Thinking of her victim, of what he’d done to fill his own life, she found herself grateful for what she had.
Even—when she walked in and saw him—Summerset.
Sort of.
The cat pranced over to her, jingling all the way. She supposed it had been Summerset who’d added the bow and bell to Galahad’s collar.
She’d have said something snarky, but the cat appeared to enjoy the adornment.
“The first team of decorators will be here at eight A.M. sharp,” Summerset informed her. “They’ll begin in the ballroom. A second team will arrive by ten to complete work on the terraces. Catering arrives at four in the afternoon, and waitstaff at six for a run-through. Other auxiliary staff will arrive by six-thirty.”
“Okay.”
“Your stylist will arrive by six, giving her ninety minutes to deal with you. You’ll be finished, prepared to greet guests at seven-fifty-five.”
“I don’t want ninety minutes, for God’s sake, with Trina. Who needs ninety minutes to get ready for a party?”
Eyebrows raised, Summerset looked down his nose.
“The arrangements have been made. The schedule is set. The gifts you brought home are wrapped, labeled, and under the tree in the master suite. What you’ve had wrapped or are in the process of inexpertly wrapping for Roarke remain in the Blue Room.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What were you doing in there?”
“My duties. Do you want the rest of those gifts wrapped and brought down to the tree in the main parlor.”
“I’ll do it.” Her back stiffened. “I know the rules. I’m supposed to do it. There’s still time. Just . . . stay out of there until I’m finished.”
Flustered, she shot up the stairs with the belled cat jing-a-linging after her.
She hadn’t forgotten Roarke’s gifts—God knew she’d squeezed her brain to putty to come up with things the richest man in the free world wouldn’t have and might want—but she’d mostly pushed aside the reality of wrapping them up.
Now she had to do that, order decorators around, deal with Trina, make nice with a houseful of guests, and, oh yeah, close a murder case.
Maybe she could hire someone (not Summerset) to finish wrapping Roarke’s stuff. It wasn’t really cheating if she paid. People did it all the time, didn’t they?
In fact, how did she know Roarke personally, physically wrapped up whatever he got her?
Stewing over it, she marched into the bedroom where Roarke stood pulling on a steel-gray sweater.
“Do you wrap my gifts yourself?”
He finished pulling on the sweater, shook back his hair, eyed her. “Isn’t that what elves are for? Why would I put good, enterprising elves out of work?”
“That’s right.” She jabbed a finger at him. “That’s fucking A right!”
“I’m glad we agree.”
“Where do you get the elves?”
“Each must find one’s own.” He walked over, caught her face in his hands, kissed her. “Hello, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, hey. Let me ask you something else.”
“I’m here to serve.”
“What’s the first thing you’d do if you found out I’d cheated on you with . . . an elf. A sexy, buff elf.”
“The first thing?”
“Yeah, go with the gut.”
“I’d toss you out on your ear, naked as I’d have burned all your clothes along with the rest of your belongings.”
Reasonable, she thought.
“What if things were reversed, financially, and the big bulk of the dough was mine.”
He flicked a finger over the dent in her chin. “What difference does that make? You’d be naked on the street, weeping as you begged for forgiveness that would never come.”
“Harsh, but fair.”
Amusement lived in those wild blue eyes, but she seriously wanted that gut instinct.
“Okay. What if you found out I’d been duped, slipped an illegal so the elf could bang me without my consent, but without my objection as I was under the influence?”
“I would beat the elf into elfin ooze immediately and mercilessly, then . . . acid, I believe,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Acid would be the final touch, poured liberally over the ooze.”
“Nice. With your fists—the beating into ooze part?”
“Do I love you?”
“Yeah, you do.” She gave his chest a light punch. “Sap.”
“Then it has to be my fists. He put his hands on you. Mine have to be on him.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” She sat, pulled off her boots. “Yeah. They love each other.”
“Who are they?”
“The Schuberts—Martella and Lance. The vic dosed her, and he’s on my list. But he’s down the bottom because, yeah, I think he’d have confronted Ziegler if he’d known. I think he’d have hunted him down like a sick dog, and I think he’d have gotten physical. But not the grab-a-blunt-object