A Kiss in the Dark by Meryl Sawyer
EVEN IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MOONLIT NIGHT HE SAW THE PASSION BLAZING IN HER GREEN EYES....
His kiss was hot and powerful, a primal act of male domination. She hated him, hated herself for responding to Mitch Durant, the man who stole her heart with a kiss, the lawyer who destroyed her father in court five years earlier. Now she was back, engaged to another man--but determined to get even ....Until she was framed for theft and murder and Mitch was her only way out. His price for defending her was total trust--and a promise to never investigate his shrouded past ....
Royce was a journalist at the top of her form, challenging him with her beauty, brains--and a fiance Mitch despised. But not even Mitch Durant, San Francisco's top criminal attorney, could have anticipated the felony-murder charges that drove her into his arms. He was her only refuge. Mitch, the man she hated, was willing to risk his life to clear her name--and to catch the killer who stalked her every move ....
MITCH NUDGED HER, THE HEAT OF HIS LOWER BODY PENETRATING THE GOSSAMER SILK OF HER DRESS. "BE CAREFUL, ROYCE, I'M ARMED AND DANGEROUS."
She would never be certain how long they stood in the dark. Kissing. It was a raw act of possession. There had always been something untamed, slightly wild, about Mitch, something she had to admit she found exciting.
A disturbing thought struck her, a deep, unsettling premonition. She'd remember this moment, this kiss. Forever.
Her heart was pounding lawlessly when she noticed a strange sound. The look on Mitch's face told her that he'd heard something too. . . .
What if someone saw her and told Brent? Royce thought, coming to her senses with a jolt. Kissing Mitch Durant. How could she? She couldn't even look at him now for hating him. And herself.
"Ambition," Mitch said, his voice a shade shy of a whisper, "it's a double-edged sword. It brings out the best in us—and the worst. Think about it."
She looked at Mitch, truly speechless now, but the darkness masked his angular features. He reached into his pocket and yanked out something white. A business card, she realized.
"Call me." Mitch tucked his card into the hollow between her breasts. "Anytime."
Published by Dell Publishing a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
Copyright © 1995 by M. Sawyer-Unickel
ISBN: 0-440-21769-5
Printed in the United States of America
This book is dedicated to the memory of Judge Rand Schrader, who fought for everyone's rights no matter what the personal cost. And never far from my mind, and always in my heart, are the happy memories Al Singer-man gave to all of us who were lucky enough to call him our friend.
The best way to love anything is as if it might be lost. G. K. Chesterton
PART I: Bad Moon Rising
CHAPTER 1
The too-real nightmare that soon became Royce Anne Winston's life began very simply, very innocently. With a kiss in the dark.
A forbidden, erotic kiss.
A kiss that changed her life. Forever. It brought her love, the kind of love she'd only dreamed existed. And danger.
But the chain of events set in motion by that passionate kiss didn't become apparent to Royce for a long time. Even when the cell door clanged shut, she didn't suspect a kiss in the dark would result in her arrest for murder.
Now looking back, she saw how naive she'd been not to realize someone she trusted had diabolically set out to deceive her....
"I hope they haven't sat down to dinner," Royce said as her fiance, Brent Farenholt, escorted her up the steps of the San Francisco mansion on the evening of the fateful party.
"I'll tell my parents we couldn't keep our hands off each other."
"Oh, sure. You'll come up with some excuse, though. You always do." Royce told herself she didn't give a hoot what Brent's parents thought. Not quite true. Within the year they'd be her in-laws. Try to get along with them.
Dance music drifted out of the French doors, filling the spring air with the sounds of a live band. One more party where the hostess tries to outdo her friends, Royce thought, already dreading the night ahead. What she wouldn't give to spend a quiet evening alone with Brent. Instead she braced herself for another encounter with San Francisco's elite.
Most of them called the city home but actually lived here only a few months a year. The rest of the time they spent at country estates or villas in the South of France. Royce found many of them, especially Brent's parents, to be arrogant. Insulated by their money, they knew no life beyond their closed circle of friends. The real world simply did not exist.
