Page 94 of Random in Death
Chapter Thirteen
She woke with a groan followed by a muttered curse.
“There she is.”
At his voice, she turned her head enough to see Roarke—jeans and a tee—sitting on the sofa with his feet up, his PPC in his hand.
“Is there a half ton of cat on my ass?”
“There is indeed. I can’t decide if he’s there to guard you from any and all intruders or just keep you down until you got some sleep.”
Reaching back, she scratched Galahad’s head before rolling him off.
“You’ve been home awhile,” she began, then checked the time. “Shit! It was supposed to be twenty minutes, thirty at the outside. I was out for over an hour.”
“And benefited from it. Hungry?”
She sat up, scrubbed her hands over her face. “I had a nosh earlier. I guess a lot earlier.”
“A nosh?”
“Jewish deli, slice of babka. It was really good. I could eat, but—”
“Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“I’d say that was hitting below the belt, but it’s dead-on.”
“There’s cherry pie.”
She had a weakness for all things pie.
“Looking out for me, pal?”
“Whenever I can, but this one’s Summerset. He made it all today. He heard about the second girl. Cooking keeps his mind occupied.”
She nodded, slid out of bed. “Murder does that with mine.”
“We’ll set up in your office. Have a meal, a glass of Chianti, and you’ll tell me.”
She started to nod again, then remembered and dug a hand in her pocket. As he rose, she held out the cash she’d pulled.
He looked at it, at her, with eyes suddenly and dangerously cool.
“Why in bloody hell would you want to start a row?”
“I don’t. I’ve got too much to do to fight. So just listen, okay? Listen,” she insisted. “I know we’ve been here before, and mostly resolved things. I get you think it’s insulting, especially since you buy all my damn clothes, and whatever goes into the spaghetti I’m about to eat. But that’s just not it.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s on me. Completely on me, and I hate that I can’t at least shove a part of it on you. We could schedule a fight then, when I had more time, and”—she had to admit it—“I’d like that a hell of a lot better.”
“Should I check my book?” he asked, all too politely.
Her hackles—whatever the hell they were—went up hard when he used that tone on her.
But.
“No, because, fuck it, it’s on me. I’ve gotten careless, and that makes me feel stupid and, well, careless. I didn’t run short before you. Maybe skimmed close to it, but I paid more attention. I had to. Okay, I’ve got to sort this out so I can pay the rent, and get some crap coffee, like that. Now I don’t pay attention. Not enough. I forget to pay attention.”