Nadine huffed out a breath, sipped her wine. "First time I've ever been happy to be a loser."

"Mira's opinion weighs heavily, and she doesn't believe you're capable of calculated murder. Neither does the primary on a personal level or, considering the current evidence, on a professional one."

"Thank you. Thanks." Nadine lifted a hand to her head, pressed her fingers to the center of her brow. "I keep telling myself this is going to go away soon. That you'll wrap it up. But the stress is like a spike through my brain."

"I'm going to have to give you just a little more. Were you aware Draco had a video of you?"

"Video?" Nadine dropped her hand, frowned. "You mean of my work?"

"Well, some people consider sex work."

Nadine stared, eyes blank with confusion. Then they cleared, and Eve saw exactly what she wanted to see: shock, fury, embarrassment. "He had a video of… He took – he had a camera when we – " She slammed down the wine, surged to her feet. "That slimy son of a bitch. That perverted bastard."

"I'd say the answer's no," Roarke murmured, and Nadine whirled on him.

"What kind of man takes videos of a woman in his bed when she doesn't consent? What kind of sick thrill does he get from raping her that way? Because that's just what it is."

She jabbed a finger in his chest, for no other reason than he was a man. "Would you do that to Dallas? She'd kick your butt from here to Tarus III if you did. That's just what I'd like to do to Draco. No, no, I'd like to take his puny dick in my hands and twist it until it popped right off."

"Under the circumstances, I'd prefer not to be his stand-in."

She hissed out a breath, sucked one in, then held up her hands, palms out. "Sorry. It's not your fault." To find control again, she paced, then turned to face Eve.

"I guess that little display of temper moved me up the list a few notches."

"Just the opposite. If you'd known about the disc, you'd have attempted a quick castration. You wouldn't have let someone else stick him. You just verified your own profile."

"Well, good for me. Yippee." Nadine dropped into the chair again. "I guess the disc's in evidence."

"Has to be. No one's going to view it for thrills, Nadine. If it helps, you don't show up that much. He angled things so he's in the spotlight, so to speak."

"Yes, he would. Dallas, if the media gets hold of that – "

"They won't. If you want my advice, go back to work. Keep your mind busy, and let me do my job. I'm good at it."

"If I didn't know that, I'd be on tranqs."

Inspiration struck. "How about a girl night instead?"

"Huh?"

"Mavis and Trina are all set. I don't have time for it, and there's no point in Trina dragging her whole bag of tricks over here and not putting it to full use. Take my place. Go have the works."

"I could use some relaxation therapy."

"There you go." Eve hauled her out of the chair. "You'll feel like a new woman in no time. Go for the body paint," she suggested as she pulled Nadine out of the room. "It'll give you a fresh outlook and sparkling boobs."

Moments later, Eve came back into the parlor, dusting her hands.

"Well done. Lieutenant."

"Yeah, that was pretty slick. They're all down there cooing like… what coos?"

"Doves?" he suggested.

"Yeah, like doves. Now everybody's happy, and I can go back to work. So, you up for a video?"

"Nadine's? Can we have popcorn?"

"Men are perverts. No, not Nadine's, funny guy. But the popcorn's a good idea."

She'd intended to set up in her office, to keep it official. She should have known better. She ended up in one of the second-level lounging rooms, snuggled into the sinfully soft cushions of the mile-long sofa, watching the taped play on a huge wall screen, and with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.

The size of the screen had been Roarke's selling point. It was impossible to miss even the smallest detail when every feature was larger than life.

It was, she realized, almost like being onstage herself. She had to give Roarke points for that one.

Eliza, she noted, had embraced her role of the fussy, irritating nurse assigned to monitor Sir Wilfred. Her period costume was anything but flattering. Her hair was scraped back, her mouth a constant purse. She affected an annoyingly lilting voice like the ones Eve had heard some parents use on recalcitrant offspring.

Kenneth hadn't stinted on his portrayal of the pompous, cranky barrister. His movements were jerky, restless. His eyes sly. His voice would, by turns boom loud enough to shake the rafters, then drop into a crafty murmur.

But it was Draco who owned the play during the first scenes. He was undeniably handsome, outrageously charming, carelessly amused. Yes, she could see how a vulnerable woman would fall for him – as Vole or as himself.

"Freeze screen." She pushed the bowl at Roarke and rose to move closer to the image of Draco. "Here's what I see. The others are acting. They're good, they're skilled, they're enjoying the roles. He is the role. He doesn't have to act. He's an egocentric, as arrogant and as smooth as Vole. It's a part tailored for him."

"So I thought, when I put his name forward for the play. What does that tell you?"

"That whoever planned his murder probably thought the same thing. And saw the irony of it. Vole dies in the last act. Draco dies in the last act. A dramatic bit of justice. Executed, before witnesses."

She walked back to sit. "It doesn't tell me anything new, really. But it solidifies the angles. Resume play."

She waited, watched. Areena's entrance, she saw now, was brilliant in its timing. That was the writer, of course, the director, but the style of it had to come from the actor.

Beautiful, classy, mysterious, and coolly sexy. That was the role. But that wasn't the true character, Eve remembered. The real Christine Vole revealed herself to be a woman consumed by love. One who would lie for the man she knew to be a murderer, who would sacrifice her dignity, her reputation to save him from the law. And who, in the end, executed him for dismissing that love.

"It's acting on two levels," Eve murmured. "Just as Draco is. Neither of them show the face of their character until the last scene."

"They're both very skilled."

"No, they're all skilled. All used to manipulating words and actions to present an image. I haven't chipped through the image yet. Sir Wilfred believes he's defending an innocent man, and in the end learns he was duped. That's enough to piss you off. If we're correlating life and make-believe. It's enough to kill for."

He'd thought the same himself, and nodded. "Go on."

"The character of Diana believed every bullshit line Vole fed her. That his wife was a cold bitch, that he was innocent, that he was going to leave her."

"The other woman," Roarke put in. "The younger one. A little naive, a little grasping."

"In the end, won't she figure out she was duped and used and be mortified? Just as Carly learned she was duped and used and mortified. As Christine learned. And there's Michael Proctor standing in the wings, hungry to take it all on."

She studied the faces, listened to the voices, measured the connections. "It's one of them, one of the players. I know it. It's not some tech with a grudge, or with dreams of being in the lights. It's someone who's been in the lights and knows how to wear the right face at the right time."

She fell silent again, watching the play progress, searching for some chink, some instant when a glance, a gesture indicated the feelings and plans beneath the facade.

But no, they were good, she mused. Every one of them.

"That's the dummy knife, first courtroom scene. Freeze screen, enhance sector P-Q, twenty-five percent."