The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [409]
But Reva couldn’t anticipate how badly he wanted to speak, how the part of his mind not focused on the work formed and re-formed the words and phrases.
She was in trouble, he reminded himself. She was just widowed, and widowed by a man she’d learned was using her. She was vulnerable, and emotionally fragile. It was . . . ghoulish—wasn’t it?—to even consider approaching her on any personal level at such a time.
But when she leaned back on a quiet sound of exhaustion, the words simply popped out.
“You’re pushing too hard. You need to take a break. Twenty minutes. A walk in the fresh air.”
“We’re close. I know it.”
“Then twenty minutes will make little difference. Your eyes are bloodshot.”
She worked up a twisted smile. “Thanks for pointing that out.”
“You have lovely eyes. You’re abusing them.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She shut them on a sigh. “You don’t even know what color they are other than red.”
“They’re gray. Like smoke. Or fog on a moonless night.”
She opened one eye, peered at him. “Where’d that come from?”
“I have no idea.” Though he was flustered, he decided to push on. “Perhaps my brain is as bloodshot as your eyes. I think we should take a walk.”
“Why not?” She studied him as she got to her feet. “Sure. Why not?”
Across the room, Roarke watched them step out. “About damn time,” he muttered.
“You got something?” Feeney asked, and nearly pounced on him.
“No. Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
“You’re a little off today, aren’t you, boy?”
“I’m on right enough.” He reached for his coffee mug, found it empty, and had to struggle against the urge to just heave it against the glass wall.
“Why don’t I fill that up for you.” Feeney nipped it handily out of Roarke’s hand. “I was about to do my own.”
“Appreciate it.”
When he’d done so, Feeney came back, swiveled his chair beside Roarke’s. “She can handle herself. You know that.”
“Who would know it better?” Roarke took a tool as thin as a dentist’s probe and scraped delicately at corrosion. Then because Feeney merely sat and sipped, he set the tool aside once more.
“I gave her a difficult time before she left. She deserved it, by God, didn’t she deserve it. But I regret the timing of it.”
“I’m not getting between a man and his wife. Those who do usually come out looking like they’ve been set on by wild dogs. I will say when the wife’s in a mood to cook my brains for breakfast, I can usually save myself with flowers. Pick ’em up from a street vendor, take them home to her—with a big sappy look on my face.” He sat, he sipped. “Flowers wouldn’t work on Dallas.”
“Not in a million years,” Roarke confirmed. “A sack of diamonds from the Blue Mines on Taurus I wouldn’t work on her, unless you knocked her in that block of wood she calls a head with them. Christ Jesus, that woman’s a frustration to me. Beginning, end, and all the middle.”
Feeney said nothing for five humming seconds. “See, you want me to agree with you. To say something like, ‘Oh yeah, that Dallas sure is a blockhead.’ If I did, you’d end up kicking my ass. So I’m just going to drink my coffee.”
“That’s a big help to me.”
“You’re a smart boy. You know what you have to do.”
“And what would that be?”
He patted Roarke on the shoulder. “Grovel,” he said, and scooted his chair out of harm’s way.
It wasn’t over. No, by God, it wasn’t over, and he was in the pilot’s seat now.
He paced and prowled his rooms—rooms he was so proud of, rooms he’d celebrated having completely to himself. No one knew about them.
Well, no one living.
They were a perfect place to strategize his moves. And to congratulate himself on yet another job well done.
The blue-haired freak had been child’s play. Absolute child’s play. He took a minute hit of Zeus to keep his energies up, keep his mind alert as he had business, very personal business, to conduct shortly.
He was protecting himself, step by stage by layer. And that, self-preservation, was paramount.