Chapter Twenty-two

Roman Foxe's house

Wilton Place

Washington, D.C.

Thursday morning

Elizabeth supposed she'd expected Rome's home would be an ultramodern, all-glass condo in a hip section of Washington, fit for a young, single Neanderthal with a macho job. She'd pictured dirty underwear in a pile in the bathroom, maybe a couple of empty pizza boxes on the living room coffee table. Or, like Giles, the neo-Viking, a discarded bearskin hanging over the back of a chair. She hadn't expected Rome to turn into the driveway of a house on Wilton Place, a tree-lined street of well-tended, older houses set back from the street, all of them surrounded with greenery and beautiful blooming flowers. The house was two stories, painted white with bright blue trim, flower boxes set along the upper balcony overflowing with petunias, her favorite. More flowers displayed themselves in hanging baskets suspended from the roof-covered deep front porch. There was only a slight breeze, but enough to make the baskets sway gracefully. The porch held a rocking swing and four rattan chairs surrounding a round table. The double garage sat at the end of the smooth asphalt driveway and connected to the house. It all looked lovingly tended, homey, and welcoming. Roman switched off his Land Rover and turned to her.

Elizabeth smiled, waved her hand. "This is amazing."

"Thank you. I'll accept amazing. Do you want to wait here while I get my cell? I still can't believe I left it on the charger."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to see inside. Your house is hardly what I expected."

"Not six hundred years old with a pedigree and a freaking name."

"Oh, yes, but I've never skied there. What happened?"

"My parents and grandparents skied twice a year together, everywhere from Aspen to Zermatt to Chamonix-Mont-Blanc. You know the old saw—never ski the last run? Well, my grandparents did." He paused, swallowed. "A young snowboarder ignored the signs, passed out of bounds above them and fell, and caused an avalanche that sent them both flying over a low cliff. Neither of them made it. I'm thankful my parents had already gone back to the lodge or they'd have been killed too."

"I'm so sorry."

Elizabeth put her hand on his arm. "What a wonderful life they had."

"Now there's a load of guilt you wouldn't want to carry, and I'll wager Billy Hodgkins will for the rest of his life."

Rome sure hoped so, but he didn't say it out loud.

Elizabeth got out of the car and stood looking at the house and grounds, breathed in the sweet early-morning air, the rich smell of recently mowed grass from the neighbor's yard. Was that the scent of night jasmine billowing over a tall wooden fence? She turned to him. "It's so different from my house in London. I can't wait to see the inside. And the setting, it's perfect."

"Towel warmers? I haven't seen one of those since I once stayed at the Savoy."

Elizabeth laughed. She spotted a photograph on the chest of drawers, a family grouping with everyone in ski clothes, at the top of a ski run surrounded by white snow-covered mountains. "Your grandparents and parents, and in the middle that's you, what, maybe ten?"

"I guess you could call me mainly a neo-impressionist. Before this started, I was painting a portrait of my mother for her birthday. She was twenty-two in the photo I'm basing it on, and newly married to my father."

"Do you show your work in a gallery?"

"Yes, in Belgravia."

So she wasn't a dilettante. Interesting. "That's the snooty part of London, right?"

"I keep forgetting you've been indoctrinated by Hurley."

"Of course. He'll want to hear all about what's happened. You've never met him, have you?"

It took them close to an hour to get clear of the always-snarled Washington traffic and pull onto I-95. Rome said, "You really think that room should be a gym?"

"Good question. Since I did sweat my eyebrows off with Hurley, so maybe it's a part of who I am now."

"Jumping around from subject to subject, is that something that works with criminals?"

"Probably not."

"Since you live in London, you're Tommy's main caregiver, right?"

"Yes. As I said, I guess I had to admit to being his main, front-and-center enabler." She sighed, but said nothing more.

"So stop it. Get him into rehab, whether he wants it or not."

"They might." He glanced at her, saw she had tensed up. "If they do find you, we'll be ready."

She nodded, tried to relax, but couldn't. She said, "What happened, it's always in the back of my mind, ready to take me by the throat. The hatred I felt pouring off them when they were in my bedroom. The man who straddled me—his knife raised, ready to come down." She drew a deep breath, reached for calm with the square breathing Hurley had taught her. "Sorry, you don't want to hear that again. Hey, why did your parents name you Roman?"

He shot her a big grin. "I was born in Rome on their honeymoon."