“It’s lovely to see you both. Eve, Martin and Sylvia Ellison, the brains, brawn, and heart behind Sarah’s Song.”
Martin caught Eve’s hand in both of his. He had hair the color of old pewter that shot out in the same kind of electric shock bush sported byher former partner and current captain of EDD, Feeney. He had a ruddy, lived-in face and a toned-up, lightweight boxer’s build.
His deep, dark brown eyes smiled into hers as if she were the only person in the room. Inside a streaky silver-and-white goatee, his lips curved.
“It’s wonderful to meet you at last. Sylvia and I are big fans. That’s probably not the right word,” he said with a laugh she could only describe as jolly.
“Admirers of the work you do, and how well you do it.” Sylvia nudged at Martin so she could shake Eve’s hand. “Fair warning, we’ll probably ask a thousand questions about that work before the night’s over.”
She smiled, a tall woman, thin as a whippet in a gown the color of her husband’s hair. She wore her own in a cap of black curls, and had eyes of molten green.
Martin winked. “We’ve used our status for the privilege of sharing your table. Lots of schmoozing to do, but we’ll enjoy sharing the meal with you, Roarke, Nadine Furst, your friends Louise and Charles, and, when they’re not performing, Jake and Mavis.”
“Not to mention Leonardo. That’s one of his designs, I’m sure, and just gorgeous.”
Eve glanced down at the gown. Roarke had called the deep purple bleeding and blending lighter and lighter as it rose up her body ombre. All she knew was it fit, had pockets—and a slash up one leg nearly to her damn waist.
“Ah—”
Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder, bare but for the skinny strap that went back to the deep purple. “Leonardo’s not only a good friend and Mavis’s husband, but he understands just what the lieutenant needs in wardrobe.”
“It has pockets.”
Sylvia just beamed. “Shouldn’t everything?”
“We won’t keep you now,” Martin said. “We want you to know how much we appreciate all you do. Dochas…”
He trailed off as he mentioned the women’s shelter Roarke had built, and Eve saw clearly that some grieving lasts forever.
“It represents,” he continued, “what my grandmother hoped for when she founded Sarah’s Song. Not just safety, but hands outstretched to help, to renew, to rebuild. I hope you enjoy the evening.”
Eve gave a little sigh when they walked away. “They’re nice.”
“They’re exactly what they seem. Generous, intelligent, caring people. They’re also interesting. You won’t be bored. Let’s get you another glass of wine.”
Because she figured it made her a moving target, she went along. It didn’t stop people from waylaying them. She blamed it on Roarke. People recognized him. And if they didn’t, who wouldn’t be attracted to the tall and gorgeous? All that black silk hair, the wild blue eyes, the mouth sculpted by a particularly artistic angel?
She saw plenty giving him a second look, a third, murmuring behind their hands as they did.
When she said just that to him, he laughed.
“And no one notices the long, lanky woman with the cap of deer-hide hair, the eyes like aged whiskey that take in every detail she sees. The chin that looks like it could take a punch. And has,” he added, brushing a finger down its shallow dent.
“There’s a group of three women at your two o’clock. Every one of them’s mind-fucked you, a couple times each.”
“Ah, is that why I feel so used yet oddly unsatisfied?” Deliberately, he touched his lips to hers. “There, that’s better.”
She had to smile, especially since one of the three women heaved a sigh and laid a hand on her heart.
“Enough of the milling. It’s got to be sit-down time by now.”
“Then we’ll find our table and do just that.”
They not only found their table—after the gauntlet of stop, talk, go, stop, talk—but Nadine and Mavis were already seated there.
They huddled together, giggling over something. Or Mavis giggled. Nadine, Eve considered, had more of a snicker.
They couldn’t have looked more different, less like two women who would be not only friends, but great, good friends.
