Sawyer, Meryl

by A Kiss in the Dark

  Paul Talbott knew when Mitch walked into the Liquid Zoo. The bar was darker than Hades, lit only by neon pictures of pink elephants quaffing booze through their trunks, and by a big screen TV. Several of the bar's patrons greeted Mitch, asking if he was running for DA or attorney general.

  He couldn't hear Mitch's answer, but Paul figured his blond hair would have a few more gray streaks by morning. He'd never seen Mitch angrier than he'd been in the closing shot of that television program.

  Mitch dropped onto the well-worn bar stool beside him and the bartender handed him a Jack Daniel's on the rocks. He took a swig, then asked, "What did you think?"

  Paul had known Mitch since they were eighteen-year-old bunkmates aboard a Navy ship. Almost twenty years had passed, and they'd remained close friends by being dead honest. Mitch would forgive anything—except a lie.

  "You sounded good, Mitch, until she cold-cocked you with that political angle."

  "Yeah, the bitch." Mitch knocked back his drink, then stared at the glass. "Swear to God, I could strangle her."

  "You know, I picked up on a subtle bit of antagonism throughout the program. Royce Winston doesn't like you."

  "Damn straight. She hates my guts." Mitch shoved his glass forward for a refill. "I'm surprised you saw it, though. I didn't think it was obvious."

  "That's my job, remember?" Paul was proud of his ability to read people. He'd zeroed in on Mitch the day he'd met him years ago in Navy boot camp. Lonely, insecure despite his tough appearance.

  Paul's years on the police force had honed those instincts. Now his practice as a private investigator demanded he rely on his observations about people. He was seldom wrong.

  But it didn't take a sixth sense to know not to question Mitch. Minutes after meeting him Paul had learned Mitch told you what he wanted you to know. Even after all this time, Paul had no idea about Mitch's life before they met. He doubted he ever would.

  "There's a booth free," Mitch said. "Let's order a pizza."

  Paul followed Mitch to the booth, his stomach churning at the thought of the Liquid Zoo's pizza. It was like eating melted cheese on an old glove. But Mitch didn't care; he ate a combo pizza—hold the anchovies—seven nights a week.

  Paul watched Mitch as he ordered the pizza and another round of drinks. Why was he so angry? That Winston broad had caught him off-guard, but Mitch had looked damn good.

  True, it would be a hassle again squelching rumors that he was running for DA. Mitch had promised his former girlfriend, Abigail Carnivali, he'd stay out of the DA's race so she could run. Good old "Carnivorous" would be screaming for Mitch's blood. What had Mitch seen in her? She was gorgeous, but a ball buster.

  "I should have known Royce would pull something like this. Even after all this time she's an ole coon dog nosing down a cold trail."

  There was an element of ruthlessness about Mitch that he'd tempered over the years, but never completely concealed. When he was angry, the way he was now, a trace of his southern accent appeared, and he used southern expressions.

  "I didn't realize you knew Royce Winston."

  Mitch stared across the dark bar for a moment at the fight being shown on television. "I met her a little over five years ago. You were away then, remember?"

  "Can't forget being hauled in front of Internal Affairs." Paul had quit the force, his name under a cloud, and had taken off across the country on his Harley for almost a year. By the time he returned, he'd lost his wife and kids. But he still had one friend.

  "As usual, I'd let thirty-four out of thirty-six months lapse and still didn't have all of my continuing-ed classes to keep up my license to practice law," Mitch continued. "I'd racked up a few credits going to a Giants game and listening to some bullshit from the team's lawyer on ethics and sports contracts. I spent a week at Club Med, getting laid, improving my tan, and listening to lectures on effectively using paralegals."

  The waiter brought their drinks and the pizza with about as much care as a trash collector dumping a can into his truck. Mitch grabbed a piece and took a chunk out of it while Paul watched. What did Mitch see in this place? Didn't he notice the pizza was burnt? Naw. Mitch didn't care what he ate—as long as it was pizza.

  "I was still short on the required credits for stress management, so I enrolled in a weekend program at the Self-Awareness Institute in Big Sur," Mitch said. "That was one of those touchy-feely Japanese deals that were so popular before everyone realized we were committing economic suicide kowtowing to Tokyo.

