“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.”
Eve stuck her head out a moment. “For what?”
“To catch up, for a start. It’s been several years, I believe, since they’ve been in the same place at the same time.”
“You know her?”
“I do, yes. Quite a fascinating woman.”
“What’s a fascinating woman doing with Summerset?”
He opted for a sturdy Merlot. “Reminiscing. To start. They were very young when they met, and had an intense and passionate relationship.”
She couldn’t image Summerset young, and really, really didn’t want to imagine him passionate.
“Then she went to Kiev—or it may have been Moscow,” Roarke considered, then shrugged. “She was, some forty, fifty years ago, a brilliant and famous dancer. Prima ballerina. I’ve seen recordings of her onstage, and she was truly stunning.”
“Okay, I can see that.” Eve carted out the meal, including the pie.
“She traveled around the world, fell in love with her choreographer. They had two children.” He offered Eve the wine. “They
were very young when he was killed. The dawn of the Urbans. And she danced for the rich, the privileged, lived her life as one of them. Or so she made it appear. She worked in intelligence.”
Eve blinked, brought back the image of delicacy and grace. “She was a spy?”
“And quite brilliant at that as well, if the stories are true. She worked with Summerset when he was based in London.”
Eve sampled the soup—whatever was in the kitchen sink was pretty good. “He was a medic.”
“Among other things, as you well know. He was married, so they remained friends and compatriots. At one point, she hid her children with his wife. And was godmother to Marlena when she was born. And, I’m told, was there for him when he lost his wife.”
Crowded lives, Eve thought. Long and crowded. Times changed, she remembered, no matter how you tried to hold them in place.
“I met her for the first time in Dublin,” Roarke said, “after Summerset took me in. I’d never seen the like of her—so elegant and cultured. And kind. She came to him again after Marlena was killed. I think he might have gone mad with grief if she hadn’t come to him.”
Eve laid a hand over his for a moment. The brutal murder of Summerset’s young daughter was a wound she knew had never healed for Roarke, for Summerset.
“It’s good he had someone. That you both did.”
“They rekindled their romance.”
“Okay, ick.” She removed her hand. “I don’t need that information.”
“And every few years they manage to be in the same place at the same time, and . . . reminisce.”