chapter ten
The same stone-faced butler stood guard at the door. He took Eve’s coat with the same faint disapproval.
“Send coffee down to the target room, please,” Roarke ordered as he led Eve up the stairs.
He was holding her hand again, but Eve decided it was less a sentimental gesture than one to make sure she didn’t balk. She could have told him she was much too intrigued to go anywhere, but found she enjoyed that ripple of annoyance under his smooth manner.
When they’d reached the third floor, he went through his collection briskly, choosing weapons without fuss or hesitation. He handled the antiques with the competence of experience and, she thought, habitual use.
Not a man who simply bought to own, but one who made use of his possessions. She wondered if he knew that counted against him. Or if he cared.
Once his choices were secured in a leather case, he moved to a wall.
Both the security console and the door itself were so cleverly hidden in a painting of a forest, she would never have found it. The trompe l’oeil slid open to an elevator.
“This car only opens to a select number of rooms,” he explained as Eve stepped into the elevator with him. “I rarely take guests down to the target area.”
“Why?”
“My collection, and the use of it, are reserved for those who can appreciate it.”
“How much do you buy through the black market?”
“Always a cop.” He flashed that grin at her, and she was sure, tucked his tongue in his cheek. “I buy only through legal sources, naturally.” His eyes skimmed down to her shoulder bag. “As long as you’ve got your recorder on.”
She couldn’t help but smile back. Of course she had her recorder on. And of course he knew it. It was a measure of her interest that she opened the bag, took out her recorder, and manually disengaged.
“And your backup?” he said smoothly.
“You’re too smart for your own good.” Willing to take the chance, she slipped a hand into her pocket. The backup unit was nearly paper thin. She used a thumbnail to deactivate it. “What about yours?” She glanced around the elevator as the doors opened. “You’d have video and audio security in every corner of this place.”
“Of course.” He took her hand again and drew her out of the car.
The room was high ceilinged, surprisingly spartan given Roarke’s love of comfort. The lights switched on the moment they stepped in, illuminating plain, sand colored walls, a bank of simple high-backed chairs, and tables where a tray holding a silver coffeepot and china cups had already been set.
Ignoring them, Eve walked over to a long, glossy black console. “What does it do?”
“A number of things.” Roarke set the case he carried down on a flat area. He pressed his palm to an identiscreen. There was a soft green glow beneath it as his print was read and accepted, then lights and dials glowed on.
“I keep a supply of ammunition here.” He pressed a series of buttons. A cabinet in the base of the console slid open. “You’ll want these.” From a second cabinet, he took earplugs and safety glasses.
“This is, what, like a hobby?” Eve asked as she adjusted the glasses. The small, clear lenses cupped her eyes, the attached earplugs fit snugly.
“Yes. Like a hobby.”
His voice came with a faint echo through her ear protectors, linking them, closing out the rest. He chose the .38, loaded it.
“This was standard police issue in the mid-twentieth century. Toward the second millennium, nine millimeters were preferred.”
“The RS-fifties were the official weapon of choice during the Urban Revolt and into the third decade of the twenty-first century.”
He lifted a brow, pleased. “You’ve been doing your homework.”
“Damn right.” She glanced at the weapon in his hand. “Into the mind of a killer.”
“Then you’d be aware that the hand laser you have strapped to your side didn’t gain popular acceptance until about twenty-five years ago.”
She watched with a slight frown as he slapped the cylinder shut. “The NS laser, with modifications, has been standard police issue since 2023. I didn’t notice any lasers in your collection.”