In Death 01 - Naked in Death

sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Until she saw the small package beside her monitor. "What's this?"
    "I have no idea." He blew out another stream of smoke. "It was on the floor inside the door. I picked it up."
    Eve knew what it was -- the size, the shape, the weight. And she knew when she viewed the disc she would see Lola Stair's murder.
    Something about the way her eyes changed had him rising again, had his voice gentling. "What is it, Eve?"
    "Official business. Excuse me."
    She walked directly to the bedroom, closed and secured the door.
    It was Roarke's turn to frown. He went into the kitchen, located glasses, and poured the burgundy. She lived simply, he thought. Very little clutter, very little that spoke of background or family. No mementos. He'd been tempted to wander into her bedroom while he'd had the apartment to himself and see what he might have discovered about her there, but he'd resisted.
    It was not so much respect for her privacy as it was the challenge she presented that provoked him to discover her from the woman alone rather than her surroundings.
    Still, he found the plain colors and lack of fuss illuminating. She didn't live here, as far as he could see, so much as she existed here. She lived, he deduced, in her work.
    He sipped the wine, approved it. After dousing his cigarette, he carried both glasses back into the living room. It was going to be more than interesting to solve the puzzle of Eve Dallas.
    When she came back in, nearly twenty minutes later, a white-coated waiter was just finishing setting up dishes on a small table by the window. However glorious the scents, they failed to stir her appetite. Her head was pounding again, and she'd forgotten to take medication.
    With a murmur, Roarke dismissed the waiter. He said nothing until the door closed and he was alone with Eve again. "I'm sorry."
    "For what?"
    "For whatever's upset you." Except for that one flush of temper, she'd been pale when she'd come into the apartment. But her cheeks were colorless now, her eyes too dark. When he started toward her, she shook her head once, fiercely.
    "Go away, Roarke."
    "Going away's easy. Too easy." Very deliberately, he put his arms around her, felt her stiffen. "Give yourself a minute." His voice was smooth, persuasive. "Would it matter, really matter to anyone but you, if you took one minute to let go?"
    She shook her head again, but this time there was weariness in the gesture. He heard the sigh escape, and taking advantage, he drew her closer. "You can't tell me?"
    "No."
    He nodded, but his eyes flashed with impatience. He knew better; it shouldn't matter to him. She shouldn't. But too much about her mattered.
    "Someone else then," he murmured.
    "There's no one else." Then realizing how that might be construed, she pulled back. "I didn't mean -- "
    "I know you didn't." His smile was wry and not terribly amused. "But there isn't going to be anyone else, for either of us, not for some time."
    Her step back wasn't a retreat, but a statement of distance. "You're taking too much for granted, Roarke."
    "Not at all. Nothing for granted. You're work, lieutenant. A great deal of work. Your dinner's getting cold."
    She was too tired to make a stand, too tired to argue. She sat down, picked up her fork. "Have you been to Sharon DeBlass's apartment during the last week?"
    "No, why would I?"
    She studied him carefully. "Why would anyone?"
    He paused a moment, then realized the question wasn't academic. "To relive the event," he suggested. "To be certain nothing was left behind that would be incriminating."
    "And as owner of the building, you could get in as easily as you got in here."
    His mouth tightened briefly. Annoyance, she judged, the annoyance of a man who was weary of answering the same questions. It was a small thing, but a very good sign of his innocence. "Yes. I don't believe I'd have a problem. My master code would get me in."
    No, she thought, his master code wouldn't have broken the police security. That would require a different level, or an expert on security.
    "I assume that you believe someone not in your department has been in that apartment since the murder."
    "You can assume that," she agreed. "Who handles your security, Roarke?"
    "I use Lorimar for both my business and my home." He lifted his glass. "It's simpler that way, as I own the company."
    "Of course you do. I suppose you know quite a bit about security yourself."
    "You could say I have a long-standing interest in