Page 56 of Bonded in Death

“You are, yes. And that can’t be helped, can it?”

“It can’t. I don’t want him leaving the house today. He won’t like that.”

“Oh well, he won’t, not a bit. There will be things he’ll want to see to, to prepare for his friends. I’ll see they’re done and he stays home.

“I can help with this.” Eyes on hers, Roarke put a hand on her arm. “I intend to help with this. You need to let me.”

“Like I could stop you if I wanted to. And I don’t. Ask him to come up.”

When they started out, the cat—obviously expecting the usual routine—looked puzzled. Then followed them out.

“I’ll see to breakfast.”

Eve just nodded. Food wasn’t high on her list.

“Keep the coffee coming,” she said, and walked to her board.

All those faces now. The actress, the heiress, the thief. And the scientist, the e-man, the dancer.

Then the dead.

Teacher, mechanic, soldier, e-man.

Traitor.

Because it pulled at her, she studied Alice Dormer’s ID shot. A pretty blonde with delicate features. Quiet blue eyes, a generous mouth.

She looked, Eve thought, more like a woman who’d bake cookies on Saturday morning rather than one who’d fought and died in war.

Where would Roarke be, she wondered, if Alice had lived? Would Summerset have taken his daughter to Dublin to raise? Would he have been there to save a brutalized, beaten boy, given him a home, a life, a chance?

No way to know.

She turned away when Roarke brought out domed plates.

It did no good for him to know she wondered. It did no good to wonder. It had nothing to do with the investigation.

When he went back for a pot of coffee, she put another chair at the table, then opened the balcony doors.

They could all use the air.

As Roarke brought out the coffee, Summerset walked in.

If he looked more cadaverous than usual, she didn’t mention it. Sometimes a shot was just too easy.

“I’m going to record this.”

He held up a hand. “There are things you’ll ask, about me, background, and so on, I won’t speak of on record. I have many reasons,” he added, and looked at Roarke.

And Roarke between, she thought again.

“We’ll start with that, no record. But then we go on, assuming you want what I want. To identify, capture, and charge the person responsible for Giovanni Rossi’s death. To prevent that individual from taking more lives.”

“I want what you want.”

“Then sit,” Roarke ordered. “The pair of you.”

He removed the domes himself, then poured the coffee.

---