She spun around, pretending to be interested in the comforter, deliberately being rude. Why didn't Mitch just go away? But he moved closer—or maybe it was her imagination. The man to her right had just bumped her. The room was far too crowded.
Mitch's warm hand touched her bare back. Royce froze, shuddering inside. His touch set off a depth charge of excitement. Get away from him, she told herself, but she couldn't move. There were people on either side of her and Mitch stood directly behind her. Or maybe she didn't want to move.
Maybe she wanted to see what Mitch would do next. Every nerve she possessed was on full alert. Mitch had a devastating effect on her. Her mind might hate him, but her body had other ideas.
He hovered near her, his head just behind her ear. For a moment he didn't say anything, letting his warm breath ruffle her hair. When he spoke, his voice was low, smoky. "Did you tell him, Royce?"
"Tell who?" she asked, not daring to turn and face Mitch.
Instead of answering he slid his hand lower and lower... and lower yet. The heat in his fingers sent chills across her breasts. And a surge of heat that unfurled in the pit of her stomach. This wasn't really happening, was it?
"Don't!" She elbowed him in the ribs and tried to turn around, but he pressed against her from the rear, his powerful body imprisoning her. There was no chance of getting away without causing a scene.
"Answer my question, Royce."
The ache in her throat was so powerful, she couldn't talk. Lord, what he could do to her without half trying. She hated him, but still found him terribly exciting. Why?
"Answer me." His hand dipped beneath the fabric of her dress, caressing the soft skin on her lower back. Moving still lower with agonizing slowness. Oh, my.
It didn't matter that no one could see what he was doing, she felt it and knew her expression would tell the world how terribly sexy she found him. Her stomach clenched as he stroked the tender flesh at the base of her spine. She wanted to stop him, she honestly did. But excitement, pure sexual excitement, paralyzed her.
"If you don't answer my question," Mitch whispered, his lips brushing her ear, sending a shocking wave of heat to the pit of her stomach, "I'm going to unhook this garter belt and those sexy silk stockings are going to hit the floor."
"You wouldn't." Her words came out in an embarrassing croak. Of course he would. The stinking jerk never played fair. His fingers were now fondling the cleft of her buttocks. And just look at her. She responded with throbbing breasts and a heavy ache in her thighs.
"No, I didn't tell Brent about kissing you."
Her answer should have stopped him, but it didn't; he was still toying with the hook on her garter belt. "Why not?"
She was breathless with anticipation, not knowing what she expected. He wouldn't do anything in a crowd like this, would he? He could get his hand only so far without ripping her dress. But it was far enough.
He explored the flare of her hips where the garter belt rode low, sensuously running very experienced fingers over her sensitive skin. Holding up the comforter in front of her, she sucked in her breath and let his hand edge around to touch her belly button. Even though the people around him couldn't see what he was doing, just knowing they were there made it even more exciting.
"I asked you a question." His voice was low, rough. A promise and a threat. Every instinct she possessed told her to stop him, but she couldn't.
"What could I tell Brent?" she mumbled.
"The truth."
In that tiny portion of her brain that wasn't sexually obsessed, she knew he was right. She had no business marrying a man—if another man could make her feel like this. But she didn't dwell on the thought, the melting heat between her thighs forced her to concentrate on the moment.
"When are you going to tell him, Royce?"
Before she could answer, a male voice yelled, "Durant... Royce." Omigod, not Tobias Ingeblatt.
Mitch swung her around to face the reporter. A flash went off, capturing her startled expression. Mitch was still standing behind her, his hand down the back of her dress. Oh, Lordy, there was another reporter with a minicam.
They couldn't see what Mitch was doing. Thank God. The crowd was too dense, and the way he was standing behind her must look perfectly natural. But it didn't feel that way.
"Is it true you're defending a cougar?" Tobais Ingeblatt asked.
While Mitch explained he was assisting an animal rights group, Royce marshaled her thoughts. Clearly, she needed a psychiatrist. She hadn't come from a dysfunctional family; she had no unresolved childhood issues she knew of; she didn't go in for kinky sex. Then why did she find this so exciting?
Mitch had his fingertips tucked just under her gown's waistband, his thumb tracing erotic circles on her bare skin. In front of millions of viewers—for God's sakes. Her pulse rate soared and moisture built between her thighs. Was she crazy? Absolutely. A screw—or two—loose.
"Ms. Winston, how do you think Mitch is going to defend that cougar?" asked the TV reporter.
Royce prayed she didn't look as flushed as she felt. "I think he's going to get the cougar off pleading self-defense," she answered, justifiably proud of her calm tone. Somehow she found the strength to step forward, forcing Mitch to move his hand.
"That would be an impossible defense," Mitch cut in. "The hunter was attacked from behind. We'll be discussing this—and other issues—on her next San Francisco Affairs program, right, Royce?"