  "The first session was held in a mango grove overlooking the ocean. Swear to God, there were meditation pillows on the ground and incense burners. I was looking around for a roster to sign before cutting out when in walked a blond with a clipboard and name tag that read: ROYCE."

  "I take it Royce Anne Winston was the leader."

  "Yeah," Mitch said, staring into his glass. "I didn't find out her last name until it was too late. The Institute used first names only on our badges so we could 'connect' with each other."

  Mitch took a deep breath, not smelling the stale beer or even the overdone pizza he'd hardly eaten. Instead his mind took a detour; the aroma of sandalwood from the incense burner filled his nostrils as he thought about the first time he'd met Royce.

  Five years earlier he'd sat on the meditation pillow, his eyes on the blond wearing an oversize sweatshirt splattered with silver metallic paint that couldn't begin to hide a bombshell figure like an old-time movie star's.

  He wouldn't have described her as pretty. Her features were a little strong to be conventionally feminine: wide green eyes, a sexy mouth, blond hair styled in a wind tunnel. And cute freckles. She appeared to be several years younger than he was—not yet thirty.

  "All right." She clapped her hands for attention. No ring. "I'm Royce, your spiritual guide. Let's begin right away. Everyone find a meditation pillow and sit. Cross your legs like Indians. Put your hands on your knees."

  While the group settled on the pillows, Mitch studied Royce. Smart, his sixth sense told him as she glanced around, sizing up the sleepy group who'd never have been here except the legislature had decided to "improve" the quality of attorneys by requiring these classes. What bullshit.

  "Close your eyes and take deep, deep, calming breaths of the sandalwood incense. Clear your mind of everything," Royce instructed. "Just let it go. Let it float away on the breeze."

  "What a crock," he muttered to himself, his eyes on Royce as she sat cross-legged on her pillow, her hands on her knees, her head slightly bent. She tossed her wayward curls over her shoulder, an unconscious gesture he found very provocative.

  She was doing the deep-breathing crap, leading the horde of mostly male attorneys gathered in the early morning sunlight. There was something undeniably sexy about her. She had the type of girl-next-door looks that would fool anyone's mother. But a father would take one look at Royce and haul you behind the woodshed for a lecture on birth control.

  She opened her eyes and looked directly at him. Bedroom eyes. "Breathe deeply," she mouthed.

  He unleashed the grin that had coaxed more than his share of women out of their panties. She closed her eyes without sparing him a second glance.

  "Slowly, ever so slowly, exhale," she instructed, her tone low, hypnotic. Downright sexy.

  "Let the air go through your nostrils, taking with it the tension, the stress. Concentrate on what you're letting go of. Imagine that burden floating away. Just let it go."

  "They feed more interesting slop to the hogs," Mitch whispered under his breath. She kept talking, but he wasn't listening. He imagined Royce, her hair splayed across a pillow. Her thighs parted. Incense filled his lungs; the possibilities of Royce in his bed filled his mind.

  "Mitch. Earth to Mitch," Royce called to him.

  Everyone's eyes were on him now. He'd lost track of what she'd been saying. What had he missed? "Sorry. I zoned out for a moment. Too much incense."

  She smiled. Nice, even white teeth. "We're sharing what we let go of.
What did you let go of, Mitch?"

  "I was thinking of something I'd like to get ahold of."

  Laughter rumbled through the group. One of the jerks from the Public Defenders office fell off his pillow. Mitch realized the rest of the guys found Royce every bit as sexy as he did.

  She ignored his suggestive comment. "Mitch, breathe deeply for me."

  He felt like an ass, but he puffed for the hell of it. Okay, because he wanted her attention.

  "Now, Mitch," she said, a teasing note in her voice. "Exhale and let go, let go of your obsession with billable hours."

  The group howled, slapping their thighs. Too damn much incense. Mitch didn't bother to tell her that he was with the DA's office and didn't bill hours like most attorneys.

  The meditation bit went on all morning. Afterward every attorney had questions, swarming all around Royce. Mitch hung back and listened. After a weekend of this she had to hear every line in the book. And she wasn't falling for any of it.

