There were paintings on the walls—the kind she had once seen on a school field trip to the Met. French Impressionists from what century she couldn’t quite recall. The Revisited Period that had come into being in the early twenty-first century complimented them with their pastoral scenes and gloriously muted colors.
No holograms or living sculpture. Just paint and canvas.
“May I take your coat?”
She brought herself back and thought she caught a flicker of smug condescension in those inscrutable eyes. Eve shrugged out of her jacket, watched him take the leather somewhat gingerly between his manicured fingers.
Hell, she’d gotten most of the blood off it.
“This way, Lieutenant Dallas. If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the parlor, Roarke is detained on a transpacific call.”
“No problem.”
The museum quality continued there. A fire was burning sedately. A fire out of genuine logs in a hearth carved from lapis and malachite. Two lamps burned with light like colored gems. The twin sofas had curved backs and lush upholstery that echoed the jewel tones of the room in sapphire. The furniture was wood, polished to an almost painful gloss. Here and there objects d’art were arranged. Sculptures, bowls, faceted glass.
Her boots clicked over wood, then muffled over carpet.
“Would you like a refreshment, lieutenant?”
She glanced back, saw with amusement that he continued to hold her jacket between his fingers like a soiled rag. “Sure. What have you got, Mr.—?”
“Summerset, lieutenant. Simply Summerset, and I’m sure we can provide you with whatever suits your taste.”
“She’s fond of coffee,” Roarke said from the doorway, “but I think she’d like to try the Montcart forty-nine.”
Summerset’s eyes flickered again, with horror, Eve thought. “The forty-nine, sir?”
“That’s right. Thank you, Summerset.”
“Yes, sir.” Dangling the jacket, he exited, stiff-spined.
“Sorry I kept you waiting,” Roarke began, then his eyes narrowed, darkened.
“No problem,” Eve said as he crossed to her. “I was just . . . Hey—”
She jerked her chin as his hand cupped it, but his fingers held firm, turning her left cheek to the light. “Your face is bruised.” His voice was cool on the statement, icily so. His eyes as they flicked over the injury betrayed nothing.
But his fingers were warm, tensed, and jolted something in her gut. “A scuffle over a candy bar,” she said with a shrug.
His eyes met hers, held just an instant longer than comfortable. “Who won?”
“I did. It’s a mistake to come between me and food.”
“I’ll keep that in min
d.” He released her, dipped the hand that had touched her into his pocket. Because he wanted to touch her again. It worried him that he wanted, very much, to stroke away the bruise that marred her cheek. “I think you’ll approve of tonight’s menu.”
“Menu? I didn’t come here to eat, Roarke. I came here to look over your collection.”
“You’ll do both.” He turned when Summerset brought in a tray that held an uncorked bottle of wine the color of ripened wheat and two crystal glasses.
“The forty-nine, sir.”
“Thank you. I’ll pour out.” He spoke to Eve as he did so. “I thought this vintage would suit you. What it lacks in subtlety . . .” He turned back, offering her a glass. “It makes up for in sensuality.” He tapped his glass against hers so the crystal sang, then watched as she sipped.
God, what a face, he thought. All those angles and expressions, all that emotion and control. Just now she was fighting off showing both surprise and pleasure as the taste of the wine settled on her tongue. He was looking forward to the moment when the taste of her settled on his.
“You approve?” he asked.