Framed in Death (In Death, #61)

by J.D. Robb

Nothing is really so poor and melancholy as art that is interested in itself and not in its subject.

Some people’s money is merited, And other people’s is inherited.

“It’s the official move-in. The Great House Project is finished. We’re to have dinner there tonight.”

“Girl with a Pearl Earring, Johannes Vermeer. The original’s in The Hague.”

“You can swap rooms with me anytime.” He added a cat smile to the cat’s eyes. “You’re grounded for the rest of your life anyhow.” “Why don’t you fuck off and die?”

Screams fill the air. Then glug-glug, all because they’re going out there on some boat playing Peeping Tom on a whale.” Peabody sat quietly for a moment. “You know, up until now I’ve always wanted to go whale watching. There’s another dream crushed.” “You’re better off.”

“It took me a year, maybe more before I started to think about Roarke’s house as mine, as ours. As home, for me. It took longer before I really felt it. So I know what it means, I know how much it matters to have home.”

“If

you make yourself a pink leather jacket, you’ll leave me no choice. I’ll have to kill you, but I can make sure you’re buried in it.”

“Why New York? For you, I mean. Why here especially?” “Because you can be anybody here. You can disappear if you want. Nobody knows you, and nobody cares where you came from. It’s the whole fucking world in one place.”

She looked over at him as she walked into the house. “He grew up exactly the opposite of us. Pampered, indulged, spoiled. Plenty of others are, and don’t turn into psychopaths, but it’s a factor in his pathology.”

She answered tenderness with tenderness, understanding, as she never had before him, that when love surrounded desire, it meant everything. With him, she had everything. He felt the tension fade away as she softened against him. His fierce cop let go for him, let the day, the night, all that came before this moment go.

She didn’t dream. And when she woke, felt incredibly grateful for that single, simple fact. More gratitude filled her when she saw Roarke in his perfect dark suit, with his perfectly knotted tie, in the sitting area with the cat across his lap and the stock figures scrolling by on the muted screen. The familiarity of it, the quiet routine of it kept worry at bay another few minutes. It wouldn’t be an easy day, she knew. She had to prepare for long, for hard, but to have this to start that long, hard day? A gift.

“And she expected to get away with all of it, just go back and pick up her life as usual. Some people have too much money, and I know how that sounds coming from me.” “No. Roarke’s the most generous person I know. He’s not selfish, self-serving, and he, well, screw it, he has honor. Phoebe Harper just doesn’t have honor.”