Inside, the foyer's black-and-white, diamond-patterned floor gleamed in the soft light of the chandelier overhead. Royce and Brent greeted Eleanor and Ward Farenholt, then Brent fed his parents some line about the traffic making them so late. Royce doubted he'd fooled the Farenholts.
Being late was merely a symptom of a much greater problem, one she'd diagnosed as terminal Royce Anne Winston. The Farenholts were never going to forgive her for stealing their only son from Miss Perfect—Caroline Rambeau of the Napa Valley winery Rambeaus, the San Francisco society Rambeaus, their best friends, the Rambeaus.
"Royce, over here," called Talia, one of Royce's closest friends.
She left Brent with his parents. "Wow! Talia, you look terrific."
Beneath bangs the color of bittersweet chocolate, Talia rolled her dark eyes and swayed her slim hips from side to side, fluttering the tiers of her black silk dress. "Not as good as you. If I could wear a strapless sheath like that, Brent would have proposed to me."
"You don't think it's too low cut?"
"There won't be a man here tonight who won't remember you."
The midnight-blue gown accentuated Royce's blond hair and contrasted with her green eyes, making them appear even greener, but the gown was very revealing. She peeked at the prim cocktail dress Eleanor Farenholt wore. One more black mark against Royce. This one she might actually deserve.
What had Daddy always said? Royce, you're a bit of a Gypsy—all those vibrant prints and bright colors. She refused to wear black even though Eleanor Farenholt insisted it was the "only color" for evening. Black made Royce feel like one of the herd. And black reminded Royce of funerals —first her mother's, then her father's.
"Don't worry about your dress," Talia assured her. "Everyone adores you. They all read your column. Just be your usual witty self. To hell with the Farenholts."
"Right. To hell with them."
Talia pointed to the small evening bag that fit neatly into the palm of Royce's hand. The bag was a cat of glittering crystal stones—except for the eyes, which were brilliant green. "Where'd you get the money for a Judith Leiber bag?"
"Brent insisted on buying it for me."
"He's going to spoil you rotten."
"I'm loving every minute of it. This bag is very impractical, though. All I can get inside is a lipstick and my keys." She leaned closer and whispered. "Carrying such an expensive purse makes me feel guilty. This would have cost my father a week's salary. Will I ever get used to all Brent's money?" She shook her head, her hair fluttering across her bare shoulders, then she studied Talia, realizing her friend looked distracted. "Are you all right?"
"Fine. I haven't touched a thing. I promise."
Royce slipped her arm around Talia and gave her an affectionate hug. "If you need me—anytime, day or night—call."
"You've been terrific, but don't worry about me." Talia smoothed back her long hair, hooking one dark strand behind her ear. "There's good news and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?"
This was a game she'd played with Talia for years, so Royce answered the way she always d
id. "The good, then the bad."
"You're not sitting with Brent."
"Why on earth not?"
"This hostess throws dinner dances so her friends can meet interesting people—musicians and actors and artists— colorful types who normally wouldn't be included in these circles. Who knows? If you and Brent weren't engaged, she might have invited you anyway—for color."
Suspicious, Royce remembered the hostess was one of Eleanor Farenholt's "oldest and darlingest friends." Was that why she'd been seated elsewhere? "Where is Brent sitting?"
"Don't lose your temper, but he's sitting with his parents... and Caroline."
"Brent and I picked out a diamond today," Royce said, bridled anger underscoring each word. "The ring will be ready next week. Why's his ex-girlfriend with him?"
"It's a last-ditch effort. Brent and Caroline were practically born in the same crib, that's how close the families are, but he didn't marry her, did he? No. He meets you and three months later you're engaged."
"True, so why does this upset me so much?"
"Because if your parents were alive, they'd disapprove of you marrying a Farenholt."
"You're right," Royce conceded. Her parents had been liberal and literary with lots of "colorful" friends, not arch-conservatives who never ventured beyond their clique and had voted the party line since dirt was brown. "But Papa would have liked Brent. He's nothing like his parents."
