Thankless in Death

else’s.
    Easing around the corner, she saw him—in workout gear nearly as ragged as hers—steadily bench-pressing while he carried on a conversation. He had the comm on speaker, she realized as the voice—male, high-toned Brit—rattled off a lot of equations and buzzwords she didn’t completely, hell, didn’t remotely, understand.
    While Roarke lifted, tossed out questions and comments about fire codes, something to do with egress, some sort of three-dimensional blueprint flashed on a wall screen, shifted, revolved, zoomed in, went from side to bird’s-eye views.
    It looked, even to her untrained eye, big and important.
    She slipped in, got an easy smile from Roarke, and angled over to program one of the machines for her morning run.
    The beach, she decided, programming manually while Roarke’s conversation continued. Tropical sunrise.
    She liked the feel of sand under her feet, and the rosy light blooming on the eastern horizon, the sight and sound of waves kissing the shore then rolling coyly away again.
    Okay, maybe the cutting-edge gym, so far removed from the crowded space and iffy equipment she’d once had to settle for at Central, equaled another really big personal perk.
    She took a couple minutes at a light jog to warm up, then steadily increased her pace until she ran full out.
    While she ran, she heard the clink and thunk as Roarke set his weights on the safety, then, a switch in tone as he started a new conversation. Italian? she wondered before the opening greetings switched to English—and talk about engines (she thought) and aerodynamics.
    He’d switched to free weights, she noted, doing biceps curls as he studied the screen and schematics on some sort of muscular air transport.
    Shortly, he moved onto a lab in France—she thought maybe they discussed perfume. But it could’ve been serums. By the time she’d finished her thirty, he stepped onto a machine himself for his own run.
    She lifted, curled, pressed while he ran and did whatever he did with Europe. When she stopped, grabbed water, he turned off the speaker and the screen.
    “A happy morning meeting of the minds,” he commented.
    “Is that what that was?”
    “I meant you and I, but the rest went well enough.”
    He’d worked up a healthy sweat, she noted, had talked business with three or four countries, and looked alert and revved.
    And it was barely dawn.
    “Does it make you dizzy jumping from country to country that way?”
    “It’s all a matter of maintaining your rhythm.”
    She eyed him as he ran. Slick, limber, strong. “Meaning you establish yours, and they have to match the pace.”
    “That’s about it, yes. You’re up early. Dreams?”
    “No. At least none I remember. I’m just up. And it gave me a chance to squeeze this in—and a swim.”
    “I’ll join you there. I’ve tied off most of what I wanted to tie off this morning before the holiday.”
    “That’s tomorrow.” She’d done her best to etch it into her brain.
    “Family’s in today. So …” He slowed for his cool down, smiled over at her. “And it clears some time for me to work with you, Lieutenant.”
    “Find the money, find him,” she said. “Failing that, he’s going for another, probably tonight. Unless he’s crying over his broken toes.”
    Roarke stepped off the machine, took a water as she had. “You’re not considering he may take a holiday himself? On the simple factor his targets are probably expected somewhere tomorrow?”
    “He can’t wait.” Her conclusions mixed with Mira’s equaled immediacy to her. He wanted, felt he deserved, instant gratification.
    “It’s too exciting. And if he’s thinking about the Thanksgiving deal at all, he’d want to screw with that. Devastate someone’s family on a day they’re all supposed to be stuffing pie in their faces and saying how grateful they are. It just makes it more satisfying that way.”
    “You’ve a point. It’s going to take some time through legal means,” he said as they started out to the pool. “I can cut that considerably with the unregistered.”
    “I’m thinking about it.” Torn, she stripped off. “There’s some time, one way or the other. He’s not the broad daylight sort, doesn’t have the balls for it, not yet. He likes sneaking around at night. There’s some time,” she repeated, reassuring herself.
    She dived in. Cool water on her skin, that slight shock to the system, a quick rev to smooth laps. And Roarke, his body slicing