In Death 02 - Glory in Death

tossed out of your casino."
    "I believe the manager of the casino handled that."
    "You were there."
    "Yes, I was there, somewhere on the premises, in any case. Dissatisfied clients often become rowdy. I didn't pay much attention at that time."
    She took a deep breath. "If it meant so little, and the entire matter slipped your mind, why did you sell the casino, the hotel, everything you owned in Sector 38 within forty-eight hours of Cicely Towers's murder?"
    He said nothing for a moment, his eyes on hers. "For personal reasons."
    "Roarke, just tell me so I can put this whole connection to bed. I know the sale didn't have anything to do with Towers's murder, but it looks dicey. 'For personal reasons' isn't good enough."
    "It was for me. At the time. Tell me, Lieutenant Dallas, are you thinking I decided to blackmail Cicely over her future son-in-law's youthful indiscretion, had some henchman in my employ lure her to the West End, and when she didn't cooperate, slit her throat?"
    She wanted to hate him for putting her in the position of having to answer. "I told you I didn't believe you had anything to do with her death, and I meant it. You've put me in a position where it's a scenario we'll have to work with. One that will take time and manpower away from finding the killer."
    "Damn you, Eve." He said it quietly; so quietly, so calmly, her throat burned in reaction.
    "What do you want from me, Roarke? You said you'd help, that I could use your connections. Now, because you're pissed about something else, you're blocking me."
    "I changed my mind." His tone was dismissive as he rose and walked behind his desk. "About several things," he added, watching her with eyes that sliced at her heart.
    "If you would just tell me why you sold. The coincidence of that can't be ignored."
    He considered for a moment his decision to reorganize some of his less-than-legal enterprises and shake loose of what couldn't be changed. "No," he murmured. "I don't believe I will."
    "Why are you putting me in this position?" she demanded. "Is this some sort of punishment?"
    He sat, leaned back, steepled his fingers. "If you like."
    "You're going to be pulled into this, just like the last time. There's just no need for it." Driven by frustration, she slapped her hands on his desk. "Can't you see that?"
    He looked at her face, the dark, worried eyes, the ridiculously chopped hair. "I know what I'm doing." He hoped he did.
    "Roarke, don't you understand, it's not enough for me to know you had nothing to do with it. Now I have to prove it."
    He wanted to touch her, so much that his fingers ached from it. More than anything at that moment, he wished he could hate her for it. "Do you know, Eve?"
    She straightened, dropped her hands to her sides. "It doesn't matter," she said and turned and left him.
    But it did matter, he thought. At the moment, it was all that really mattered. Shaken, he shifted forward. He could curse her now, now that those big, whiskey-colored eyes were no longer staring into him. He could curse her for bringing him so low he was nearly ready to beg for whatever scraps of her life she was willing to share with him.
    And if he begged, if he settled, he would probably grow to hate her almost as much as he would hate himself.
    He knew how to outwait a rival, how to outmanuever an opponent. He certainly knew how to fight for what he wanted or intended to have. But he was no longer sure he could outwait, outmanuever, or fight Eve.
    Taking the button out of his pocket, he toyed with it, studied it as though it were some intriguing puzzle to be solved.
    He was an idiot, Roarke realized. It was humiliating to admit what an incredible fool love could make of a man. He stood, slipped the button back in his pocket. He had a board meeting to complete, business to take care of.
    And, he thought, some research to do on whether any details of the Slade arrest had left Sector 38. And if they had, how and why.
    Eve couldn't put off her appointment with Nadine. The necessity of it irritated, as did the fact she had to schedule the time between Nadine's evening and late live broadcasts.
    She plopped down at a table at a small cafe near Channel 75 called Images. It was, with its quiet corners and leafy trees, several large steps away from the Blue Squirrel. Eve winced at the prices on the menu -- broadcasters were paid a great deal more than cops -- and settled on a Classic Pepsi.
    "You ought to try the muffins," Nadine told her. "The place is famous