“That’s the idea. Why don’t you finish your wine, and we’ll try for that half an hour more?”
“Sure. Can I see the rest of this place after? I bet it’s really frosty.”
“We can take the stairs down.” He guided her back to the stool. “Drink up.” The hunger gnawing inside him slid into his eyes as he tipped the glass to her mouth. “Then just a few minutes more.”
“I feel sort of…”
He caught her when she slid off the stool.
“That’s okay, sleep now. Why don’t you sleep now? I’ve got all I need to finish.”
He’d considered poisoning her, or giving her enough of the drug to kill her. But those were passive ways, and for it all to matter, really matter, it had to be active.
Death had to come from him to bring the life.
He put his hands around her throat. Squeezed, squeezed. Her eyelids fluttered; her body convulsed. He hadn’t known that would happen, and found it thrilling.
He felt, oh God, he felt it. Her life slipping from her and into his hands. The power of life, hers into him.
He’d use that life and power and pour it into the painting.
When it was done, he used thin wire, dabs of glue to adjust her head back into the pose. It took time, precision, but masterful art couldn’t be rushed.
Satisfied, he picked her up. He carried her to the elevator and down to the all-terrain.
He knew just where she needed to go.
When Lieutenant Eve Dallas woke before the sun, the first thought on her mind was: Fucking paperwork.
She lay a moment, the tubby cat curled against her back. She imagined Roarke, always up before the sun, dressed in one of his king-of-all-he-surveyed suits, sitting at his desk wheeling and dealing.
And that’s how the Dublin street rat became a gazillionaire. Not counting his years as a master in the art of thievery.
As a cop married to that past master, she tried to overlook it.
And she had to admit, lying here thinking about it didn’t address the fucking paperwork.
She’d dumped all she could on Jenkinson. The price he paid for making detective sergeant. She’d pushed a little onto her partner, and that was the price Peabody paid just because.
But as lieutenant, the bulk of it fell to her. She’d promised herself she’d get up early, go in early, and get it the hell done.
But… did it really count if you broke a promise to yourself?
She spent about thirty seconds debating that, then gave up and rolled out of bed.
“Lights on full.” She cursed when the bedroom lights assaulted her eyes. In bed, Galahad muttered what sounded like a curse and rolled over.
She hit the AutoChef for coffee, black and strong, and gulped it down like medicine. Her brain cleared, and she decided to fill it with the positive.
She was drinking real coffee, wasn’t she? And Roarke’s blend was as good as you could get. She had a loyal cat currently winding his pudgy body around her legs.
She ordered him breakfast, and when she set it down for him, he pounced as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
After downing some more coffee, she headed to the shower.
More positive. She had a big-ass shower with a dozen jets pummeling her awake from every direction with water as hot as she wanted.
More hot in the drying tube with air swirling all around her.
