Page 21 of Passions in Death
“I’m merely the messenger.”
“I’ll give Peabody a damn message.” She pushed up and walked into her closet. “Do we have to do this every time Mavis decides to get knocked up? Because I’m telling you, she’s not done!”
“Let’s not think about that, either.” As the cat rolled closer—a new tactic—Roarke pointed at him. “And don’t you think about a second breakfast, mate.”
In the closet, Eve thought about clothes. She hated thinking about clothes, but not as much as buying gifts.
She decided, instead of thinking, to follow Roarke’s lead. Gray trousers, a gray linen jacket. It had navy buttons, and she supposed that was supposed to mean navy pants. But screw that. She took care of the navy with a sleeveless tee, the belt, and the boots.
Little thought required, so a win.
When she stepped out, carrying the jacket, she frowned at the table. “Where’d you put the stuff?”
“Inside the AutoChef panel.”
Nodding, Eve strapped on her weapon. She glanced at the cat, the panel. “It might take him awhile, but he’ll figure it out.”
“Not if I put a bloody lock on it.”
“Don’t be too sure.”
She tossed on the jacket, grabbed her badge and the rest. “Gotta go.”
“As do I. I’ll walk out with you.”
“Don’t you have a meeting?”
“I’ve a car and driver waiting. I’ll take the first meeting in the car, then the rest in my office.”
“A mobile meeting. Shows you’re a very busy man.”
“And that I am.”
“No briefcase?”
“Already in the car. Summerset dealt with it.”
At the mention of his majordomo, Eve gave a suspicious scan of the foyer. But he didn’t lurk there.
“Well, good luck with your half a million meetings.”
“I’ve only scheduled a quarter million today.”
They stepped outside together. He took her face in his hands, kissed. “Take care of my cop.”
“Can do. No privacy rooms or rounds of marble ryes for me all day.”
Smiling, he skimmed a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “And good luck with the rest of it.”
She got in her car, and he in the back of the shiny black limo. It felt a little strange to drive out this way together, to find herself glancing back and imagining him running some important business meeting from the back of the shiny car.
They’d both left early enough to beat the hawking ad blimps. But not, she noted, the street traffic, the airtrams, or the bustle of working stiffs toward subway stations.
The limo peeled off toward his Midtown offices, and she continued downtown.
Plenty of people, she noted, crowding the corner carts for hot coffee, iced coffee, egg pockets, breakfast burritos. Pre-Roarke, she’d have been one of them. So yeah, an excellent deal.
A few blocks from her destination, the warrant came through.
