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“You missed lunch.”

She spun pasta around her fork. “Probably, but I had a donut in there. And I think I forgot to inform you that Peabody and McNab are bunking at our place tonight.”

“Inform me?”

“Summerset. He got pissy because I forgot about a delivery coming in today. Anyway, Peabody wants to decorate for the shower—which I don’t get. You’re getting a party, presents, food. What more do you need?”

“I suppose we’ll find out. That’s handy though. I can pluck McNab up tomorrow, and we’ll go do something manly.”

“Go? Leave?” Absolute panic rushed into her face. “You’re not going to stay for the thing?”

He took a bite of manicotti. “There’s nothing you could do, say, nothing you could possibly offer—including deviant sexual favors—that would induce me to be within a hundred yards of that baby shower.”

“Crap.” She forked up a nice chunk of meatball. “Not even if I combined chocolate sauce with the outfit?”

“Not even.”

“There could be whipped cream. And choreography.”

“An excellent bribe, I grant you, especially for a desperate woman. But no. I’ve already made arrangements to escape with Leonardo. We’ll just add McNab to our happy little troupe.”

“But what if something goes wrong?” She grabbed his arm. “Like the caterer goes whacko, because sometimes they do. Or we lose one of the pregnant women in the house.”

He merely picked up his wine with his free hand.

“Okay, okay.” She rolled her eyes. “I can handle it. But it stinks, if you ask me, really stinks, that you get to go out somewhere drinking beer while I’m stuck at Baby Central. Just because you have a penis.”

“We’ll think fondly of you over beer, me and my penis.”

She ate a little more, then smiled slowly. “You’ve still got to be in the birthing room when she pushes it out.”

“Shut up, Eve.”

“Your penis won’t save you then, pal.”

He picked up a breadstick, broke it in half to offer her a share. “And are you playing games tomorrow? Will there be prizes?”

She winced at his perfect delivery of the perfect stinger. “Okay, I’ll shut up. Want to talk about murder?”

“Please.”

She brought him up to date as they finished the meal and lingered over cappuccino.

“So Cavendish and his admin struck you wrong.”

“Vibes all over the place. Something off there, and the admin pulls his strings.”

“I don’t know him, though I have met the other players in today’s cast.”

“I’ve got the basics on him. Forty-six, trust-fund baby. Likes squash—the game, not necessarily the food. Two marriages, ditched the first wife eight years ago. One child, female, age twelve. Mother has custody, and moved to Paris. Married wife number two as soon as the divorce was final. She’s twenty-nine. Former model. My take there is he went from starter wife to trophy wife and fools around with the admin on the side.”

She narrowed her eyes as she sipped the frothy coffee. “And she wears leather, high-heeled boots, and makes him bark like a dog when they do it.”

“Really?” Amused, Roarke sat back. “And you know this because?”

“Because, of the two of them, she’s the one with the balls. He pushes paper, attends events, takes meetings, and does what he’s told.”

“And did someone tell him to kill Copperfield and Byson?”

“Maybe, and wouldn’t that be tidy?” She frowned over it. “But I’m leaning away from that. The killer was too level-headed, too confident. Cavendish broke a sweat just talking to me. But he knows something, and one of the things he knows is who did it.”

“So you’ll sweat him a bit more.”

“I can do that. I can talk to him again, poke at him a little. But I don’t have enough to charge him with anything and make him flip. I need more. A direct line. I have to find more because I’m betting he was just where he said he was on the night of the murders. Home in bed, and with the covers over his head because he knew what was going on.”

“If the New York branch of the law firm was part of it, used to funnel money or wash funds, I’ll find it.”

He would, Eve thought, not only because he was good, but because his pride