Page 113 of Obsession in Death

The accent, Eve noted, like Summerset’s, held the faintest trace of Eastern Europe. Satisfied enough, Eve took her hand off the butt of her weapon, crossed the room to shake Ivanna’s.

Delicate, Eve thought. Everything about the woman said delicate. The pale blond hair that swept into a long wave around a porcelain-doll face. Clear blue eyes, softly pinked lips, cameo features blended into fragile beauty. Eve gauged her, on closer look, at around seventy.

“Nice to meet you, and I haven’t heard a thing.”

“Always discreet.” On a musical laugh, Ivanna glanced toward Summerset. “We’ve known each other for too many years to count. Lawrence was my first love.”

“Really?” Eve decided to give her psyche a break and not try to imagine it.

“A woman’s first always holds a strong place.” Ivanna laid a hand on her heart, just below a square-cut sapphire. “You have a lovely home. It’s been far too many years since I’ve been to New York, been able to visit.”

“You don’t live here.”

“Paris, for the past several years, but my granddaughter lives here now, and is to be married here next week. So I’ve come for the wedding, for family.” She smiled back at Summerset. “And for old friends.”

“Well, enjoy it. I’ve got to...”

“Your work is important, and we can’t keep you. The police. There was a time,” she said, playfully, to Summerset.

“Times change.”

“Oh, so they do, no matter how you might try to hold them in place. I hope to see you again,” she told Eve.

“Sure,” was the best Eve could think of.

She left them to their whiskey and memories, and started upstairs.

Russian, Ukrainian, possibly Czech—who knew?—but the voice brought images of gypsy campfires and crumbling castles in shadowy mountains. Still, it was hard to picture the delicate beauty with the sapphire and the pale blue dress ever being attracted to the bony, skull-faced Summerset.

She went straight to her office, figuring on stowing the takeout in the kitchen, writing up her report, putting in some solid thinking time.

And found Roarke in his own office, at his own desk. He wore a sweater the color of night fog, and when those wild blue eyes flicked up to hers, they held both welcome and ease.

“Hey. I didn’t know you were home.”

“For a bit now, just finishing up a few things. What have you got there?”

“I made dinner.” She held up the takeout bag. “Some kind of soup and bread sticks and pie.”

“You’ve been busy. What sort of pie?”

“Damn good pie, I’m told. Hungry?”

“Now that you mention it.”

“I’ll set it up. I could handle some wine if you want to get that. It’s been a day.”

“I don’t see any fresh blood or bruises.”

“Not that kind of day,” she said, turning back into her office. “But it was close. Closer, somebody would’ve been bloody.”

She scowled at the sketches on the murder board. “Somebody,” she repeated, then went back into the kitchen and decided to work backward through the day. “Summerset has a woman.”

“I believe he has.” Roarke stepped into the kitchen behind her, turned her, kissed her lightly in welcome. “And has had, a number of them.”

“Don’t even,” she warned. “I mean he has a woman downstairs.”

“Ivanna, yes.” Roarke wandered back out to her office, considered what wine to open for dinner. “She arrived just before I did. I came up more to give them privacy than to work.”