"I like now better. I went to see Elizabeth Barrister yesterday."

"I know." Calmer, he adjusted to the jerky rhythm of her car. "You're cold. Turn up the heater."

"It's busted. Why didn't you tell me that she'd asked you to meet Sharon, to talk to her?"

"Because Beth asked me in confidence."

"What's your relationship with Elizabeth Barrister?"

"We're friends." Roarke slanted her a look. "I have a few. She and Richard are among them."

"And the senator?"

"I hate his fucking, pompous, hypocritical guts," Roarke said calmly. "If he gets his party's nomination for president, I'll put everything I've got into his opponent's campaign. If it's the devil himself."

"You should learn to speak your mind, Roarke," she said with a ghost of a smile. "Did you know that Sharon kept a diary?"

"It's a natural assumption. She was a businesswoman."

"I'm not talking about a log, business records. A diary, a personal diary. Secrets, Roarke. Blackmail."

He said nothing as he turned the idea over. "Well, well. You found your motive."

"That remains to be seen. You have a lot of secrets, Roarke."

He let out a half laugh as he stopped at the gates of his estate. "Do you really think I'd be a victim of blackmail, Eve? That some lost, pitiful woman like Sharon could unearth information you can't and use it against me?"

"No." That was simple. She put a hand on his arm. "I'm not going inside with you." That was not.

"If I were bringing you here for sex, we'd have sex. We both know it. You wanted to see me. You want to shoot the kind of weapon that was used to kill Sharon and the other, don't you?"

She let out a short breath. "Yes."

"Now's your chance."

The gates opened. He drove through.

CHAPTER TEN

The same stone-faced butler stood guard at the door. He took Eve's coat with the same faint disapproval.

"Send coffee down to the target room, please," Roarke ordered as he led Eve up the stairs.

He was holding her hand again, but Eve decided it was less a sentimental gesture than one to make sure she didn't balk. She could have told him she was much too intrigued to go anywhere, but found she enjoyed that ripple of annoyance under his smooth manner.

When they'd reached the third floor, he went through his collection briskly, choosing weapons without fuss or hesitation. He handled the antiques with the competence of experience and, she thought, habitual use.

Not a man who simply bought to own, but one who made use of his possessions. She wondered if he knew that counted against him. Or if he cared.

Once his choices were secured in a leather case, he moved to a wall.

Both the security console and the door itself were so cleverly hidden in a painting of a forest, she would never have found it. The trompe l'oeil slid open to an elevator.

"This car only opens to a select number of rooms," he explained as Eve stepped into the elevator with him. "I rarely take guests down to the target area."

"Why?"

"My collection, and the use of it, are reserved for those who can appreciate it."

"How much do you buy through the black market?"

"Always a cop." He flashed that grin at her, and she was sure, tucked his tongue in his cheek. "I buy only through legal sources, naturally." His eyes skimmed down to her shoulder bag. "As long as you've got your recorder on."

She couldn't help but smile back. Of course she had her recorder on. And of course he knew it. It was a measure of her interest that she opened the bag, took out her recorder, and manually disengaged.

"And your backup?" he said smoothly.

"You're too smart for your own good." Willing to take the chance, she slipped a hand into her pocket. The backup unit was nearly paper thin. She used a thumbnail to deactivate it. "What about yours?" She glanced around the elevator as the doors opened. "You'd have video and audio security in every corner of this place."

"Of course." He took her hand again and drew her out of the car.

The room was high ceilinged, surprisingly spartan given Roarke's love of comfort. The lights switched on the moment they stepped in, illuminating plain, sand colored walls, a bank of simple high-backed chairs, and tables where a tray holding a silver coffeepot and china cups had already been set.

Ignoring them, Eve walked over to a long, glossy black console. "What does it do?"

"A number of things." Roarke set the case he carried down on a flat area. He pressed his palm to an identiscreen. There was a soft green glow beneath it as his print was read and accepted, then lights and dials glowed on.

"I keep a supply of ammunition here." He pressed a series of buttons. A cabinet in the base of the console slid open. "You'll want these." From a second cabinet, he took earplugs and safety glasses.

"This is, what, like a hobby?" Eve asked as she adjusted the glasses. The small, clear lenses cupped her eyes, the attached earplugs fit snugly.

"Yes. Like a hobby."

His voice came with a faint echo through her ear protectors, linking them, closing out the rest. He chose the.38, loaded it.

"This was standard police issue in the mid-twentieth century. Toward the second millennium, nine millimeters were preferred."

"The RS-fifties were the official weapon of choice during the Urban Revolt and into the third decade of the twenty-first century."

He lifted a brow, pleased. "You've been doing your homework."

"Damn right." She glanced at the weapon in his hand. "Into the mind of a killer."

"Then you'd be aware that the hand laser you have strapped to your side didn't gain popular acceptance until about twenty-five years ago."

She watched with a slight frown as he slapped the cylinder shut. "The NS laser, with modifications, has been standard police issue since 2023. I didn't notice any lasers in your collection."

His eyes met hers, and there was a laugh in them. "Cop toys only. They're illegal, lieutenant, even for collectors." He pressed a button. Against the far wall a hologram flashed, so lifelike that Eve blinked and braced before she caught herself.

"Excellent image," she murmured, studying the big, bull-shouldered man holding a weapon she couldn't quite identify.

"He's a replica of a typical twentieth-century thug. That's an AK-forty-seven he's holding."

"Right." She narrowed her eyes at it. It was more dramatic than in the photos and videos she'd studied. "Very popular with urban gangs and drug dealers of the era."

"An assault weapon," Roarke murmured. "Fashioned to kill. Once I activate, if he hits target, you'd feel a slight jolt. Low level electrical shock, rather than the much more dramatic insult of a bullet. Want to try it?"

"You go first."

"Fine." Roarke activated. The hologram lunged forward, swinging up his weapon. The sound effects kicked in instantly.

The thunder of noise had Eve jerking back a step. Snarled obscenities, street sounds, the terrifyingly rapid explosion of gunfire.

She watched, slack jawed, as the image spurted what looked entirely too much like blood. The wide chest seemed to erupt with it as the man flew back. The weapon spiraled out of his hand. Then both vanished.

"Jesus."

A little surprised that he'd been showing off, like a kid at an arcade, Roarke lowered his weapon. "It hardly makes the point of what something like this can do to flesh and bone if the image isn't realistic."

"Guess not." She had to swallow. "Did he hit you?"

"Not that time. Of course, one on one, and when you can fully anticipate your opponent, doesn't make it very difficult to win your round."

Roarke pushed more buttons, and the dead gunman was back, whole and ready to rock. Roarke took his stance with the ease and automation, Eve thought, of a veteran cop. Or, to borrow his word, a thug.