roarke’s eyes heated, “should know I’m capable.”
