“The younger Wenn’s penthouse has some stunning views.”
He took her hand again as they walked to the elevator. Inside the car, he swiped a card.
“Express,” he told her. “We’ll go straight to the penthouse foyer.”
“You leave me nothing to bitch about.”
“My fondest wish come true.”
The car ran smooth and quiet, had silvered walls, and carried a scent both pleasant and fragile.
It opened into a foyer with a black-on-white mural of the New York skyline running over the walls and doors that gave the feeling of standingin the center of the island of Manhattan. The occupant had added floating benches on either side, which worked, Eve thought, as they did their floating over the East River and the Hudson.
Eve pressed the buzzer.
The younger Wenn answered promptly. Though he wore it longer, just over the collar of his navy pin-striped suit jacket, he had his father’s dark hair, minus the silvering. His eyes were of a quieter green.
He extended a hand to Eve, then to Roarke.
“Stephen Wenn. Thank you for coming.”
He led them into a huge living area with one of the stunning views. Through another floor-to-ceiling wall of glass, a generous terrace spread.
He’d furnished it to suit the size, including a baby grand in glossy black, low-slung sofas, high-backed chairs in shades and patterns of gray and black. In contrast, his art ran to the big, bold, and splashy.
Two people rose from one of the sofas, the lawyer and the client. Wenn had gone all dignity in slate gray, navy-and-maroon-striped tie, polished wingtips. His client wore a Yale sweatshirt that dwarfed her, and Eve deduced she’d borrowed it from her host.
She’d paired it with black jeans and kicks—which Eve assumed she’d wear in the course of her work.
She had her hands—ringless, slim, long-fingered—clasped together. That was nerves, but the look she shot Roarke was pure, naked admiration.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Robert Wenn.” He walked over to shake her hand. “Roarke, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“As consultant,” Eve put in.
“Sorry, excuse me.” Coastal Georgia glided slow and easy through the words. “Steve, Rob, could I have a minute? Could I have the room for just a minute?”
“Jenna.”
“I know.” She held up both her hands to her lawyer. “You don’t have to worry. I’d just like a minute.”
“Would you like coffee?” Stephen put a hand on Jenna’s shoulder—protective, affectionate—as he spoke to Roarke and Eve. “Dad, give me a hand with the coffee.”
He nodded, gave Jenna a warning look, then walked out of the living area with his son.
“First, I want to thank you, Lieutenant Dallas, for giving me a chance to explain things. But I have to—” She took Roarke’s hand in both of hers. “You’re the best that ever was.”
“If that were true, you’d have no reason to say so.”
She just beamed at him. “You hear things, and we have some mutual acquaintances. I… You gave it up. This has me seriously thinking it’s time for me to do that. But how did you do it? How did you just walk away?”
“If I were to walk away from something I could be considered the best at, it would be because I no longer needed it in the same way, and needed something else more. And then, I fell for a cop. A good, smart cop with integrity and compassion.”
She glanced at Eve. “That’s what I hear.”
“Even the what I needed more paled next to that. She knows my truth. Tell her yours.”
