It would take time to finish, to perfect the portrait. And it needed to wait, to allow him to begin another.
He’d prepared it all, and very carefully. He’d selected the model. Not from the same block, oh no, he thought as he walked. He’d spotted and studied this one hustling in Times Square.
The beauty there? Not only had he found an excellent representation for the work he’d do, but no one would notice a man picking up an LC in Times Square.
It was, to him, a charmless, classless blight on the city. But for this purpose? Perfection.
The lights, so brilliant, all flashing. The noise, huge, rolling like thunder. The crowd? Thick, stupidly energetic, and for the most part, gawking tourists.
And those who hustled and hyped, who picked pockets or pushed discounts for sex clubs into greedy hands.
He knew it was fate, wasright, when he spotted his next model soliciting in front of the theater he used in lieu of a flop.
Careful to stay out of the view of street cams, even though he’d worn a hat, sunshades, Jonathan gestured.
Bobby Ren sauntered over. He wore a cropped skin shirt that exposed tight abs, and skin pants cut to aV, front and back.
“Looking for some action?”
“I have a proposition,” Jonathan began.
Because she’d requested it, Roarke buzzed Eve awake from his office at five-thirty.
“I’ve a meeting to finish, but I’ll be up shortly.”
“Great.” She cast a sleepy, gimlet eye at his perfectly groomed hair, the dark blue suit jacket, pale blue shirt, and, of course, perfectly knotted and coordinated tie. “Later.”
She signed off, rolled out of bed. Hit the coffee, hit the shower, all while keeping paperwork in the locked box so it didn’t lower her already sour mood.
What she wanted? Another hour’s sleep. A quick workout, a swim. Instead, she faced her closet.
“Why does this keep happening to me?”
Inside, she found an outfit, hung together, boots at its feet. And a memo cube.
Roarke’s voice cruised out. “Just to save you a bit of time and frustration this morning.”
When she hissed out a breath, part of her wanted to reject the choices just to… to be a pissy-ass, she admitted. But the part of her that wanted to get it over with accepted the chocolate brown pants, the jacket she called tan that probably had a fancy name. It also had chocolate brown buttons. The white shirt—no, she corrected, he’d say cream—had a silkier flow to it than she’d have chosen.
But it was right there.
The boots, chocolate brown, had fake tan laces and a zip on the side. She’d never understand fake laces, and these, in the Roarke way, matched the chunky belt.
When she came out for her weapon, he stood at the AutoChef programming breakfast.
Before she could speak, her communicator signaled. She picked it up, said, “Fuck.”
It said,
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.
She listened, acknowledged. “Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. I’m on my way.”
As she stuffed the communicator in her pocket, Roarke did the same with his ’link. Then handed her an omelet with a side of bacon. “Eat a bit, won’t you? Your address on West Thirty-Seventh is Midtown Gallery.”
“He moved fast. He’s got everything prepped, everything planned, and he’s moving fast.” She shoveled in some eggs, then plucked up a slice of bacon before she set the plate down. “I can move fast, too.”
She gulped down some of the coffee he gave her, then swung on her jacket, loaded her pockets.
