Forums
0
Chapter Two
Posted by
jlk
,
13 October 2012
·
433 views
Roarke ended the holo conference with the Egyptian Prime Minister and relaxed into his chair. It was going to take one whole hell of a lot to straighten all the fires out. Most of the world’s finances were precariously balanced on a daily basis. The global crisis started by the communications blackout during the solar tempest had tipped the scales. He had his best people running in different directions, each carrying a fire extinguisher powered by his empire. World financial leaders were flying in for meetings or being holographic ally imaged in, as they all worked to avoid a worldwide economic collapse. He should have been completely focused on this crisis, energized by the necessary strategies needing to be implemented, racing with his people to turn the pieces of this most complicated of pictures into a successful outcome.
Instead, he was worrying what gift to bring home for his wife. Roarke grinned at the thought, pushing business to another part of his brain. Eve had loved the dozen plastic stemmed foil wrapped chocolate roses he’d given her last night, laughing helplessly at his insistence she wear several wrapped around her head like a crown as they ate chocolate cake, hers infused with vitamin supplements hidden in the decadent icing, after Mavis and Leonardo had gone home.
He looked at the text from Nadine via Summerset. Good. She was drinking her booster. Maybe Eve was mellowing from her aggressive refusal to take care of her health. Or maybe she knew Nadine was a plant. Knowing his cop’s keenly developed instincts, Roarke decided to hold off on that deduction. The thought tugged something at his memory. Roarke pulled his concentration in, searching for it. Yes. Socks. He’d never given her socks. Oh, he’d supplied her with enough in her chests at home. But he’d never selected socks to give her. He smiled at the thought of her laughter. He’d put them on her, then work his way up her still very fragile body from there.
Satisfied with his decision, carefully following Charles Monroe’s advice to shower Eve with silly and inexpensive gifts while she gained back some of the twenty pounds (and self-confidence) she’d lost during the riots, Roarke notified Davidson he’d be going out in a few minutes, just to the clothing boutique across the street. A quick word with Caro informed him that 100% cotton would be best, rather than the cashmere or silk he would have thought. Interesting. He would have considered wool before cotton as being best. He made a mental note to do more research into the subject as a possible business venture. Whistling a Mavis Freestone tune, Roarke headed down in his private elevator to buy Eve some plain simple footwear.
He was returning to his office building, carelessly swinging the small gaudily wrapped bag, when things revved up. His PPC started beeping with multiple indicators of callers who were privileged to have that number, his link rang a chorus of identified transmitters, Caro appeared in his elevator talking on her link and eyes widened. Two steps behind him, Roarke heard Davidson’s electronics burst into noise. He caught movement and turned his head to the right. His head of network security was coming toward him full speed, almost knocking people over, waving a hand held device and yelling into a privacy-engaged link. Roarke looked at his link. Feeney. McNab. Louise. Summerset. Jamie Lingstrom’s name popped up. Peabody’s ID joined the group. The fear he lived with and that never settled far from the surface rose like a great beast before him, sinking its teeth into his throat. He looked to Caro, ready to ask what hospital Eve had been taken to.
“It’s not that,” she immediately told him. Caro caught his arm in a reassuring grasp, guided him onto the lift. She waited for Davidson and the sweating Corsico to get on, pushed the button for his office.
Roarke took Peabody’s call. He always took his wife’s partner’s calls. “Peabody.” He watched the stalwart young detective’s face come on screen. She was focused elsewhere, pulled her gaze back at the sound of his voice.
“Eve’s fine,” she began. In the background, Roarke could hear McNab’s raised voice, Feeney was swearing. “But she’s going to be mad.” Her face swam away as someone grabbed her arm. Feeney’s hound dog face, sagging with too many years of outsmarting criminals, came on. He was so angry his ears were red. “Roarke, get to a computer, boy! We’ve got a shit pot of ework to do. Eve’s just gone viral.”
Instead, he was worrying what gift to bring home for his wife. Roarke grinned at the thought, pushing business to another part of his brain. Eve had loved the dozen plastic stemmed foil wrapped chocolate roses he’d given her last night, laughing helplessly at his insistence she wear several wrapped around her head like a crown as they ate chocolate cake, hers infused with vitamin supplements hidden in the decadent icing, after Mavis and Leonardo had gone home.
He looked at the text from Nadine via Summerset. Good. She was drinking her booster. Maybe Eve was mellowing from her aggressive refusal to take care of her health. Or maybe she knew Nadine was a plant. Knowing his cop’s keenly developed instincts, Roarke decided to hold off on that deduction. The thought tugged something at his memory. Roarke pulled his concentration in, searching for it. Yes. Socks. He’d never given her socks. Oh, he’d supplied her with enough in her chests at home. But he’d never selected socks to give her. He smiled at the thought of her laughter. He’d put them on her, then work his way up her still very fragile body from there.
Satisfied with his decision, carefully following Charles Monroe’s advice to shower Eve with silly and inexpensive gifts while she gained back some of the twenty pounds (and self-confidence) she’d lost during the riots, Roarke notified Davidson he’d be going out in a few minutes, just to the clothing boutique across the street. A quick word with Caro informed him that 100% cotton would be best, rather than the cashmere or silk he would have thought. Interesting. He would have considered wool before cotton as being best. He made a mental note to do more research into the subject as a possible business venture. Whistling a Mavis Freestone tune, Roarke headed down in his private elevator to buy Eve some plain simple footwear.
He was returning to his office building, carelessly swinging the small gaudily wrapped bag, when things revved up. His PPC started beeping with multiple indicators of callers who were privileged to have that number, his link rang a chorus of identified transmitters, Caro appeared in his elevator talking on her link and eyes widened. Two steps behind him, Roarke heard Davidson’s electronics burst into noise. He caught movement and turned his head to the right. His head of network security was coming toward him full speed, almost knocking people over, waving a hand held device and yelling into a privacy-engaged link. Roarke looked at his link. Feeney. McNab. Louise. Summerset. Jamie Lingstrom’s name popped up. Peabody’s ID joined the group. The fear he lived with and that never settled far from the surface rose like a great beast before him, sinking its teeth into his throat. He looked to Caro, ready to ask what hospital Eve had been taken to.
“It’s not that,” she immediately told him. Caro caught his arm in a reassuring grasp, guided him onto the lift. She waited for Davidson and the sweating Corsico to get on, pushed the button for his office.
Roarke took Peabody’s call. He always took his wife’s partner’s calls. “Peabody.” He watched the stalwart young detective’s face come on screen. She was focused elsewhere, pulled her gaze back at the sound of his voice.
“Eve’s fine,” she began. In the background, Roarke could hear McNab’s raised voice, Feeney was swearing. “But she’s going to be mad.” Her face swam away as someone grabbed her arm. Feeney’s hound dog face, sagging with too many years of outsmarting criminals, came on. He was so angry his ears were red. “Roarke, get to a computer, boy! We’ve got a shit pot of ework to do. Eve’s just gone viral.”
