He grinned. “And I feel I have to say I’m sorry it went so well. Why don’t you tell me about Marlo Durn and the others while I shower?”
“You probably know some of them. You’ve bumped elbows, and more, with the Hollywood crowd.”
“Hmm” was his non-answer as he undressed. “In any case I haven’t bumped anything with Marlo Durn, which should be a relief to all of us as I’ve seen some of the media coverage of her. She could pass for your sister at this point.”
“I guess. And it’s weird.” Hands in the pockets of her robe, she leaned against the door and watched his most excellent ass head for the shower. “The one playing Peabody’s a bitch.”
“Rumor has it,” he called out over the pulse of water. “And also that there’s no love lost between her and Durn. Should be an interesting evening.”
“Maybe they’ll punch each other.” Eve felt her enthusiasm click up a notch at the idea. “That would be fun.”
“We can only hope.”
“The sets are spooky,” she continued. “All that was missing from the bullpen were crumbs on Jenkinson’s desk. That and the smell, but it takes years of cop to get that smell.”
When he stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, she frowned. “That’s it? That’s all you have to do? It’s not right.”
“Some of it should be offset by the fact you’re not required to shave your face.”
“I don’t think that’s enough.”
She stalked over to the closet, opened it. And scowled again.
“What am I supposed to wear? There are too many choices in here. If you’ve got one thing, you don’t have to think about it. You just take it out, put it on. This is too complicated. Peabody hounded me about this until I wanted to pull her tongue out and wrap it around her neck. Between her and Trina my brain’s fried.”
Amused, he walked over, stepped into the closet. “This.” He lifted a dress off the rod.
Short, she noted, with a kind of drape to the skirt from where it was caught at the side of the waist with a flower of the same material and color as the dress. Not really blue, not really green, with a kind of shimmery overcast. She eyed it, the wide scoop of neck, the thumb-width straps.
“How do you know this one?”
“The little black dress is a classic for a reason, but often expected—especially in New York. So you’ll go with color, rich color in a soft sheen. It’s feminine without fuss, sexy without trying to be.”
She took it, turned it around, and lifted an eyebrow at the deep plunge in the back. “Without trying.”
“Very hard. You have shoes to match.”
“I do?”
“You do, yes, and go with diamonds. Leave the color to the dress.”
“Which diamonds? Do you know how many you give me? Why do you do that?”
The aggrieved sound of her voice amused him nearly as much as giving her diamonds. “It’s a sickness. I’ll get them for you once you’re dressed.”
She said nothing, and stood where she was as he selected a dark suit from his forest of suits, a slate-colored shirt, and a stone-colored tie.
“How come you don’t wear color?”
“The better to serve as the backdrop for my beautiful wife.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You had that one ready.”
“The truth is always ready.”
She jabbed a finger at him. “That one, too.”
“Such a cynic.” He gave her a pat on the ass as he passed. She could have found more to say, cynic-wise, but decided to save it. By the time she’d dressed, apologized in advance to her feet, and trapped them in the ice-pick heels, transferred her weapon and badge and communicator to one of the useless bags women were forced to carry to evening events, Roarke had the diamonds laid out.
“All of that?”
“All of that, yes,” he said firmly as he finished his tie.
“You could buy New Jersey for all of that.”
“I’d rather see them on my wife than buy New Jersey.”
“They’ll see me from space,” she muttered as she plugged in the glittery drop earrings, clamped on the bracelet, the fancy wrist unit.
“No, not like that,” he said as she fought with the clasp on the triple-strand necklace. “This way.” He adjusted the chains so they draped front and back.
She started to make a comment about shoulder-blade jewelry, but when she turned for a look had to admit it looked damned snappy.
“The evenings are cooling off.” He handed her a short, translucent coat. Over the dress it looked like a thin film of stars.
“Did I already have this?”
“You have it now.”
Her eyes shifted to his in the mirror. She had a smart-ass remark ready, but when he smiled at her, she thought,
“We look pretty good.”
With his hands on her shoulders, he pressed his cheek to hers. “I think we’ll do.”
“Let’s go play Hollywood.”
It felt like a play, the set, the costumes, the lights. Mason Roundtree’s primary residence might have been New LA, but he didn’t stint on his New York pad.
The Park Avenue townhouse rose three stories and boasted a roof terrace with domed lap pool and garden. He’d gone minimalist contemporary in style with lots of glass, chrome, open space, and blond-toned wood. Here and there a pin light showcased some sinuous sculpture or jewel-toned ball. Art juggled between colorful splashes or dramatic black-and-white photographs.
Off the entryway with its single spear of silver light, the living area spread under high ceilings. A fire simmered low in a silver hearth.
“At last.” Blunt as a thumb in a black suit, Roundtree shot out a hand, gripped Eve’s. He sported a goatee, a perfect triangle of blazing red, and a mass of wildly curling hair.
She thought he might look more at home felling a tree with an axe in some mountain forest rather than a sleekly modern New York drawing room.
“You’re a hard woman to wrangle, Lieutenant Dallas.”
“I guess.”
“I missed you on set today. I wanted some time.”
“It was murder.”
“So I heard.” His eyes blazed blue as he studied her face. “Damn bad timing. I’m hoping you find some time to come down to the studio,” he said to Roarke with another fast grip and grin.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Damn near wrapped. I don’t want to jinx it but so far this project’s been smooth as a baby’s ass.” He had his sharp bluebird eyes on Eve again, one hand tugging at his goatee. “You’ve been the only wrinkle. Can’t get you to consult, take meetings, do lunch, interviews.”
“It’s still murder.”
“Ha!”
“Mason, you’re hogging our centerpiece.” A curvy brunette wearing lipstick red with glinting sapphires glided up. “I’m Connie Burkette, Mason’s wife. Welcome.”
“I’m an admirer,” Roarke told her.
She purred. “Nothing lovelier to hear from a gorgeous man. Let me return the compliment to you, and to you,” she said to Eve. “Mason’s been saturated with this project for nearly a year now. And when he’s saturated, I get soaked. I feel like I already know both of you. So, champagne, wine? Something stronger?”
At the most subtle of signals one of the staff passing flutes of champagne sidled over.
