It didn’t surprise her when Roarke finished his task before she did.
“Five women in the past year. I’ve sent you their names. All multiple visits, on a weekly basis, most lasting between six and eight weeks. I want a brandy.”
“Five, in a year. And he’s nearly seventy.”
“Medical science, and we salute it, has made that issue moot.” He opened the wall slot, took out a decanter. “I’ve sent them to you in order of appearance. I can also tell you: While the senator uses the suite on the average of once a week for personal purposes, he generally stays the night. The lady of the moment rarely does.”
She generated ID shots, added them to the board. “All but two legally married. And the latest is twenty-five. I mean, humping Jesus, he has more than forty years on her. It’s just wrong.”
When Roarke just swirled and sipped brandy, she narrowed her eyes. “He’s old enough to be her grandfather.”
“I don’t like the man—less now than I did before—but I can’t help but admire his . . . stamina.”
“That’s dick-thinking.”
“Well . . .” Roarke glanced down at his own. “It does have opinions.”
Muttering to herself, she got up to circle the board. “They’re all lookers, I’ll give him that. And not one of them within fifteen years of his age. This Lauren Canford’s his oldest pick at forty-two. Married, two kids, a lobbyist. That’s a political thing. And the baby of the bunch, Charity Downing, twenty-five, single, an artist who works at Eclectia—a gallery in SoHo. Asha Coppola, on her second marriage, works for a nonprofit—age thirty-one. Allyson Byson, third marriage—is that optimism or insanity? Anyway, third marriage at age thirty-four, no occupation. And Carlee MacKensie, twenty-eight, single, freelance writer.
“I’ll take a look at them, and their spouses.”
“I’ve some work of my own unless you need something more.”
“No, go ahead. Thanks.”
He gave her until midnight and, as expected, found her starting to droop over the work.
“That’s a big enough jump on things for one night.”
She didn’t argue, knew she had to let it simmer and settle. And if she was wrong, Edward Mira might limp home before morning.
But she wasn’t wrong.
“Did you know Mr. Mira and his cousin both went to Yale? The senator was a year ahead of him—would’ve been two but Mr. Mira graduated early. And he came out of Yale with that Latin deal—the magnum thing.
“Magna cum laude.”
“Yeah, that. And the Phi Beta deal, too. Graduated third in his class. The senator graduated like seventy-whatever in his. Mr. Mira has all these letters after his name. Don’t know what half of them are, and he served as class president his senior year, was the valedictorian. The senator did more than okay, but on an academic level, Mr. Mira kicked his ass.”
“I imagine that didn’t sit well with the future senator.”
“I’m thinking not. Anyway, the Urbans were just starting to rumble, and Mr. Mira was a frigging captain of the campus peace patrol. The campus was far enough out of the city, so reasonably safe, but there was trouble, and demonstrations, and regular bomb threats.”
In the bedroom, she sat to take off her boots. “The senator got his law degree, and took a job with a law firm in Sunnyside—away from the conflict. Mr. Mira came back to New York, got his master’s from Columbia. He got the doctorate from there, too, so they’re both Dr. Mira. He and Mira cohabbed for like a year.”
She shook her head as she undressed. “I never figured them for cohabs, you know? And looking into that stuff felt weird. Voyeuristic, but still. And they’re both starting out their careers and their life together in a city shaking from the Urbans. They got married at the grandparents’ house. There was this whole story I dug up. I shouldn’t have been taking time to look at stuff like that, but . . .”
“It’s lovely.”
“Yeah. And it shows another reason why the house matters so much to him.” She pulled on a sleep shirt, crawled into bed. “The senator and Mandy tied it up at the Palace—before your time—in a big, splashy deal.”
She turned to him when he slid into bed with her. “You could’ve had a big, splashy deal when we tied it up. Why didn’t you?”
“You wouldn’t have liked it.” He wrapped around her, drawing her in where he liked her best. “And for myself, I wanted our lives to begin where it mattered most. Home. I wanted that memory to be here—like the painting you had done for me. Of the two of us, under the arbor on our wedding day.”
She let out a sigh. “Maybe we’ll make it there.”
“Make it where?”