  Finally, the last guy was making his pitch. Mitch stood nearby, pretending to admire the ocean view while the creep told Royce how oral sex lifted a couple to a transcendental plane that couldn't be equaled.

  "I never engage in oral sex," Royce snapped, losing patience with all the bird-dogging. "That stuff's too fattening."

  She walked away before the wiseass could respond. Chuckling to himself, Mitch hurried after her, following her down the trail to the ocean.

  "Royce, wait a second."

  "Mitch, the Torquemada of torts. You should be at the swimming pool getting aquatic therapy. " She still sounded angry.

  "They'll never miss me. I'll sign the roster later."

  "Go to class." She trotted down the path away from him. Nice tush, he noted. Great legs. He trailed along behind her, trying to decide what to say next. He loved a challenge.

  She halted abruptly and he seized the opportunity to bump into her. What a chest. Soft. Full. "Sorry," he said, putting his arm around her. She was even cuter at close range. Even sexier.

  "Look, Mitch"—she jerked away from him—"I hate lawyers. I believe what my father says. There's no difference between a whore and an attorney. They both screw you for money. And after working around here, I'm convinced he's right."

  "So why are you here?"

  "I'm a writer. I need the money." She waved her hand. "Go back to class. You're wasting your time."

  She scampered down the trail before he could respond. But Mitch went after her. Hell, nothing in this world had been handed to him. Ever. Everything he wanted he'd gone after. And suffered to get.

  "I'm a lawyer," he said when he found her sitting on a boulder at the surf's edge, "to make money. But I'm really an inventor."

  "You are?" Suspicion fired her green eyes.

  "Yeah. I have a drug at the FDA now just waiting for approval. May take years, though. You know bureaucracy."

  "Really? What kind of drug?"

  He settled himself on the rock beside her, gazing at her with all the sincerity he could muster. "Something no woman should be without."

  "A portable bullshit detector?"

  He tried to look supremely insulted, gazing out at the parade of foam-capped waves tumbling lazily onto the shore.

  She went for it, touching his arm, saying, "Tell me about your invention."

  "It's a pill," he said, the picture of seriousness, "a pill to take the calories out of sperm."

  She blinked, disbelief firing her expressive eyes. "You creep."

  "So, I'm not perfect. But I'm damn close."

  She shoved at him, slamming both hands into his chest. But not before he noticed her smile.

  He caught her hands in his. "Give me a chance."

  They gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, so close their lips almost touched, their breathing swift. He detected a trace of perfume, an alluring scent with a hint of spice. Heated radiated from her body, her soft breasts barely touching his chest. The rolling crash of the waves on the rocks suggested a more sensual rhythm.

  "I'm not good company right now," she finally said. "My mother recently died of cancer, and I'm having trouble accepting her loss." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  "Tell me what happened."

  They spent the next two days together. Mostly she talked about her mother and he listened, his hand in hers or his arm around her. He never let it get any farther than that, sensing she'd had the rush too many times from legal leeches.

  He never discussed his job. Why bother? She hated attorneys. It would take time to change her mind. Naturally, he steered the conversation away from his family. Away from his past.

  The sensitive male was a new role for him. Usually, he came on strong with women. If they didn't like it, he cut out. But he knew Royce wouldn't fall for locker-room macho.

  She intrigued him, sharing with him many of her ideas about life, most of which were thought provoking and decidedly offbeat. He had to admit he found her fascinating.

  On the last evening there was a farewell bash around the mud therapy pools where Nolo Contendere Nachos and Subpoena Coladas were served. Mitch waited for Royce, but she didn't come. He found her in the dark parking lot loading her things into a rattletrap Toyota.

  "You're not leaving without saying good-bye, are you?" Obviously she was. Gripes, had he been wrong. He'd been positive he was getting somewhere with her.

  "My father needs me." She slammed the trunk shut and moved to the driver's door. "I have to get back to San Francisco as quickly as possible."

  "Is he ill?"

  "He's been... depressed since Mama died." It was too dark to see her face clearly, but he heard the touching concern in her voice.

