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She wanted home more than she wanted that drink. Home, where she would find peace, space, time to clear her head. A place to set up fresh for murder.
She left her car out front, pushed her way through the wind that had decided to kick up its heels again, and went in the front door.
She knew he’d be there, the skeletal build in funereal black with the pudge of a cat at his feet.
Summerset, Roarke’s majordomo, raised his eyebrows. “A completed first day back with no apparent injury or damage. How long can it last?”
“It could end right now if I decide to kick that stick you’re so fond of any farther up your ass.”
“And the day wouldn’t be complete without such an observation.”
She tossed her coat over the newel post because it was handy – and because it annoyed him. And with the cat now rubbing a feline welcome at her leg, started up the stairs.
Stopped.
“I bet you’re a big fan of the opera. That would be right up your alley.”
“I enjoy many of the arts, including opera. I’ve heard Dorian Kuper play, at the Met, at After Midnight, and other venues. I heard of his death shortly ago. To lose someone who’s young and so vibrantly talented is tragic.”
“All murder’s tragic.”
“And some felt more keenly than others. He’s in your hands now? The report didn’t name the primary.”
“He’s mine now,” Eve said and continued upstairs.
She went straight for the bedroom and the locator.
“Where is Roarke?”
Roarke is not in residence at this time.
Not home yet, she thought, and remembered to check her ’link. Sure enough, she found a text from him.
Lieutenant, I hope your day’s going well. She stripped off her jacket as she listened to his voice, to the Irish whispering through it. I’ve a need to make an unscheduled trip to Detroit, but it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be home by half-seven if not before. Until then, take care of my cop.
That gave her some time, she thought. She could get her board set up in her office here, start reviewing notes and reports.
Or, she considered while Galahad wound through her legs like a furry snake, she could clear her head first.
She sat, removed her boots, rubbed the cat who jumped up beside her. Then she changed into workout gear.
When she started for the elevator the cat sat, stared at the opening doors with his suspicious bicolored eyes.
“I’m not a big fan of the moving box, either, but… I’ll be back,” she said as the door closed.
She hadn’t had time, not really, to fully appreciate Roarke’s Christmas gift as the dojo had been completed while they were away.
Now she stepped out into it and took one long, relaxed breath.
The floors, soft gold, gleamed. The space boasted its own little garden where white flowers fanned over the stones of a quietly bubbling water feature in the far corner. Sliding panels concealed a small kitchen area, fully stocked with bottles of spring water and energy drinks.
Coffee was banned, which didn’t seem right in any world, but she’d had to accept the edict.
More panels opened to a dressing area fully stocked with white towels, with mats, with gis of black or white. And the door within would lead to the shower, and through that she could access the gym if that space was more to her taste.
He’d even thought of art – but, then, the man thought of everything. Serene gardens, arching cherry blossoms, green hills misted with morning.
The space spoke of peace and discipline, and simplicity.
