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“Yeah, right.” She snatched out the card, ripped it open, then snarled in a manner that had the cat leaping down and standing between Summerset’s legs. “Ricker, that son of a bitch.”

“Max Ricker?” Distaste turned to ice, the jagged sort that flayed skin. “Why would he send you flowers?”

“To get my goat,” she said absently, then a ripple of fear worked into her belly. “Or Roarke’s. Get them out of here. Burn them, stuff them in the recycler. Get rid of them fast. And don’t tell Roarke.” She grabbed Summerset’s sleeve. “Don’t tell Roarke.”

She made it a point never to ask Summerset for anything. The fact that she was, and urgently, had alarm bells sounding in his brain. “What’s Ricker to you?”

“A target. Get them out, damn it. Where’s Roarke?”

“In his office upstairs. Let me see the card. Have you been threatened?”

“They’re bait,” she said impatiently. “For Roarke. Take the elevator. Move. Get them gone.” She crumbled the card in her hand before Summerset could grab it from her. “Now.”

Dissatisfied, Summerset lifted the arrangement again. “Be very, very careful,” he said, then maneuvered them onto the elevator.

She waited until the doors closed before she smoothed out the card, read it again.

I never had the chance to kiss the bride.

M. Ricker

“I’ll give you the chance,” she muttered and carefully tore the card to bits. “The first time we meet in hell.”

She flushed the pieces, breathed a little easier, then stripped. She left her clothes where they fell, laid her weapon harness over the long counter, then stepped into the glass-walled shower.

“All jets full,” she ordered, closing her eyes. “One hundred and two degrees.”

She let the water beat at her everywhere, warm away the little chill the flowers had brought with them. She would put that aside and calculate how she would drill at Lewis the next morning.

Feeling better, she turned the jets off, squeezed some of the water out of her hair, and turned. Yelped.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ, Roarke, you know I hate when you sneak up on me like that.”

“Yes, I do.” He opened the door to the drying tube, knowing she preferred it to a leisurely toweling off. While the fan whirled, he strolled over to take her robe from the hook on the back of the door.

But when she stepped out, he held onto it rather than offering. “Who put those marks on you?”

“Huh?”

“Your arm’s bruised.”

“Yeah.” She glanced down, had an image of Ricker, his eyes burning as his fingers dug into her flesh. “You’re right. Must’ve run into something.” She reached for the robe only to have him hold it out of reach. “Come on, I’m not going to play your sick games in the bathroom.”

Such a statement usually made him smile. Her stomach began to quiver when his eyes stayed cool and steady on hers.

“They’re finger marks, Lieutenant. Who handled you?”

“For God’s sake.” Working up irritation, she snatched the robe. “I’m a cop, remember? It means I tend to run into a number of nasty characters in any given day. Have you eaten? I’m starving.”

He let her walk back into the bedroom, stand and fiddle with the AutoChef. Waited until she punched in a request. “Where are the flowers?”

Oh shit. “What flowers?”

“The flowers, Eve, that were delivered just a while ago.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just got—Hey!”

He’d spun her around so quickly her teeth nearly rattled. Might have if they hadn’t frozen solid at the fury in his eyes. The chill had turned to fire very quickly. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t ever fucking lie to me.”

“Cut it out.” He had her arms. But even now, she realized, even when he was furious, he didn’t hurt her, and was careful to keep his grip away from the bruise. “Flowers come here all the time. What am I supposed to know about it? Now let me go. I’m hungry.”

“I’ll tolerate, and by God do tolerate, a great deal from you, Eve. But you won’t stand here and lie to my face. You have bruises on you put there since I last saw you, and by someone’s hand. Summerset is downstairs feeding a bunch of flowers into the recycler. On your orders, I assume, since he brought them up here first.