  He thrust a cocktail napkin and a pen at her. "Give me your number and I'll call you." He didn't ask if she wanted to see him, afraid of what she might say.

  She scribbled her number. "I won't be home for a month. I've made enough money to take my father to Italy to visit Mama's people."

  "A month?" Sounded like a life sentence. He'd been patient all weekend, goddammit, counting on seeing her in San Francisco. To hell with pussyfooting around. He hauled her into his arms a little more roughly than he intended. "Don't forget me."

  Before she could answer, he tilted her chin up and kissed her. He'd meant it to be a sweet kiss, but, hell, what did he know about tenderness? Nothing.

  His mouth molded over hers, crushing its soft fullness. She swayed, clutching his shoulders for support, emitting a shocked gasp that parted her lips. His tongue thrust into the moist heat, seeking hers with fierce urgency. Her lips moved hungrily against his, her arms now circling his neck.

  She slid her hands into his hair, furrowing her fingers across his scalp. His sex hardened, ramming against his zipper. Why had he waited all weekend?

  "Mitch," she whispered, her lips against his. "Another scar from the same fight?"

  Aw, hell. Her questing fingers had discovered the third, deepest scar hidden in the thick hair above his ear. She'd asked about the two scars on his face, but he'd dodged the question, saying he'd been in a fight. Not the truth exactly, but close enough for government work.

  "Uh-huh," he muttered, then deliberately distracted her by angling his hips against the notch of her thighs.

  "Don't," she whispered. Smiling.

  If he'd thought—for a second—she meant no, he would have backed off, but her arms were still around him, her lips close to his. Even in the darkness of the moonless night, he saw the passion blazing in her green eyes.

  Her lips sought his and he returned her kiss wildly, his hips churning against hers, pinning her against the side of the car. And she loved it. Her fingernails scored the back of his neck; her hips pressed against his.

  He looped his hand around her long hair, wrapping most of it around his palm. With a tug he pulled her head back, exposing the soft skin along her neck. Trailing a series of moist kisses, he worked his way downward to the deep V of her blouse. His tongue shot into the tight hollow between her breas
ts as his hand captured the soft fullness, squeezing slightly.

  He tested the shape and texture, teasing the nipple with the pad of his thumb until it was spiraled tightly. "Oh, Mitch."

  He released her hair and took half a step back. She clutched him, burying her head in the crook of his neck. He had her blouse unbuttoned in a second. The bra that greeted him was straight out of a lingerie ad. Half cups. Lacy. It offered Royce's breasts to him like a pagan sacrifice.

  "All right, a front-loader." He unhooked the flimsy bra and cradled her full breasts in his wide-spread palms. He was achingly, painfully hard now.

  He felt Royce's heart slamming against his hand. Her breath fluttered against his neck in staccato bursts. He bent and kissed her breasts, sculpting each taut nipple with his tongue.

  "The backseat of your Toyota's looking mighty good."

  "I hardly know you," she whispered. "It would just be sex."

  "Hey, it works for me." He teased one nipple, sucking ruthlessly. He raised his head and grinned his bad-boy grin. "You want me. Don't deny it."

  Just then, a car drove into the dark parking lot. Its blaring lights hit them like a gust of arctic air. Mitch blocked Royce from full view. She scrambled to cover herself.

  "Jee-sus," Mitch muttered. His timing sucked. The spell had been broken. Royce was inside the car, key in the ignition.

  "See you in a month," he yelled as she peeled out of the parking lot.

  CHAPTER 4

  By the light of the pink elephant above their booth in the Liquid Zoo, Paul studied Mitch, who hadn't spoken for several minutes. Obviously, Mitch's mind was still pondering the incident with Royce five years ago.

  "What happened after she left?" Paul prompted.

  "It was the month from hell," Mitch said. "The DA had been out with a heart attack for weeks, and I had a caseload big enough for ten lawyers. I didn't want to bargain any of them."

  Paul noted the disgust in Mitch's voice. Mitch thought plea bargaining undermined the whole judicial system. He was probably right. It certainly made a lot of criminal attorneys rich, defending felons who kept cycling through the system.