In Death 01 - Naked in Death

like, she thought. Its four stories towered over the frosted trees of Central Park. It was one of the old buildings, close to two hundred years old, built of actual stone, if her eyes didn't deceive her.
    There was lots of glass, and lights burning gold behind the windows. There was also a security gate, behind which evergreen shrubs and elegant trees were artistically arranged.
    Even more impressive than the magnificence of architecture and landscaping was the quiet. She heard no city noises here. No traffic snarls, no pedestrian chaos. Even the sky overhead was subtly different than the one she was accustomed to farther downtown. Here, you could actually see stars rather than the glint and gleam of transports.
    Nice life if you can get it, she mused, and started her car again. She approached the gate, prepared to identify herself. She saw the tiny red eye of a scanner blink, then hold steady. The gates opened soundlessly.
    So, he'd programmed her in, she thought, unsure if she was amused or uneasy. She went through the gate, up the short drive, and left her car at the base of granite steps.
    A butler opened the door for her. She'd never actually seen a butler outside of old videos, but this one didn't disappoint the fantasy. He was silver haired, implacably eyed and dressed in a dark suit and ruthlessly knotted old-fashioned tie.
    "Lieutenant Dallas."
    There was an accent, a faint one that sounded British and Slavic at once. "I have an appointment with Roarke."
    "He's expecting you." He ushered her into a wide, towering hallway that looked more like the entrance to a museum than a home.
    There was a chandelier of star-shaped glass dripping light onto a glossy wood floor that was graced by a boldly patterned rug in shades of red and teal. A stairway curved away to the left with a carved griffin for its newel post.
    There were paintings on the walls -- the kind she had once seen on a school field trip to the Met. French Impressionists from what century she couldn't quite recall. The Revisited Period that had come into being in the early twenty-first century complimented them with their pastoral scenes and gloriously muted colors.
    No holograms or living sculpture. Just paint and canvas.
    "May I take your coat?"
    She brought herself back and thought she caught a flicker of smug condescension in those inscrutable eyes. Eve shrugged out of her jacket, watched him take the leather somewhat gingerly between his manicured fingers.
    Hell, she'd gotten most of the blood off it.
    "This way, Lieutenant Dallas. If you wouldn't mind waiting in the parlor, Roarke is detained on a transpacific call."
    "No problem."
    The museum quality continued there. A fire was burning sedately. A fire out of genuine logs in a hearth carved from lapis and malachite. Two lamps burned with light like colored gems. The twin sofas had curved backs and lush upholstery that echoed the jewel tones of the room in sapphire. The furniture was wood, polished to an almost painful gloss. Here and there objets d'art were arranged. Sculptures, bowls, faceted glass.
    Her boots clicked over wood, then muffled over carpet.
    "Would you like a refreshment, lieutenant?"
    She glanced back, saw with amusement that he continued to hold her jacket between his fingers like a soiled rag. "Sure. What have you got, Mr. -- ?"
    "Summerset, lieutenant. Simply Summerset, and I'm sure we can provide you with whatever suits your taste."
    "She's fond of coffee," Roarke said from the doorway, "but I think she'd like to try the Montcart forty-nine."
    Summerset's eyes flickered again, with horror, Eve thought. "The forty-nine, sir?"
    "That's right. Thank you, Summerset."
    "Yes, sir." Dangling the jacket, he exited, stiff-spined.
    "Sorry I kept you waiting," Roarke began, then his eyes narrowed, darkened.
    "No problem," Eve said as he crossed to her. "I was just... Hey -- "
    She jerked her chin as his hand cupped it, but his fingers held firm, turning her left cheek to the light. "Your face is bruised." His voice was cool on the statement, icily so. His eyes as they flicked over the injury betrayed nothing.
    But his fingers were warm, tensed, and jolted something in her gut. "A scuffle over a candy bar," she said with a shrug.
    His eyes met hers, held just an instant longer than comfortable. "Who won?"
    "I did. It's a mistake to come between me and food."
    "I'll keep that in mind." He released her, dipped the hand that had touched her into his pocket. Because he wanted to touch her