Page 19 of Passions in Death
She woke to the glorious scent of coffee. Opening one eye, she saw Roarke sitting on the side of the bed with a mug in his hand.
“Need that.”
“I assumed you would.”
She sat up, took the mug, gulped some down. “You’re a pretty good deal.”
“I’m an excellent deal.”
Since she couldn’t argue with that, she drank some more and studied him. Already dressed in one of his boss-of-the-universe suits—this one a medium gray, probably linen—with a deeper gray shirt and a perfectly knotted tie that blended the grays with a kind of—she guessed—maroon.
He looked as fresh as a man who’d just come off a relaxing weekend at some fancy spa. Plus, he smelled really good.
It could irritate, but she had coffee.
“How did you manage three hours down and get showered and dressed?”
“Efficiency. I was tempted to shower with my wife, but that would’ve led to other temptations. Neither of us have time for those temptations this morning.”
“Really don’t. So I’m taking this coffee while I go be efficient.”
She drank more coffee as she went in to shower.
Between that and the beat of hot water pumping from multiple jets, her brain unclouded enough to let her go over her morning agenda.
Though she wished for time to set up her board and book in her home office, that had to wait. Apartment first, some conversations with neighbors. Have Peabody cross-check the partygoers with the other artists—and that might add in some visits and conversations.
The morgue. See what Morris could tell her.
Track down where Erin had gotten the costume, and see if that led anywhere. Talk to the parents and the traveling gallery owner.
But first, out of the shower, into the drying tube. Then more coffee.
She tossed on a robe the color of the sea surrounding Roarke’s private island. When she stepped out, he sat, the stock junk on-screen and muted. Two domed plates sat on the table of the sitting area while the cat, on the opposite side of the room, gulped down his own breakfast.
Roarke set his tablet aside. “Work continues apace at the Great House Project.”
“Just what does that mean? There’s slow pace,” she said as she crossed over and filled her mug with coffee from the pot on the table. “There’s jogging pace, a run-like-hell pace. So what pace is apace when it’s one weird word? Like afoot. Whose foot is it, and why?”
She started to lift the dome to see what he’d decided she’d have for breakfast and saw him smiling at her.
“What?”
“Starting the day with you is never boring.”
He lifted the domes himself to reveal golden omelets, crisp bacon, summer berries, and flaky croissants.
Yeah, an excellent deal, even if he’d snuck spinach into the omelet.
“So does ‘apace’ mean ahead of schedule?”
“It does. Still a bit of time before everything’s complete, but they can continue to move things into finished areas or where they’re storing others in the garage. I thought we’d have the garden sculpture you wanted for Mavis and the lamp you wanted for Peabody delivered next week. That way, Peabody can find the place she wants for the lamp, and we can set up the sculpture where Mavis wants it.”
“Fine, but that takes care of the whole ‘we have to give you something for getting a house’ thing, right?”
“It does. Though a bottle of wine when they have their housewarming, which they will, wouldn’t be amiss.”
“There’s another.” She pointed at him. “Apace, afoot, amiss. Why the extra letter? But anyway. Gifts? Check.”
