avy, face still flushed, she got to her feet. “It’s a good deal,” she said when he got to his. “All around.”
He took her hand, kissed her fingers. “The best of deals.”
“Now I’m walking in a ballroom naked,” she said as she crossed the gleaming floor. “How many people can say that?”
4
Eve woke in the predawn dark with a weight on her chest. When she opened her sleep-blurred eyes she made out a silhouette that had her reaching for her weapon with one hand, balling the other into a fist. Before she punched the shadow, as her brain cleared enough to remember she wasn’t wearing her weapon or anything else, the shadow let out a familiar, growly sort of sound.
“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? Lights on, ten percent.”
In the low light, Galahad’s bicolored eyes stared, hard and steely, into hers. “What’s your problem?” She hauled him up, dumped him on the bed beside her.
Those odd feline eyes only narrowed. The growly sound clicked up to an actual growl.
“Watch it, pal. I’m bigger than you.”
Eve scrubbed her hands over her face, called for the time.
The time is five-thirty-three. Current temperature is nineteen degrees.
Eve shot a finger at the cat. “I had another thirty coming to me.”
Galahad’s response was a snarl.
Since she didn’t have Roarke as backup—already up and buying a solar system or selling a small country, Eve imagined—she rolled out of bed, snagged the robe her husband, who inexplicably thought of every damn thing, must have tossed on the foot of the bed.
As she pulled the robe on, the cat stalked to the edge of the bed. Sat. Stared.
“Look, you’re creeping me, okay? Knock it off.”
She walked to the wall panel, opened it to the AutoChef, programmed the first cup of life-sustaining coffee.
And got it.
No Summerset, and Roarke in one of his emperor-of-the-business-world meetings. Still, the man who thought of every damn thing usually fed the cat when the house was Summerset-free.
Turning, taking that first gulp of good, strong black coffee, Eve eyed the cat.
“Are you bullshitting me, tubby?”
He jumped off the bed—a definite thud. Sat. Stared.
His bullshit generally took the tack of sucking up, rubbing that pudgy body against legs, looking sad or appealing.
Now he just looked pissed. Righteously.
“Okay, I’m buying it.”
She programmed kibble, and though he didn’t deserve it after costing her a half hour down, she added some salmon.
When she set it down, he strolled over, tail swishing. His body language clearly stated: It’s about damn time.
“Yeah, you’re freaking welcome.”
Eve took the coffee with her into the shower.
Fully awake, considerably less grumpy, she came out to see Roarke standing in the bedroom. Dressed in one of his impeccable suits, he gestured at the empty bowl across the room while the cat wound between his legs and sang his sad song in pathetic meows.