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She was after a rogue cop, and if he wanted to go head-to-head with her, that was fine. But he wouldn’t threaten her into shifting her focus. There was a process to be gone through, and she meant to take it step by meticulous step.

She harassed the sweepers, called the lab personally and issued a few threats of her own along with her demand for priority on the samples she was sending in. As far as she was concerned, if she had to work twenty-four/seven until the case was closed, she would do so. And so would everyone on her team.

Roarke had a different process to work through, a different priority. And an entirely different style. He hadn’t wasted time asking what Eve intended to do or arguing with her over taking precautions for her personal safety.

He left her with her work and made the trip back to New York alone. By the time he’d arrived, he’d already begun the groundwork on his own plans.

He pulled up in front of Purgatory, uncoded the door. The wreckage had been removed, and the first layers of repair were already under way. It wasn’t the elegant arena of sin it had been, but it would be. Very soon.

The lights were on, shimmering over the floor with its newly laid squares of reflective silver squares and circles. The mirrors behind the bar had been replaced, in a deep blue glass per his instructions. The overall effect was somewhat otherworldly.

Or perhaps, he thought, underworldly, which was his intent.

He moved to the bar and was pouring two snifters of brandy when Rue MacLean came down the long, curving stairs.

“I ran a security check,” she said, smiling a little. “We’re up and running. You work fast.”

“We’ll be open for business within seventy-two hours.”

“Seventy—” She picked up the snifter he nudged over the bar, blew out a breath. “How?”

“I’ll deal with it. I want you to put the staff on notice in the morning, get the work schedules done tonight. We reopen Friday night, and we reopen with a bang.” He lifted his snifter, watching her.

“You’re the boss.”

“That’s right.” He took out his cigarettes, left the case on the bar as he lighted one. “How did he get to you?”

He saw just the barest glint of panic before puzzlement slid over her face. “What?”

“He’s been using my place to do a little business. Oh, nothing too overt, nothing too important. Just enough so he can sit smug in his little fortress and imagine fucking me over with my own. He’ll get sloppy after a bit, if he hasn’t already. That’s his pattern. Makes him dangerous, that carelessness of his. Might be that the cop who died here began to sniff something, just a whiff of it. Then he was dead before he could follow through.”

She’d gone pale, so pale her skin was nearly translucent. “You think Ricker had the cop killed?”

He drew in smoke, watching her through the veil of it as he exhaled. “No, I don’t, at least not directly. But the timing’s interesting. Bad timing for the cop. Potentially for me, and certainly for you, Rue.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She started to step back, but Roarke simply laid a hand over hers, the pressure firm enough to warn her to hold her place. “Don’t.” He spoke softly, and she shivered. “You’ll only piss me off. I’m asking how he got to you. I’m asking because we’ve been in the way of being friends for a considerable amount of time now.”

“You know there’s nothing between me and Ricker.”

“I’d hoped there wasn’t.” He angled his head. “You’re trembling. Do you think I’ll hurt you? Have you ever seen me strike a woman, Rue?”

“No.” One tear, huge, glistening, spilled over and trailed down her white cheek. “No, you wouldn’t. It’s not your way.”

“But it’s his. How did he hurt you?”

It was shame now that pushed tears from her eyes, had her voice choked with them. “Oh God, Roarke. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He had me picked up off the street, two of his men, right on the street. They took me out to his place, and he—Jesus, he had lunch, this fancy lunch all spread out in his solarium. He told me how