In Death 24 - Innocent in Death

the way to the big stone house with its many windows.
    They gleamed with light, warm and gold.
    She’d grown used to it, she thought, to sliding through those iron gates, to seeing the stunning home spread and jut with its towers and turrets, like a fantasy in the dark.
    Room after room ranged behind that glass and stone, some practical, some elegant, some fun. All beautiful, all reflecting his vision. What he’d needed to build, to have, to hold.
    Not just for the status, the elegance, the privilege-though with Roarke those would play a part-but because he’d needed, very much needed, to make a home.
    What had she added to that? she wondered. Some clutter, an orphaned cat, an office that was undoubtedly plain and lacking in style by his standards.
    Hell, by most anyone’s.
    But she’d learned to fit there, had made a home there with him. Hadn’t she? Despite the odds, they had a life there that mattered to both of them.
    She wouldn’t let some ghost from the past put a blight on that.
    She left the car in front, climbed the steps to the grand front doors. Roarke may have built it, but this was her territory now, too, her turf. No one was going to invade it without getting bloody.
    She walked in, and Summerset slid out into the foyer, the cat a fat shadow at his heels.
    “Let me just say kiss my ass and avoid the rest of the conversation,” she began. “I’ve got work.”
    “He isn’t home yet.”
    Her stomach squeezed, just a little as she shrugged out of her coat. “Thanks for the report.”
    90
     
    “He had to reschedule some meetings in order to take a personal lunch.”
    Eve tossed her coat over the newel post and whirled. At least now she had a handy target for the rage that churned with the sickness in her belly. “Couldn’t wait to rub my face in that one. I bet you’re just dancing a jig that Maggie’s in town. Well, you can-”
    “On the contrary,” he interrupted with absolute calm. “I couldn’t be less pleased. I’d like a moment of your time.”
    “For what?”
    His jaw tightened, and she saw she’d been wrong. There were ripples under the calm.
    “I dislike discussing Roarke this way, and you’re only making it more difficult. However, my concerns leave me, I feel, little choice in the matter.”
    Her mouth was dry now. “What kind of concerns?”
    “Come into the parlor for a moment. There’s a fire.”
    “Fine, fine.” She stalked in. The fire simmered, red and gold. All the rich fabrics gleamed while the antique wood, so lovingly tended, glowed. And standing in the room, she felt chilled to the bone.
    “Will you sit?”
    She only shook her head, walked to the window to stare out. “What do you need to say to me?”
    “I’ll pour you some wine.”
    “No.” She couldn’t handle wine with her head beginning to throb. “Just spill it.”
    “She’s a dangerous woman, Lieutenant.”
    “In what way?”
    “She manipulates, she maneuvers. She enjoys the adventure of conflict. And she has power, as truly beautiful women usually do. In her case, it was well honed even a dozen years ago, and I don’t imagine it’s lost its edge.”
    “No,” Eve murmured. “She’s got a punch.”
    “And added to it, she has a strong intellect.”
     
    91
    “How long were they together?” When he said nothing, she looked back at him. “Don’t tap dance around this. How long?”
    “A number of months. Nearly a year.”
    She had to turn back to the window because there was a pain now, just under her heart.
    “Long time. Why did it end?”
    “They had planned a job-weeks of planning.” She may not have wanted wine, but he did.
    He wanted something to get him through this. “The mark was a wealthy man with a superb collection of art.”
    Summerset moved to a painted cabinet and, taking a decanter, poured himself a short whiskey. “Magdelana’s part was to intrigue him, to develop a relationship. He was much older than she, and had a penchant for young, vibrant women. She would access information from the inside, the security, the routines, the placement of the artwork. They decided on a pair of Renoirs. Just the two. Roarke was, even then, not the sort to dip too deeply into one well. The day they were to complete the job-with her and the mark on his yacht-she eloped with the mark.”
    “Bird in the hand.”
    “Precisely. He had to scrap the job, of course, not being sure the information he had was valid, or that he wasn’t being set up. It cost him quite a bit, on