“I know. Let’s go inside first.”
“You know, but . . . Louise. Is she upset? I need to call her.”
Eve’s eyebrows raised as he fumbled with the keycode of his door. The unflappable Charles was definitely flapped. “Later. She’s okay.”
“Not thinking straight,” he confessed, and ran a hand absently over Peabody’s shoulder as they all stepped inside. “I spent an hour in the relaxation tank this morning. Didn’t turn on the screen until a few minutes ago. The report hit me in the face. We saw them, just last night. Him and the woman he tried to kill.”
“Tell me.”
It was almost identical to Louise’s statement, save for the interlude in the lounge. But Charles’s speculation that the man was an LC interested her.
“Why did you think that?”
“He was detached, just a little. It’s hard to explain. He was very solicitous, very smooth, but there was calculation under it. He let her make all the physical advances and let her pay the check. I was preoccupied,” he admitted, “but I noticed the way he looked after her when she went into the lounge. Calculation, again. And smugness. Just a quick impression on my end. Some LCS think of clients that way.”
“How about clients?”
“Sorry?”
“Some clients look at LCs that way.”
He studied Eve’s face, then nodded. “Yes. You’re right about that.”
She turned for the door. “Check with some of your associates for me, will you, Charles? For a client who likes classical music, pink roses, and candlelight.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “And poetry. You people keep client files on preferences, right?”
“If we want to stay in business, we do. I’ll ask around. Delia? Can I have a minute?”
Eve kept going. “I’ll get the elevator.”
“I know we’d penciled in dinner this evening,” he began.
“Don’t worry about it.” She found it easy to kiss his cheek. That’s what friends were for. “I like her.”
“Thanks.” He gave Peabody’s hand a squeeze. “So do I.”
Chapter 12
It usually made employees nervous when Roarke showed up unexpectedly at one of his companies. To his way of thinking, a few nerves helped keep people on their toes.
He paid well, and the working conditions that were found in all his companies, factories, subsidiaries, and offices throughout the world and its satellites were unquestionably high.
He knew what it was to be poor, and to be surrounded by the dingy, the dark, the dirty. For some—himsel
f, for instance—those were motivators to achieve more. By whatever means possible. But for most, a stingy wage and an airless box in which to earn it fostered hopelessness, resentment. And pilfering.
He preferred a higher overhead, which tended to keep those who belonged to him comfortable, loyal, and productive.
He walked through the main level of Allegany, making mental notes on what might need to be adjusted in security, in decor. He found no glitches in communication as within moments of his requesting to speak with the chief chemist he was being escorted to the thirtieth floor. The flustered receptionist who led the way offered him coffee twice and apologized for the delay in locating Dr. Stiles a total of three times before they’d reached the man’s office.
“I’m sure he’s very busy.” Roarke glanced around the large, somewhat disorganized room where the sun and privacy screens were both firmly fixed to the window.
The place was as dim as a cave.
“Oh yes, sir. I’m sure he is, sir. May I bring you some coffee while you wait?”
Three for three, he thought. “No, thank you. If Dr. Stiles is in one of the labs, perhaps—”
He broke off when the man stalked in, all flapping lab coat and scowl. “I’m in the middle of a project.”