Page 22 of Fury In Death

Not foolish to find it comforting, she decided. Smart.

She got up, went straight to the AutoChef for coffee. “Squeeze any more blood out since the ungodly hour when you got up?”

Now he smiled at her. “Unnecessary. So far.”

“How about lucre? That’s what they call it, right? Lucre? It’s kind of a frosty word. Squeeze out any lucre this morning?”

“Give a little, get a little.”

“As long as we can afford coffee, I’m good.”

She gulped some down before heading in to shower.

Comfort there, too, hot water pulsing out of jets for however long she wanted. When her childhood memories were of chilly trickles, slivers of soap, towels like cardboard.

She indulged in the steam and spray as her brain woke up.

Morgue first. Check with the lab, see if the killer’s blood had mixed with the victim’s.

Wouldn’t that be handy?

After stepping into the drying tube, she raked her fingers through her hair a few times as the swirl of warm air blew out the damp.

When she’d finished, she studied the robe that hung for her. Like the umbrellas in her ride, he made sure she had a robe. Somehow rotating them, day by day, season by season. This one was the color of the fat, juicy blackberries that sometimes accompanied breakfast.

She wondered where he got them—both the robes and the berries. Then realized as they moved to autumn, oatmeal would soon accompany the berries.

The man couldn’t help himself.

She stepped out.

The cat, banished from the domed plates that waited, sat, pretending indifference, in front of the low-simmering fire.

“He’s breakfasted quite well,” Roarke said as he poured Eve more coffee.

When Roarke lifted the warming domes, she saw they would, too.

“Frittatas. You had the new acquisition on your mind.”

“I did. And since the very thorough background check on the server I told you about is now complete, I intend to offer her the management position.”

“It’ll change her life.” She sat, picked up the coffee. “That’s power, too, the power to change a life.”

“In turn, she’ll help change a failing business into a success. She’ll have that power.”

The frittata came with spinach—he found ways to sneak that into her—and cheese; he’d added hash browns, bacon, and those fat berries on the side.

Hard to bitch about some spinach with all the rest. Which made him a smart guy.

“What are you going to call it? The restaurant.”

“Still to be determined. Something to suit what I see as casual with a bit of flair. The building itself, we’ll start on the empty units. Christ knows there are plenty of them.”

“This is pretty tasty,” she said on another bite. “What’s Spanish for tasty?”

Since he didn’t know, he looked it up. “Sabroso. Hmm, interesting. That might do. And you, you’ll start your day with Morris.”

“Yeah.” She showered more salt on her hash browns. “I don’t think the killer used weapons other than his hands and feet, but if he did, Morris will tell me.”