"Just be cool. Ignore the Farenholts' pettiness."
"Okay," she said reluctantly, "but they are beginning to get to me. I'm having second thoughts about my relationship with Brent." She sighed, struggling to convince herself the Farenholts would learn to accept her. "Don't tell me that not sitting with Brent is the good news."
"Part of it. You're at the Dillinghams' table."
"All right!" Arnold Dillingham owned a local cable television station. Royce was one of two women vying for the hostess position on the San Francisco Affairs program. Her first trial show was next Friday night, with the second scheduled the following week.
The downward sweep of Talia's lashes hid her dark eyes, and Royce knew she wasn't going to like this. Talia always faltered before saying something upsetting. "Now for the bad news. Tonight your favorite attorney is seated beside you."
"Obviously not Brent; then someone else in the Farenholt firm."
"No. Mitchell 'I'll Defend You to Your Last Dollar' Durant."
"Sweet Jesus, not that bastard."
"I know how much you hate Mitch, but for once, don't be a hothead."
Every muscle in Royce's body tensed. Mitch Durant. The Farenholts detested him—at least they agreed on something —so why was he seated beside her? They had to be responsible for this fiasco.
"While you were living in Rome, Mitch Durant defended the Dillinghams' grandson on a drunk-driving charge and got him off with community service. Arnold Dillingham thinks Mitchell Durant hung the moon. Don't ruin your chances of becoming the San Francisco Affairs hostess by attacking Mitch in front of Dillingham. Be polite even if it kills you."
"Shouldn't I say that if it hadn't been for Mitch Durant in his days as a hotshot in the district attorney's office, my father would still be alive? Shouldn't I?"
"No. Only a few of us make the connection between Mitch Durant and your father's death. If you attack Mitch the way you did at your father's funeral, your career as a television personality is kaput—fini—over—before it starts."
A wellspring of grief swept through Royce. Papa, dear Papa. You won't be here to walk me down the aisle. This was such a happy time in her life, a time to share with the one person who'd loved her the most—her father. But he was dead. In the ground five long, lonely years now. Thanks to Mitchell Durant.
"You're right," Royce conceded, inwardly cursing Mitch. "I'll be polite."
Brent came up, saying he'd see her to her table, and Royce smiled at Ward and Eleanor Farenholt as if Brent's parents had handed her a ticket to paradise instead of a seat in hell. With Mitchell Durant.
The party's theme was sophisticated black and white. Didn't any of the Farenholts' friends do anything different? Royce wondered as she walked into the ballroom. Floor-length black silk table skirts peeked out from beneath white damask cloths set with gleaming sterling. The centerpieces were clusters of white orchids with deep plum centers arranged with an austere Japanese flair around bent willow twigs.
"Watch out for Durant," Brent said as they approached her table. "I don't want to lose you to him."
No chance, and Brent knew it. He spoke with the nonchalance of a man whose good looks and wealth guaranteed he'd always have whatever he wanted—any woman he wanted. A harmless form of inbred arrogance, Royce acknowledged. Still, there was nothing about Brent she would change, from his blond hair and brown eyes to his engaging smile.
His easygoing charm and love of life had first attracted Royce to him, but later it was his concern for others that made her fall in love. He cared for his family, his friends, but did it with such sincerity and enthusiasm, it was easy to see why fathers approved of him and any mother in San Francisco would give her left arm to have her daughter marry him.
Brent was the complete opposite of Mitchell Durant, Royce decided, remembering the tragic expression on her father's face that last day when he'd kissed her good-bye. Forever.
Brent introduced her to the guests at the table, leaving Mitchell Durant until last, acting as if this were the first time she'd met the prominent criminal defense attorney even though he knew Royce had met Mitch years ago. "Royce, this is Mitchell Durant. Mitch was with me at Stanford Law School."
