Wild vertical sex was a pretty good way to start the day, Eve decided, and when it was followed by what the Irish called breakfast, it was nirvana.

Eggs creamily scrambled, potatoes fried with onions, sausage and bacon and thick slabs of bread smothered with fresh butter, all topped off with coffee by the gallon.

"Um," she managed, plowing her way through. "Can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't eat like this every day. Whole country'd waddle to their death."

It continually satisfied him to watch her eat, to see her stoke up that slim body that burned off fuel with nerves and energy. "It's a now-and-again sort of thing. A weekend indulgence."

"Good. Mmm. What's in this meat stuff here?"

Roarke eyed the blood pudding she shoveled in and shook his head. "You'll thank me for not telling you. Just enjoy it."

"Okay." She paused for breath, flicked a glance at him. Sighed. "I'm meeting Inspector Farrell at nine. I guess I should have told you."

"You're telling me now," he pointed out and glanced at his wrist unit for the time. "That'll give me enough time to clean up a few details before we go."

"We?" Eve set down her fork before she ate another bite and did permanent damage. "Farrell is meeting with me – as in me – as a professional courtesy. And you know what? I bet she doesn't bring her husband along."

He had his datebook out, checking appointments, and glanced up with an easy smile. "Was that an attempt to put me in my place?"

"Figure it out."

"All right, and you figure this." Taking his time, he topped off both their coffee cups. "You can pursue this investigation your way." His gaze flicked up to hers, glimmered there. "And I can pursue my interests in the matter in my way. Are you willing to risk my finding him first?"

He could be hard, she knew. And ruthless. He was undeniably clever. "You've got twenty minutes to handle your details before we leave."

"I'll be ready."

Inspector Katherine Farrell was a striking woman. Perhaps forty-five, she had hair of blazing red neatly coiled at the nape of a long, slim neck. Her eyes were moss green, her skin the color of Irish cream. She wore a trim and tailored gray suit military in style that showcased lovely legs. She offered both Eve and Roarke her hand and a cup of tea.

"This would be your first trip to Ireland then, Lieutenant Dallas?"

"Yes."

Though her tidy office was equipped with an AutoChef, Farrell poured the tea out of a white china pot. It was one of her small pleasures. And it gave her time to measure and judge the Yank cop and the man known only as Roarke. "I hope you'll have time to see some of the country while you're here."

"Not on this trip."

"Pity." She turned, teacups in hand, a smile on her lips. She found Eve both less and more than she'd expected. Less brittle than she chose to think of American police. And more tough than she expected to find a woman who had married a man with Roarke's reputation. "And you're from Dublin originally," she said to Roarke.

He recognized the speculation in her eyes, and the knowledge. He might not have a criminal record – officially – but he did have a reputation. And memories were long. "I grew up in the shanties in South Dublin."

"A difficult area, even now." She sat, crossed her spectacular legs. "And you have businesses – ah, enterprises so to speak, here still."

"Several."

"It's good for the economy. You've brought the body of Jennie O'Leary back to be waked and buried."

"I have. We'll wake her tonight."

Farrell nodded, sipped delicately at her tea. "I've a cousin who once stayed at the B and B she ran in Wexford. I'm told it was a lovely place. Have you been there?"

"No." He inclined his head, understanding the question between the questions. "I hadn't seen Jennie in over twelve years."

"But you did contact her just before she went to New York and was killed."

Eve set her cup aside with a click of china on wood. "Inspector Farrell, this homicide and the others are under my jurisdiction. You don't have the authority to interview Roarke in this matter."

Tough, Farrell thought again. And territorial. Well, so am I. "All three of your dead were Irish citizens. We have an interest, a keen one, in your investigation."

"It's simple enough to answer," Roarke put in before Eve could fire up again. "I contacted Jenny after Shawn Conroy was murdered. I was concerned for her safety."

"Hers in particular?"

"Hers, and several others I'd been close to when I lived in Dublin."

"Let's just put this on the table." Eve drew Farrell's attention back to her, where she wanted to keep it. "I received a transmission, expertly jammed and so far untraceable, from an individual who claimed his game was vengeance sanctioned by God, and he'd chosen me for his opponent. He gave me a Bible quote, and a riddle, and upon following them I discovered the mutilated body of Thomas Brennen in his New York residence. Subsequently I learned that Roarke had known Thomas Brennen when they had both lived in Dublin."

"I've spoken with his widow myself," Farrell put in. "She said you were kind to her."

Eve lifted her brows. "We hardly ever kick widows around in the morgue anymore. It's bad for public relations."

Farrell drew a breath and watched two tourist trams, bright in their green and white paint, pass her windows. "Point taken, Lieutenant."

"Good. The following day I received another transmission, another set of clues, and found the body of Shawn Conroy. This pattern, and the fact that the second murder took place in one of Roarke's empty rental units, indicated that there was a connection to Roarke."

"And following that you followed the path from yet another transmission and discovered the body of Jennie O'Leary in a hotel which Roarke also owns."

"That's correct. A detective from our electronics division subsequently followed the transmission bounce, covering several points, one of which initially indicated that the transmission originated in our home. However, there was an echo which proved this to be false. At this time we are analyzing the echo and are confident that we will pinpoint the exact origin."

"And at this time your prime suspect is a man in Roarke's employ, a man who also lived in Dublin at one time. Summerset," she continued, smiling thinly at Roarke. "We've been able to access very little background information on him."

"You're a bit behind, Inspector," Eve said dryly. "Upon further investigation and personality testing, Summerset is no longer prime. Indications are that he was being used to mislead the investigation."

"Yet the direction of all points back to Dublin, which is why you're here."

"I received the cooperation of Roarke and Summerset. I believe that the motives for these crimes have their roots in the rape/murder of Summerset's minor daughter, Marlena, nearly twenty years ago. She was abducted and held by a group of men who threatened to harm her if Roarke didn't agree to their demands. However, his agreement was ignored and her body was dumped at the front door of the residence where Roarke, Summerset, and Marlena lived."

"This happened here, in Dublin?"

"Blood was and is shed," Roarke said coolly, "even in your tidy streets, Inspector."

Farrell's eyes hardened as she swiveled to her computer. "When?"

It was Roarke who gave her the year, the month, the day, and then the hour.

"Marlena Summerset."

"No. Kolchek. Her name was Marlena Kolchek." As Summerset's had been during that period, Roarke thought, but no records of Basil Kolchek exist. Not any longer. Summerset had come into existence only weeks after Marlena's death. "Not all children use their father's last name."