Stolen in Death (In Death #62)

When she woke, Roarke sat with cat and tablet, with the screen on mute, with stock figures scrolling. He wore one of his richer-than-the-gods suits, this one smoky gray and matched with a shirt that was pale-as-a-pearl gray and a tie that slashed both tones with a deep maroon.

On the left lapel he wore the little petunia pin she’d given him.

Monday, and the traditional workweek, had arrived.

“You’ll have a bright day to chase the dark,” he said without looking up. “A warm one as well.”