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She put the window down. “Do I look like I want to buy a flower?”

“It’s the last one.” He grinned toothlessly and held up a pitiful, ragged bloom she supposed was trying to be a rose. “Give ya a good deal. Five bucks for it.”

“Five? Get a handful of reality.” She started to brush him off, put the glass between them. Then found herself digging in her pocket. “I got four.”

“Okay, good.” He snatched the credit chips and pushed the flower at her before heading off in a shambling run.

“To the nearest liquor store,” Eve muttered and pulled away from the curb with the window open. His breath had been amazingly foul.

She drove home with the flower across her lap. And saw, as she headed through the gates, the lights he’d left on for her.

After all she’d seen and done that day, the simple welcome of lights in the window had her fighting tears.

She went in quietly, tossing her jacket over the newel post, climbing the stairs. The scents here were quiet, elegant. The wood polished, the floors gleaming.

This, too, she thought, was hers.

And so, she knew, when she saw him waiting for her, was Roarke.

He’d put on a robe and had the screen on low. Nadine Furst was reporting, and looked pale and fierce on the scene of the explosion. She could see he’d been working—checking stock reports, juggling deals, whatever he did—on the bedroom unit.

Feeling foolish, she kept the flower behind her back. “Did you sleep?”

“A bit.” He didn’t go to her. She looked stretched thin, he decided, as if she might snap at the slightest touch. Her eyes were bruised and fragile. “You need to rest.”

“Can’t.” She managed a half smile. “Wired up. I’m going to go back soon.”

“Eve.” He stepped toward her, but still didn’t touch. “You’ll make yourself ill.”

“I’m okay. Really. I was punchy for a while, but it passed. When it’s over, I’ll crash, but I’m okay now. I need to talk to you.”

“All right.”

She moved around him, shifting the flower out of sight, going to the window, staring at the dark. “I’m trying to figure out where to start. It’s been a rotten couple of days.”

“It was difficult, telling the Malloys.”

“Jesus.” She let her brow rest against the glass. “They know. Families of cops know as soon as they see us at the door. That’s what they live with, day in and out. They know when they see you, but they block it. You can see it in their faces—the knowledge and the denial. Some of them just stand there, others stop you—start talking, making conversation, picking up around the house. It’s like if you don’t say it, if you just don’t say it, it isn’t real.

“Then you say it, and it is.”

She turned back to him. “You live with that.”

“Yes.” He kept his eyes on hers. “I suppose I do.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about this morning. I—”

“So you’ve said already.” This time when he crossed to her, he touched, just a hand to her cheek. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. It does matter. I’ve got to get through this, okay?”

“All right. Sit down.”

“I can’t, I just can’t.” She lifted her hands in frustration. “I’ve got all this stuff churning inside me.”

“Then get rid of it.” He stopped her by putting a hand to hers, lifting the flower. “What’s this?”

“I think it’s a very sick, mutant rose. I bought it for you.”

It was so rare to see Roarke taken by surprise, she nearly laughed. His gaze met hers and she thought—hoped—it might have been baffled pleasure she saw there before he looked down at the rose again. “You brought me a flower.”

“I think it’s sort of traditional. Fight, flowers, make up.”

“Darling Eve.” He took the stem. The edges of the bud were blackened and curled from the cold. The color was somewhere between the yellow of a healing bruise and urine. “You fascinate me.”

“Pretty pitiful, huh?”

“No.” This time his hand cupped her cheek, skimmed into her hair. “It’s delightful.”

“If it smells anything like the guy who sold it to me, you might want to have it fumigated.”

“Don’t spoil it,” he said mildly, and touched his lips to hers.

“I do that—spoil things.