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“You have such a way with words.” He looked at her, standing with the glittery dress in one hand. She wore nothing but a matching triangle over her crotch, too small to be called panties, a triple chain of multicolored stones she’d yet to remove, and high, backless heels.

And an annoyed scowl.

“No, I wouldn’t be fine with it, or iced, or anything remotely like it. But then I don’t share. Christ, you look sexy. Why don’t you come over here and we’ll roll around, naked as turtledoves?”

“We’re having a conversation.”

“You are,” he corrected, as he stepped off the bed platform and toward her.

“And speaking of conversations . . .” She evaded, nipping neatly behind the sofa. “I still have to beat you brainless for leaving me with that woman, the one who looked like a skinny purple tree.”

“I was unavoidably detained.”

“My ass.”

“Oh, darling Eve, I’m thinking very fondly of your ass.” He feinted, she countered. And they circled the sofa. “Better run,” he said softly.

And with a quick whoop, she did. When they were both breathless, she let him catch her.

She had nothing. No breaks, no fresh leads, no old ones that looked promising. She juggled her list of suspects and possibles, looked for openings. She recanvassed the area around the crime scene, studied lab reports.

She ran the elements through IRCCA, searching for similar crimes, and found one in London more than a year before that could fit. Still open. It wasn’t exact, she mused. Messier, sloppier.

Practice session?

There was no note on elegant stationery, just the mutilated body of a young LC. Not the same type as Wooton, Eve acknowledged, and wondered if she was grasping at straws.

There were plenty of slice-and-dice, a number of LCs, especially on street level, who’d been assaulted, even killed, by clients or would-be clients. But nothing that matched the barbaric elegance of Jack.

She spoke with neighbors, coworkers, associates of those on her possible list, keeping the interviews informal and discreet. Pushing, poking for that crack. But nothing broke.

She faced her Sunday off with annoyance and irritability. Hardly a picnic of a mood. Her only hope of getting through it, Eve decided, was to get Mira in some quiet spot and pick her brain.

“Maybe you should give her brain, and your own, a day off.”

She frowned over at Roarke as they crossed the sidewalk to Mira’s pretty house, set in her pretty neighborhood. “What?”

“You’re muttering out loud.” He patted her shoulder supportively. “I don’t know as talking to yourself when knocking on the door of a shrink is the best of behaviors.”

“We’re only staying a couple of hours. Remember? We agreed on that.”

“Mmm.” With this noncommittal sound, he pressed his lips to her forehead. And the door opened.

“Hello. You must be Eve and Roarke. I’m Gillian, Charlotte and Dennis’s daughter.”

It took her a beat as she rarely thought of Mira by her given name. But Mira was stamped, clearly, on her daughter’s face.

Though her hair was longer, well past her shoulders and curling, it was the same rich sable. Her eyes were the same mild and patient blue, but they were homed in on Eve’s, looking deep. Her frame was longer, lankier like her father’s, and she’d draped it in some loose, airy top and pants that stopped inches short of her ankles.

One of those ankles carried a tattoo, a trio of connecting chevrons. Bracelets jangled on her wrists, rings jingled on her fingers. Her feet were bare with the toes painted a pale pink.

She was Wiccan, Eve recalled, and responsible for a couple of Mira’s grandchildren.

“It’s lovely to meet you.” Roarke was already taking Gillian’s hand, and smoothly stepping between two women who were obviously taking each other’s measure. “You favor your mother, who I’ve always considered one of the world’s loveliest of women.”

“Thanks. Mom said you were very charming. Please come in. We’re spread out”—she glanced back to where a baby’s strong wails poured down the stairs—“as you can hear,