Mitch had risen when they'd arrived at the table, but now as Brent spoke there was a split second when the men's eyes met. Instantly she sensed the hostility toward Brent that Mitch concealed with a nod. Mitch turned to her, but she made certain she was looking at Brent, smiling happily.
She slid into her chair, hardly hearing Brent say he'd see her later. Why didn't Mitch like Brent? She'd assumed the animosity was one sided. Everyone liked Brent. He had a way of putting people at ease that certainly wasn't hereditary.
She sipped her wine, covertly studying Mitch. In his late thirties, tall, with dark hair, Mitch had a disturbing way of assessing people. His eyes had never left her face, but she'd lay odds he'd noted her stiletto heels and could tell a jury her bra size.
"Your column last week on divining rods was hysterical," Arnold Dillingham told Royce, nodding his gray head enthusiastically.
Mrs. Dillingham agreed with her husband who'd made a fortune in cable television, then added, "I howled, simply howled, at your column about house dust. Why, I had no idea half the dust in my home is actually dead skin. I didn't realize people shed—like dogs."
"Our skin is always flaking off." She kept her eyes on the Dillinghams, but she was disturbingly aware of Mitch looking at her. Why had she worn such a low-cut dress?
"Well, the way you described it was so darn funny," added Mrs. Dillingham.
"That's what I'm counting on," Arnold informed everyone at the table. "Royce has a humorous way of looking at the world. Offbeat. Interesting."
She beamed, justifiably proud of herself. After all, how many columnists her age—thirty-four—were nationally syndicated, producing a byline twice a week and a feature article carried in Sunday editions nationwide?
"But can you carry a television show? And use that wit in discussing important issues?" Arnold asked her.
"I believe I can," Royce said with as much confidence as she could muster. She had no television experience, but she intended to give it her best shot. She was tired of writing a humorous column. She wanted to deal with important issues and this was her chance.
"I'm betting you can, so I personally found someone special for you to interview on your first trial program."
"Great," she said, upset. She'd expected to discuss Women in Crisis with someone from the center. The safe houses for abused women were unique and a subject Royce knew well. Before Royce's mother
had died, she'd helped develop the program. Royce had given hours of volunteer service to the group.
"This guest has a terrific new idea for helping the homeless."
Royce wasn't familiar with programs for the homeless. Rather than appear uninformed, she tried for a light note. "Not Governor Moonbeam. Last I heard, Jerry Brown was trying to work off his campaign debt by waiting tables in a Thai café."
Dillingham chuckled. "Our Mitch has a plan for helping—"
"Mitchell Durant?" she blurted out. She almost cursed out loud. Mercifully the band struck up a waltz and distracted everyone. Except Mitch.
The others rose to dance, but Mitch leaned close. "My name's not a four-letter word, you know."
"You could have fooled me."
Arnold paused by her chair. "Come on, you two, dance."
She opened her mouth to make an excuse, but Mitch was already pulling her chair out while Mrs. Dillingham babbled about how lucky Royce was to have Mitch on her show. She stood, thinking Mitch was notorious for refusing interviews. So, why now? Why me? Lucky, Mrs. Dillingham had said. Okay, remember luck is a four-letter word.
Mitch swung her into his arms. She trained her eyes over the shoulder of his expensive dinner jacket, ignoring him. Across the room Caroline danced with Brent. Where was the Italian count his former girlfriend was supposed to be dating?
Don't be jealous, Royce chided herself, thinking what she really resented about Caroline was how easily she fit in with the Farenholts. Except for Brent the group was terrified of rupturing a major artery by really laughing. Instead, they made muted sounds worthy of an aspiring ventriloquist, while Royce admitted she laughed a little too loudly at times. Especially at a good joke.
Royce felt Mitch watching her, subjecting her to a thorough, intimate appraisal. She studied his lapels for a moment, then lifted her head, making eye contact for the first time. Involuntarily she flinched at the intensity of his gaze. She'd almost forgotten how captivating his eyes were— marine blue with flecks of black and rimmed by black bands the same dark color as his hair.
Sawyer, Meryl Page 1
