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“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, Oh, what the hell.
“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 L.A., 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.”
