Page 82 of Obsession in Death

She shoved herself up, staggered to the AutoChef to clear her brain and boost her flagging system with coffee. And reminded herself she wouldn’t have to visit the morgue that morning.

Coffee and a live witness—two live witnesses—made for a good start to the day.

To give her spirit a boost along with her system and brain, she turned on the bedroom Christmas tree—it would be gone for another year in just a few days, so why not enjoy those pretty, cheerful lights? For more warmth, more light, she started the fire.

She still had moments of amazement, and thought she always would, that she had this place, this home where she could enjoy the warmth and snap of a fire on a cold winter morning.

All because someone extraordinary loved her.

By the time she’d grabbed clothes from the closet, programmed her second cup of coffee of the morning, Roarke strolled in, the cat prancing at his heels.

He was already dressed in a king-of-the-business-world suit—black with faint, needle-thin silver stripes, black shirt, a tie that picked up the stripes.

He looked rested, awake, and gorgeous—and she only felt a small twinge of resentment.

“I’d hoped you’d sleep longer.” He kissed her furrowed brow.

“I know you’re not a droid, but I’d like a walk-through of your power-up system because nobody should look like you do on four hours of sleep.”

“Lifelong habit. If I could be up and out before my father or Meg stirred, I’d avoid the morning boot. And you’re not wearing that.”

She’d been thinking she’d once escaped into sleep when she could to avoid her father’s boot—or worse—and frowned at him. “What?”

“You may find yourself on screen again today, so you may as well dress for it.”

“I can’t be worried about clothes when—”

“I will.” He took the jacket and shirt she’d yet to put on. “The pants are fine—a nice rich caramel, classic, good fit. I’ll deal with this, you deal with breakfast. I’m past ready to eat.”

She’d have argued, but the deal gave her control of breakfast. And it sure as hell wouldn’t be oatmeal.

So in her support tank and rich caramel, classic, good-fitting pants, she went straight for the AutoChef.

She wanted waffles—that’s right—waffles in an ocean of syrup. She added sides of mixed berries because he’d make some comment about a balanced meal. Besides, she liked them.

When she turned with the tray, he had a vest the same brown as the pants, but with thin gold stripes, a crisp white shirt, and a jacket of deep, dark green with brown leather buttons.

Okay, she thought, it would look put together, but not fancy, fussy, or showy. She set the tray down on the table in the sitting area—which instantly perked up Galahad’s ears.

Roarke simply pointed a warning finger that had the cat shooting up a leg to wash as if a morning ablution had been his only intention.

Eve put on the shirt over the tank and the fat diamond pendant Roarke had given her the day he told her he loved her. She buttoned on the vest, then sat to flood her waffles with syrup.

“You could just pour a cup of that, drink it straight.”

“Not the same,” she said over soaked waffles. “What wheel were you dealing this early?”

“The village in Tuscany I told you about. We’re moving forward on that.”

“Huh.” She couldn’t say why it struck her so odd he’d buy an Italian village. He owned an island—where they were due to take their winter break if she ever caught this obsessed killer. He owned the lion’s share of an off-planet resort. And those didn’t even make a dent in what made up his empire.

“I thought we might visit there next summer,” Roarke continued, enjoying his less saturated waffles. “There should be considerable progress on the villa’s rehab by then.”

Eve glanced toward the window where the falling sleet looked bitter and just a bit toothy. She could barely imagine summer, and sunshine and heat.

“Miserable, isn’t it?” But he said it easily—and why not, she thought, since they were eating waffles in the warmth with a fire snapping and a holiday tree sparkling.

What was the killer doing? she wondered. Sleeping still? Did she—it was damn well a woman—have a job that allowed her to sleep until the sun, what there would be of it today, rose?