He was enjoying a light breakfast in the sitting area of their bedroom. The morning news was playing on the wall screen and the stock reports skimmed by in a puzzling series of codes and figures on the tabletop unit. The cat, Galahad, lounged beside him, with one of his dual-colored eyes aimed hopefully at a slice of Irish bacon neglected on Roarke's plate. "How can you look like you've just come home from a week's vacation in some pamper spa?" she demanded. "Clean living?" "My ass. I know you were up till after three, drinking whiskey and telling lies with your pal. I heard his looney laugh as the pair of you stumbled upstairs." "He might have been a bit unsteady at the end of it." He turned to her, his eyes blue and clear and rested. "A few fingers of whiskey's never been known to set me under. I'm sorry we woke you." "It couldn't have been for long. I never heard you come to bed." "I needed to pour Mick into his first." "What are you going to do with him today?" "He has business of his own, and will make his way about well enough.
