J. Robb - Betrayal in Death

She all but purred. "Eve, I'll have to confess to being desperately in love with your husband. I hope you don't arrest me for it."

"If that was a crime in this state, I'd have three-quarters of the female population of New York in cages."

"Darling." Roarke looked down the table, met her eyes. "You flatter me."

"That wasn't flattery."

Liza giggled, as if she didn't know what else to do. "It's so hard not to be jealous when you've got a handsome, powerful man." She gave Vince's arm a quick squeeze. "I just want to scratch their eyes out when they come on to my Vinnie."

"Yeah?" Eve sipped the elegant '49, enjoyed the little bite. "Me, I just punch them in the face."

While Liza tried to decide whether to look shocked or impressed, Mick smothered a laugh behind his napkin. "From what I've seen, and heard, Roarke's stopped collecting women. He found the jewel of the lot, one with numerous facets and who shines in the setting he had waiting. Now when we were lads, he could barely walk for all the girls throwing themselves at his feet."

"You must have stories." Magda danced her fingertips on the back of Mick's hand. "Fascinating ones. Roarke's always so mysterious about his past accomplishments. It only whets the curiosity."

"I've stories in bushels and more. The pretty redhead with the rich father visiting Dublin from Paris, France. Or the little brunette with the lovely shape on her who baked scones twice weekly to curry his favor. I think her name was Bridgett. Do I have the right of that, Roarke?"

"You do. And she married Tim Farrell, the baker's son, which seemed to suit everyone." He recalled, just as clearly, that they'd plucked the Parisian redhead's – whatever her name might have been – deep purse to the bottom while he'd seduced her.

No one had been dissatisfied with the end results.

"Those were the days." Mick sighed. "But being a friend, and a gentleman, I'll tell no tales on my old mate. No more collecting women for the likes of Roarke, but a collector he always was. Rumors are you've an impressive one of weapons."

"I've picked up a few here and there over the years."

"Guns?" Vince brightened up, and his mother rolled her eyes.

"Vince has been fascinated by guns all his life. Drove the property masters wild whenever I was in a period piece and he came on set."

"I have a number of guns in my collection. Perhaps you'd like to see it."

"I'd love it."

It was a room that echoed with violence, and the tools men devised to wield against men. Pikes and lances, muskets, the Colts they'd called Peacemakers, and the auto-blasters that had made life among the cheapest commodities during the Urban Wars.

The tasteful setting with its soaring ceiling and sparkling glass didn't disguise the grim purpose of each display. Nor did it dim the elemental and human fascination for the art of self-destruction.

"Lord." Vince circled the room. "I haven't seen anything like this outside of the Smithsonian. It must have taken you years to put your collection together."

"A number of them." He noticed Vince's avaricious glance at a pair of nineteenth-century dueling pistols. Obligingly, Roarke used the palm plate and his code to release the lock on the reinforced glass case. He drew a pistol from its slot, passed it to Magda's son.

"Beautiful."

"Oooh." Liza gave a little shudder, but Eve caught the bright lust in her eyes. "Isn't it dangerous?"

"Not in its present state." Roarke spared her a smile and showed her another case. "The little one there, the one with the jeweled grip. Designed for a lady's hand and her purse. It once belonged to a wealthy widow who, in the unsettled days of the early part of the century, carried it with her whenever she took her morning walk with her Pomeranian. She's reputed to have shot an unlucky mugger, two looters, a discourteous doorman, and a Lhasa apso with carnal intentions regarding her Pom."

"Goodness." Gilt lashes fluttered over Liza's violet eyes. "She shot a dog?"

"So they say."

"A far different time." Mick studied a semiautomatic in gleaming chrome. "Amazing, isn't it," he said to Eve, "that anyone with the price in his pocket and the desire in his heart could pick up one of these over the counter, or under it, before the Gun Ban?"

"I always thought more stupid than amazing."

"You aren't a defender of the right to bear arms, Lieutenant?" Vince asked, turning the dueling pistol in his hand. He imagined himself looking very dashing.

She glanced back at the mean little automatic. "That's not designed to defend. It's designed to kill."

"Still." With some reluctance, he replaced the pistol in its slot and wandered over to where she stood with Mick. "People continue to find a way. If they didn't, you'd be out of a job."

"Vincent, that's rude."

"No, it's not." Eve nodded. "You're right, people find a way. But it's been some years since we've had disturbed children slaughtering other children in school hallways, or half-asleep spouses shooting their partners when they stumble in the dark, or neighborhoods under siege from gangs who carelessly shoot bystanders while they try to shoot each other. I think the old slogan was, Guns Don't Kill People, People Kill People. And it's true enough. But a gun gives them a hell of a lot of help."

"I can't argue with that," Mick put in. "Never did like the ugly, noisy things myself. Now a good sticker – " He strolled away a bit to a display of knives. "At least a man's got to get close enough to look you in the eye before he tries you with one of these. Takes more courage to stand toe-to-toe and stick a man than it does to blast away at him from a distance. But me, I'll stick with my fists."

He turned away, grinned. "A good, sweaty brawl solves most disputes, and mostly everyone can limp away from it and have a pint. We broke some noses in our day, didn't we, Roarke?"

"Probably more than our share." He relocked the case. "Coffee?" he said smoothly.

Eve strapped on her weapon and eyed her husband. He was enjoying a light breakfast in the sitting area of their bedroom. The morning news was playing on the wall screen and the stock reports skimmed by in a puzzling series of codes and figures on the tabletop unit.

The cat, Galahad, lounged beside him, with one of his dual-colored eyes aimed hopefully at a slice of Irish bacon neglected on Roarke's plate.

"How can you look like you've just come home from a week's vacation in some pamper spa?" she demanded.

"Clean living?"

"My ass. I know you were up till after three, drinking whiskey and telling lies with your pal. I heard his looney laugh as the pair of you stumbled upstairs."

"He might have been a bit unsteady at the end of it." He turned to her, his eyes blue and clear and rested. "A few fingers of whiskey's never been known to set me under. I'm sorry we woke you."

"It couldn't have been for long. I never heard you come to bed."

"I needed to pour Mick into his first."

"What are you going to do with him today?"

"He has business of his own, and will make his way about well enough. Summerset can tell him where I'll be if he wants to know."

"I thought you'd probably work from here today."

"No." He watched her over his coffee cup. "Not today. Stop worrying about me, Lieutenant. You have enough on your plate."

"You're the main course."

He laughed at that and rose to kiss her. "I'm very touched."

"Don't be touched." She gripped his arms once, firmly, to make her point. "Be careful."

"I'll be both."

"Will you at least use a driver? And the limo." The limo, she knew, was reinforced and could withstand a hailstorm of boomers.

"Yes, to set your mind at ease."

"Thanks. I've got to get going."