Her boots clicked over wood, then muffled over carpet.
"Would you like a refreshment, lieutenant?"
She glanced back, saw with amusement that he continued to hold her jacket between his fingers like a soiled rag. "Sure. What have you got, Mr. -?"
"Summerset, lieutenant. Simply Summerset, and I'm sure we can provide you with whatever suits your taste."
"She's fond of coffee," Roarke said from the doorway, "but I think she'd like to try the Montcart forty-nine."
Summerset's eyes flickered again, with horror, Eve thought. "The forty-nine, sir?"
"That's right. Thank you, Summerset."
"Yes, sir." Dangling the jacket, he exited, stiff-spined.
"Sorry I kept you waiting," Roarke began, then his eyes narrowed, darkened.
"No problem," Eve said as he crossed to her. "I was just… Hey – "
She jerked her chin as his hand cupped it, but his fingers held firm, turning her left cheek to the light. "Your face is bruised." His voice was cool on the statement, icily so. His eyes as they flicked over the injury betrayed nothing.
But his fingers were warm, tensed, and jolted something in her gut. "A scuffle over a candy bar," she said with a shrug.
His eyes met hers, held just an instant longer than comfortable. "Who won?"
"I did. It's a mistake to come between me and food."
"I'll keep that in mind." He released her, dipped the hand that had touched her into his pocket. Because he wanted to touch her again. It worried him that he wanted, very much, to stroke away the bruise that marred her cheek. "I think you'll approve of tonight's menu."
"Menu? I didn't come here to eat, Roarke. I came here to look over your collection."
"You'll do both." He turned when Summerset brought in a tray that held an uncorked bottle of wine the color of ripened wheat and two crystal glasses.
"The forty-nine, sir."
"Thank you. I'll pour out." He spoke to Eve as he did so. "I thought this vintage would suit you. What it lacks in subtlety… " He turned back, offering her a glass. "It makes up for in sensuality." He tapped his glass against hers so the crystal sang, then watched as she sipped.
God, what a face, he thought. All those angles and expressions, all that emotion and control. Just now she was fighting off showing both surprise and pleasure as the taste of the wine settled on her tongue. He was looking forward to the moment when the taste of her settled on his.
"You approve?" he asked.
"It's good." It was the equivalent of sipping gold.
"I'm glad. The Montcart was my first venture into wineries. Shall we sit and enjoy the fire?"
It was tempting. She could almost see herself sitting there, legs angled toward the fragrant heat, sipping wine as the jeweled light danced.
"This isn't a social call, Roarke. It's a murder investigation."
"Then you can investigate me over dinner." He took her arm, lifting a brow as she stiffened. "I'd think a woman who'd fight for a candy bar would appreciate a two-inch fillet, medium rare."
"Steak?" She struggled not to drool. "Real steak, from a cow?"
A smile curved his lips. "Just flown in from Montana. The steak, not the cow." When she continued to hesitate, he tilted his head. "Come now, lieutenant, I doubt if a little red meat will clog your considerable investigative skills."
"Someone tried to bribe me the other day," she muttered, thinking of Charles Monroe and his black silk robe.
"With?"
"Nothing as interesting as steak." She aimed one long, level look. "If the evidence points in your direction, Roarke, I'm still bringing you down."
"I'd expect nothing less. Let's eat."
He led her into the dining room. More crystal, more gleaming wood, yet another shimmering fire, this time cupped in rose-veined marble. A woman in a black suit served them appetizers of shrimp swimming in creamy sauce. The wine was brought in, their glasses topped off.
Eve, who rarely gave a thought to her appearance, wished she'd worn something more suitable to the occasion than jeans and a sweater.
"So, how'd you get rich?" she asked him.
"Various ways." He liked to watch her eat, he discovered. There was a single-mindedness to it.
"Name one."
"Desire," he said, and let the word hum between them.
"Not good enough." She picked up her wine again, meeting his eyes straight on. "Most people want to be rich."
"They don't want it enough. To fight for it. Take risks for it."
"But you did."
"I did. Being poor is… uncomfortable. I like comfort." He offered her a roll from a silver bowl as their salads were served – crisp greens tossed with delicate herbs. "We're not so different, Eve."
"Yeah, right."
"You wanted to be a cop enough to fight for it. To take risks for it. You find the breaking of laws uncomfortable. I make money, you make justice. Neither is a simple matter." He waited a moment. "Do you know what Sharon DeBlass wanted?"
Her fork hesitated, then pierced a tender shoot of endive that had been plucked only an hour before. "What do you think she wanted?"
"Power. Sex is often a way to gain it. She had enough money to be comfortable, but she wanted more. Because money is also power. She wanted power over her clients, over herself, and most of all, she wanted power over her family."
Eve set her fork down. In the firelight, the dancing glow of candle and crystal, he looked dangerous. Not because a woman would fear him, she thought, but because she would desire him. Shadows played in his eyes, making them unreadable.
"That's quite an analysis of a woman you claim you hardly knew."
"It doesn't take long to form an opinion, particularly if that person is obvious. She didn't have your depth, Eve, your control, or your rather enviable focus."
"We're not talking about me." No, she didn't want him to talk about her – or to look at her in quite that way. "Your opinion is that she was hungry for power. Hungry enough to be killed before she could take too big a bite?"
"An interesting theory. The question would be, too big a bite of what? Or whom?"
The same silent servant cleared the salads, brought in oversize china plates heavy with sizzling meat and thin, golden slices of grilled potatoes.
Eve waited until they were alone again, then cut into her steak. "When a man accumulates a great deal of money, possessions, and status, he then has a great deal to lose."
"Now we're speaking of me – another interesting theory." He sat there, his eyes interested, yet still amused. "She threatened me with some sort of blackmail and, rather than pay or dismiss her as ridiculous, I killed her. Did I sleep with her first?"
"You tell me," Eve said evenly.
"It would fit the scenario, considering her choice of profession. There may be a blackout on the press on this particular case, but it takes little deductive power to conclude sex reared its head. I had her, then I shot her… if one subscribes to the theory." He took a bite of steak, chewed, swallowed. "There's a problem, however."
"Which is?"
"I have what you might consider an old-fashioned quirk. I dislike brutalizing women, in any form."
"It's old-fashioned in that it would be more apt to say you dislike brutalizing people, in any form."
He moved those elegant shoulders. "As I say, it's a quirk. I find it distasteful to look at you and watch the candlelight shift over a bruise on your face."
He surprised her by reaching out, running a finger down the mark, very gently.
"I believe I would have found it even more distasteful to kill Sharon DeBlass." He dropped his hand and went back to his meal. "Though I have, occasionally, been known to do what is distasteful to me. When necessary. How is your dinner?"