“The truth is that I’m a pretty good cook, but if I admit that, you’ll stop cooking for me.”

Cole cast her such a dubious look that she laughed aloud. “I’m serious. I’m hideously lazy and I work too much, so left to my own devices I just fry eggs and make toast. If I let on I can do more, you might start expecting me to pull my weight.”

“What are you going to do when Cam and I get married?”

“Go on dates naked,” Margrit said promptly, then arched her eyebrows. “I don’t know. Move in as your live-in maid?”

“I’ve seen your bedroom, Grit. It doesn’t make a convincing argument for your housecleaning skills.”

“I guess I’m going to have to find a boyfriend who can cook, then.” Margrit grinned.

“Speaking of which, what’s the story with Tony? He’s Italian. Don’t good Italian boys learn how to cook at about the same time they start breathing?”

Margrit felt her grin slide into uncertainty as she stared at her feet. Three years of dating, and Tony’s image slipped away from her when they’d been apart for a few weeks. A handful of days, and Alban’s wouldn’t leave her. She felt as if her mind had been cross-wired, bringing up the wrong intensities for each man. “So I hear. What’s for dinner?”

Cole gave her a searching look, then turned back to his preparations. “Chicken in cream sauce. That’s why I needed the evaporated milk. You avoided the question, Grit. What’s up with you two?”

She studied her toes. “I guess we’re going to really try to make it work,” she answered quietly. “We talked about it at dinner last night. We’re going to try to work through things instead of shrugging it off when circumstances get a little rough.” Which was part of why she’d told Alban no, Margrit reminded herself fiercely. She was making a commitment to something real, not a fantasy. Involving herself in Alban’s world would only create a wall between herself and Tony that might never be breached.

If that wall hadn’t already been built.

“Congratulations.” Cole glanced at her again, and modified his tone. “Congratulations?”

“Yeah.” Margrit put doubts away and looked up with a smile. “We’ve just got a lot of talking to do, and these murders are his case, so things are still pretty shaky. Shouldn’t you be using cream for the chicken in cream sauce?”

Cole turned and leveled a wooden spoon at her. “Speak not of that which you do not understand, young Jedi.”

Margrit laughed. “Yes, Master.” The door swung open and Cam strode in, a paper bag of groceries tucked in the crook of her elbow. “Hey, Cam.”

“Hey, Grit.” Cameron slung the sack onto the counter and Cole rooted through it, coming out with the evaporated milk and a bag of carrots, which he looked at quizzically. Cam shrugged. “I like carrots. I thought you could steam some to go with the chicken. You feeling better, Grit?”

“Much, thanks.”

“Carrots? With my chicken in cream sauce?”

“They’ll be pretty!”

Margrit laughed. “Look, I’ve got some work to do. I’m going to let you two fight over whether there’ll be carrots with dinner or not. Is there anything I can do first, Cole?”

He looked around the kitchen. “No,” he said thoughtfully. “No, I think I can handle it by myself, or with Cameron’s capable help. It’ll be a strain,” he added. “Getting it all done without you, I mean. Which is to say, I don’t know how I’ll get through it without you standing here asking me what a strainer is for.”

“I know what a strainer is for.” Margrit stuck her chin out. “It’s for getting rid of the pulp in lemonade. Ick.”

“Ick,” Cam repeated. “That’s one of those professional lawyer terms. I thought you had the day off, Margrit.”

She looked guiltily toward the pile of papers on the dining room table. “Day off is relative.”

“Speaking of relatives.” Cole eyed her sternly. “Your mother called twice while you were out.”

Margrit slid off the counter, wrinkling her nose. “Okay. Call me for dinner. It’s the only way I’ll get off the phone with her.” She pulled the phone from the kitchen wall and stepped out onto the balcony, then went back inside for a coat and two blankets before calling home. Nestled beneath them in a corner of the tiny balcony, she watched the sky, waiting for her mother to pick up, and found herself smiling at her worried “Margrit?”

“Hi, Mom. I’m good. Don’t worry, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier,” she added hastily. “I slept most of the day.”

“You’re sure you’re all right? Daddy could look at you-”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Margrit repeated. “I don’t need Daddy to check my head. He’d only say I was addled, anyway.” It was his eternal diagnosis of his daughter’s state of being, spoken in a deep solemn baritone that did nothing to hide the spark of humor in his brown eyes. “He’d be right for once, too,” she added with a laugh. “Honestly, I’m fine.”

Her mother sighed, a quiet sound full of concern. “I wish you’d consider moving out here, sweetheart. It’s so much safer than where you are. The condo next to us-”

“Mom! I’m not going to move in next door, okay? And I’m not in a bad part of town. Even if I was, I wasn’t here when I got hit. I know you worry, but this is a great place for me, not that far from work-”

“And ridiculously expensive,” her mother interjected.

Margrit grimaced, unable to argue. “That’s why I’ve got housemates, Mom.”

“And what are you going to do when they get married?”

“Maybe I’ll ask Tony to move in,” Margrit said, then bit her tongue. Her mother’s astounded silence filled the line.

“Margrit?”

“Nothing, Mom.” Margrit started to bump her head against the wall and remembered her injury in the nick of time. “We’re just kind of talking about getting serious.”

“That would be wonderful,” her mother said after a pause. “If you’re sure it’s what you want.” Margrit cast her gaze to the top of the building across the street, trying not to laugh with frustration.

“I thought you liked Tony, Mom.”

“I do. It’s just…”

“That he’s Italian-American? He can’t help being white, Mom, and besides, he’s really more of a nice golden-brown color all over,” Margrit said, straight-faced.

“Margrit!”

Laughter won, breaking free briefly before Margrit rested her head gently against the wall. “Mom, this is a relationship, not a political statement.”

“Everything’s a political statement, sweetheart.”

“Then my politics in this case are that I like the guy, all right?” The laughter fled, leaving frustration in its place again. “It shouldn’t matter.”

“It shouldn’t,” her mother agreed, a follow-up but it does left unspoken.

Margrit sighed. “Mama, what do you want me to do? I like Tony. He’s a good guy. If I end up with him it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate my heritage, you know? And it’s not like there’s only one branch to our background. I mean, I hate to break it to you, but we’re not exactly the products of a hundred generations of pure African breeding. There’s plenty of cream in the coffee.”

“Margrit, this isn’t an appropriate discussion.”

Margrit bit her teeth together to keep from pointing out that her mother had begun it. Then she exhaled slowly, letting frustration go. “Okay. New topic. I met Eliseo Daisani yesterday, and he said to tell you hello. You know him?”

She could all but hear her mother’s inhalation. “Why did you meet with Eliseo?” The name was spoken carefully, as if it hadn’t passed her lips in a long time, but she was afraid speaking it might betray something.

“I’m taking a case against him. Where do you know him from, Mom? I can’t believe you know the richest guy on the East Coast and never told me.”

“I knew him a long time ago, sweetheart. Back when he was only the richest man in New York. Margrit, be very careful. Eliseo is accustomed to getting what he wants. I know you’re very capable, but he’s a bad enemy to make.”

“People keep telling me that. Mom, if you know him you could give me all kinds of insight into his psyche. It could be really helpfu-”