He lifted his glass more in resignation than toast. "Shawn now, he was a rare one. He'd send word back from New York, always claiming he was making a fortune, and when he'd finished counting all his money, back he'd be. A fine liar was Shawn," he said and drank to him.

"I've brought Jennie's body back with me."

"Have you?'' His wide and ruddy face sober, Brian nodded. "That's the right thing. She'd have wanted that. She had a sweet heart, did Jennie. I hope they catch the bloody bastard who did her."

"That's one of the reasons we're here, hoping you can help."

"Now how could I do that, being an ocean away from where the deed was done?"

"Because it all started here, with Marlena." Roarke took Eve's hand. "I didn't properly introduce you to my wife, Brian. This is Eve. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, New York City Police and Security."

Brian choked on his whiskey, thumped his chest to help the air into his lungs. His eyes watered. "A cop? You married a bloody cop?"

"I married a bloody criminal," Eve muttered, "but nobody ever thinks of that."

"I do, darling." Amused, Roarke kissed her hand. "Constantly."

Brian let go another of his rollicking laughs and poured another shot. "Here's to the pair of you. And to the icicles that are forming in Hell."

He'd have to postpone the next.

He prayed for patience. After all, he'd waited so long already. But it was a sign from God, he understood that. He had veered from the path, acted on his own desires, when he had planted the bomb in her car.

He had sinned, and so prayed for forgiveness as well as patience. He had only to listen to the guiding force. He knew that, and was repentant. Tears blurred his vision as he knelt, accepting his penance, his punishment for his conceit and arrogance.

Like Moses, he had faltered in his mission and tested God.

The rosaries clinked musically in his hands as he moved from bead to bead, from decade to decade with a practiced ease and a deep devotion.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

He used no cushion for his knees, for he'd been taught that forgiveness demanded pain. Without it, he would have felt himself uncleansed. Votive candles, white for purity, flickered and carried the faint smell of wax pooling on wax.

Between them, the image of the Virgin watched him silently. Forgivingly.

His face was shadowed by the candlelight, and aglow with the visions of his own salvation.

Blessed art thou among women.

The anthem to the Virgin Mother was his favorite prayer, and no penance at all. It was comfort. As he completed the fifth of the nine rosaries he'd been given as penance, he pondered the Sorrowful Mysteries. He cleared his mind of worldly cares and carnal thoughts.

Like Mary, he was a virgin. He had been taught that his innocence and his purity were the paths to glory. Whenever lust crept its stealthy way into his heart, heating his blood, slickening his skin, he fought that whispering demon with all his might. Both his body, well trained, and his mind, well honed, were dedicated to his faith.

And the seeds of his faith were sown in blood, rooted in vengeance, and bloomed with death.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Eve could hear the low murmur of an international news report from the parlor screen when she awoke. Her body clock was a mass of confusion. She figured it was still the middle of the night according to her system, and a nice, rainy dawn where her body happened to be.

She didn't think Roarke had slept long, but accepted that he needed less sleep than anyone she'd ever known. He hadn't been talkative when they'd gotten back from the Penny Pig the night before, but he had been… hungry.

He'd made love like a man desperate to find something, or to lose it, and she had little choice but to grab hold and join the ride.

Now he'd already been up and working, she imagined. Scanning the news reports, the stock reports, making calls, pushing buttons. She decided it was best to leave him to it until her mind cleared.

She eyed the bathroom shower dubiously. It was a three-sided affair of white tile that left the user's butt exposed to the room. Search as she might, she found no mechanism that would close her in and protect her privacy.

It was nearly six feet in length, with ceiling heads angled down to soak or spray. She went for spray, hot, and struggled to ignore the opening behind her as she soaped and rinsed.

Brian had been little help, she mused, though he had promised to put out the word, discreetly, and try to gather any information on the families of the men who'd killed Marlena. A few of them he knew personally and had laughed off the idea of any of them having the skill, the brains, or the nerve to choreograph a series of murders in New York.

Eve preferred to look at police records and solicit the opinion of a professional colleague. All she had to do was nudge Roarke in a different direction so that she would have the morning free to brainstorm with Inspector Farrell.

Confident that would only take a bit of maneuvering, she ordered the spray off, turned to step out of the shower, then yelped as if scalded.

Roarke was standing behind her, leaning back against the wall, hands dipped casually in his pockets.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting you a towel." Smiling, he reached for one on the warming rack. Then held it out of reach. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, well enough."

"I ordered breakfast when I heard the shower running. Full Irish. You'll like it."

She dragged her dripping hair out of her eyes. "Okay. Are you going to give me that towel?"

"I'm thinking about it. What time is your appointment with the guarda?"

She'd started to make a grab for the towel, then pulled back, wary. "Who?"

"The police, darling Eve. The Dublin cops. This morning, I imagine. Early. By, what, nine?"

She shifted, crossed her arms over her breasts, but it didn't help. "I never said I was meeting anyone." When he only lifted a brow, she swore. "Know-it-alls are very irritating to mortals. Give me that damn towel."

"I don't know it all, but I know you. Are you meeting someone in particular?"

"Listen, I can't have this conversation naked."

"I like having conversations when you're naked."

"That's because you're a sick man, Roarke. Give me that towel."

He held it up by two fingers, and his eyes gleamed. "Come and get it."

"You're just going to try to get me back into bed."

Now his smile spread and he moved toward her. "I wasn't thinking of the bed."

"Step back." She held up a hand, feinted to the right. "I'll hurt you."

"God, I love when you threaten me. It excites me."

"I'll give you excitement," she promised. She'd just judged her chances of getting past him and out the door, found them passable, when he tossed the towel in her direction. When she grabbed for it, he caught her around the waist and had her pinned against the wall before she could decide whether to laugh or swear.

"I'm not fighting with you in here." She blew at her wet hair. "Everybody knows the majority of home accidents involving personal injuries happen in the bathroom. It's a death trap."

"We'll have to risk it." Slowly he lifted her hands over her head then scraped his teeth along her throat. "You're wet, and you're warm, and you're tasty."

Her blood fired, her muscles went lax. What the hell, she thought, she had at least two hours to spare. She turned her head and caught his mouth with hers. "You're dressed," she murmured. In a lightning move she tipped her weight, shifted, and reversed their positions. Hers eyes laughed into his. "Just let me fix that for you."