The In Death Collection Books 21-25 - J. D. Robb [74]
“Wilson could have screwed around with Avril even before she was born.” The idea made Eve’s stomach roll. “I’m damn sure they experimented on her in one way or another after. Maybe her kids were part of the project, too. That could be what snapped her. Having her kids under the microscope.”
By the time they’d circled the house—the equivalent, Eve thought, of hiking four crosstown blocks—she caught the glint of headlights turning through the gates.
“Damn. I guess the circus is coming to town after all.”
A circus, he thought. Maybe he could . . . stop the madness.
“I love a parade.”
She might’ve tried to bolt up the steps, hide out at least for a bit. But Summerset merely stood like a statue at the base.
“Hors d’oeuvres are in the parlor. Your first guests are arriving.”
Even as Eve curled her lips into a snarl, Roarke was nudging her away. “Come on, darling. I’ll pour you a nice glass of wine.”
“How about a couple of double Zingers?” She rolled her eyes when he merely chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, a nice civilized glass of wine before the torture.”
He poured, leaned down to buss her lips with his as he handed her the glass. “You’re still wearing your weapon.”
She brightened immediately. “Yeah, I am.”
But the brightness dimmed as she heard Trina’s voice riding along with Mavis’s chirpy tones as Summerset let them in. “Might as well take it off,” Eve grumbled. “She doesn’t have a nervous system to compromise.”
She wasn’t sure how she’d ended up with a gang of females, or why all of them seemed so thrilled with the prospect of getting their faces, bodies, hair slathered with goo. They really didn’t have that much in common, to Eve’s mind. The dedicated doctor with blue blood, the ambitious and savvy on-air reporter, the stalwart cop with a Free-Ager background. Add in Mavis Freestone, the former street thief and current music vid sensation and the terrifying Trina with her bottomless case of glops and goos, and it was a strange mix.
But they sat, stood, sprawled around Roarke’s lush and elegant parlor, happy as a pack of puppies.
They chattered. She’d never understood why women chattered, and seemed to have an endless supply of stuff to talk about. Food, men, men, each other, clothes, men, hair. Even shoes. She’d never known there was so much to say about shoes, and that none of it actually correlated to walking in them.
And since Mavis was knocked up, babies were high on the chatter list.
“I feel completely mag.” Mavis gobbled up fancy cheese, crackers, stuffed veggies, and whatever else was in reach as if food were about to be declared illegal. “We’re going into week thirty-three, and they say he/ she can, like, hear stuff, and even see in there, and its head’s down now—assuming the position. Sometimes you can feel his/her foot poking.”
Poking what? Eve wondered. The kidneys, the liver? The very idea had her avoiding the pâté.
“How’s Leonardo handling it?” Nadine asked.
“He’s aces. We’re taking classes now. Hey, Dallas, you and Roarke need to sign up for your coaching class.”
Eve made some sound, but found it impossible to express the full terror.
“That’s right, you’re coaching.” Louise beamed. “That’s wonderful. It’s so good for the mom to have people she loves and trusts with her during labor and delivery.”
Eve was saved from coming up with a comment when Louise began to ask Mavis what method she planned to use, where she intended to give birth.
But she did manage a muttered “Coward” under her breath when she spotted Roarke slipping out of the room.
So she poured a second glass of wine.
Despite her strange and expanding shape, Mavis never stopped moving. She had traded her usual heels or platforms for gel-soles, but even they were what Eve assumed was the height of fashion. The boots were some sort of abstract pattern of pink on green and rose to the knees.
With them Mavis wore a sparkly green skirt with a snug green top that highlighted her protruding belly rather than disguising it. The sleeves of the shirt carried the same pattern as the boots and ended in a lot