It was real. No simulation made from vegetable concentrate so usual since the depletion of the rain forests in the late twentieth. This was the real thing, ground from rich Columbian beans, singing with caffeine.
She sipped again, and could have wept.
“Problem?” He enjoyed her reaction immensely, the flutter of the lashes, the faint flush, the darkening of the eyes—a similar response, he noted, to a woman purring under a man’s hands.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I had real coffee?”
He smiled. “No.”
“Neither do I.” Unashamed, she closed her eyes as she lifted the cup again. “You’ll have to excuse me, this is a private moment. We’ll talk on the plane.”
“As you like.”
He gave himself the pleasure of watching her as the car traveled smoothly over the road.
Odd, he thought, he hadn’t pegged her for a cop. His instincts were usually keen about such matters. At the funeral, he’d been thinking only what a terrible waste it was for someone as young, foolish, and full of life as Sharon to be dead.
Then he’d sensed something, something that had coiled his muscles, tightened his gut. He’d felt her gaze, as physical as a blow. When he’d turned, when he’d seen her, another blow. A slow motion one-two punch he hadn’t been able to evade.
It was fascinating.
But the warning blip hadn’t gone off. Not the warning blip that should have relayed cop. He’d seen a tall, willowy brunette with short, tumbled hair, eyes the color of honeycombs and a mouth made for sex.
If she hadn’t sought him out, he’d intended to seek her.
Too damn bad she was a cop.
She didn’t speak again until they were at the airport, stepping into the cabin of his JetStar 6000.
She hated being impressed, again. Coffee was one thing, and a small weakness was permitted, but she didn’t care for her goggle-eyed reaction to the lush cabin with its deep chairs, sofas, the antique carpet, and crystal vases filled with flowers.
There was a viewing screen recessed in the forward wall and a uniformed flight attendant who showed no surprise at seeing Roarke board with a strange woman.
“Brandy, sir?”
“My companion prefers coffee, Diana, black.” He lifted a brow until Eve nodded. “I’ll have brandy.”
“I’ve heard about the JetStar.” Eve shrugged out of her coat, and it was whisked away along with Roarke’s by the attendant. “It’s a nice form of transportation.”
“Thanks. We spent two years designing it.”
“Roarke Industries?” she said as she took a chair.
“That’s right. I prefer using my own whenever possible. You’ll need to strap in for takeoff,” he told her, then leaned forward to flip on an intercom. “Ready.”
“We’ve been cleared,” they were told. “Thirty seconds.”
Almost before Eve could blink, they were airborne, in so smooth a transition she barely felt the g’s. It beat the hell, she thought, out of the commercial flights that slapped you back in your seat for the first five minutes of air time.
They were served drinks and a little plate of fruit and cheese that had Eve’s mouth watering. It was time, she decided, to get to work.
“How long did you know Sharon DeBlass?”
“I met her recently, at the home of a mutual acquaintance.”
“You said you were a friend of the family.”
“Of her parents,” Roarke said easily. “I’ve known Beth and Richard for several years. First on a business level, then on a personal one. Sharon was in school, then in Europe, and our paths didn’t cross. I met her for the first time a few days ago, took her to dinner. Then she was dead.”