"Right," she said, the sensual haze evaporating. What kind of game was Mitch playing? She waited until the reporters left. "What are you talking about?"
"We're such a great team," he said with a go-to-hell grin that implied just what kind of team he had in mind. "Arnie's putting me on again. Didn't he tell you?"
A flash of insight hit her like lightning. His head was slightly canted to one side, exuding a primal sex appeal most women would find irresistible, but she'd learned her lesson. He was deliberately trying to ruin her life. And she was making it easy for him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"No, he didn't." A gusher of anger erupted deep inside her, taking with it the fragile hold she'd kept on her temper. "Why are you doing this? You know I hate you."
"I noticed that last weekend. If you'd hated me another few minutes, I'd have had your panties off. And tonight—"
"You bastard." She reminded herself how much she hated him—not that it would do any good to tell him, considering the way she'd just allowed him to touch her.
"Ditch the mama's boy and come home with me. Let's hop in the sack and you can show me how much you hate me."
"Dream on, Mitch." She rushed away from him, elbowing her way through the crowd.
"I promise, you'll never forget your next interview," Mitch called after her.
"Lordy," she said under her breath. As surely as the sun came up, she knew any chance she had at a TV career was finished. Mitch was too clever to let her best him a second time. Worse, he'd be certain to make her look like a fool.
"He's the enemy," she said out loud, but no one heard her. She paused, not certain where she was going. Why? Why did she let him do this to her?
It had to be the result of that summer when she'd met him. She'd been so certain he was THE ONE. Loving, tender, intelligent. And sexy. All the things she'd wanted in a man.
She'd spent a month in Italy daydreaming about Mitch. Erotic dreams. The way he'd kissed her that night in the parking lot had triggered a profound reaction.
Her body craved him like a potent narcotic. It was as if he'd unleashed something dark and forbidden in her. But now she knew Mitch for the cunning opportunist he was. Tonight's little episode had been part of a plan to show her.
Mitch: one life, so many women—too much testosterone. An ego the size of the Titanic. And she was the one fish that got away. Add to that the fact she'd embarrassed him on TV, and Mitch was determined to humiliate her.
She couldn't let him do this to her. No. Don't blame him, she warned herself. You're letting him do
this. There had to be something she could do, but what?
She checked around for her friends, but couldn't find them in the crowd. Even Uncle Wally had vanished. She couldn't bring herself to go back and face the Farenholts. What had begun as a triumphant evening was now a disaster.
Royce scanned the crowd, hoping to find her uncle before they began serving dinner. She didn't want him sitting alone. She glimpsed Wally at the door. Was he leaving? She opened her mouth to call to him, but saw Wally was with Shaun.
Pivoting on one high heel, she turned back before they saw her. They'd split up more than a year ago, but Royce knew Wally still cared. He hadn't been the same since Shaun had left.
"There you are." Talia said, her brown hair tumbling across her cheek, her dark eyes serious. "Your uncle asked me to tell you he was leaving with a friend. He'll call you later in the week."
"Thanks." Over Talia's shoulder Royce saw the blue-white flashes of cameras. The already congested auction area was jammed, people standing shoulder to shoulder looking at someone. "Who's the fuss about?"
"A soap star. She's wearing a dress you can practically see through. I think—"
"Attention! Attention!" A sharp voice came over the loudspeaker. "The diamond earrings belonging to the set from Cartier have been misplaced. Could you check the floor around you? Anyone who finds them please tell a security guard."
"What a mess." Talia looked distracted. "I'd better find my date. See you later."
As Royce made her way toward the table, she noticed security guards hired by the charity had blocked the exits and were searching the auction area, their flashlights combing the plush carpeting.
"Darling, I've been looking for you," Brent said.
He'd been angry earlier, he wasn't now. It suddenly occurred to Royce that she'd never seen him angry until tonight. But even the most laid-back types had their moments, didn't they? Brent couldn't always be happy go lucky, could he?
She stepped into the welcoming curve of his arm. He was a kind, gentle, wonderful man. Mitch could just go to hell.
A rush of guilt made her sad—and angry with herself. Mitch had persecuted her father, knowing he was in a depressed state over his wife's death, knowing he was innocent. But Mitch hadn't cared. He'd been too anxious to capitalize on the publicity. In a moment of weakness at the funeral Mitch had confessed the truth. Her mind knew better than to forgive him, but there'd been something so sensual about that first kiss in the dark that her body couldn't quite forget.
Gus Wolfe wasn't the brightest bulb in the police chandelier, and he knew it. He kept dabbing sweat off his brow as he walked around the ballroom. Shoulda listened to the wife, he thought, and never opened Wolfe Security. But no, he'd wanted to moonlight and make easy money with a private security company. Being a policeman didn't pay squat. And it had been easy pickings—until tonight.
Christ! A roomful of San Francisco's richest citizens. Missing jewels. What should he do? Good question. He couldn't think of a case quite like this whopper.
Private security forces had much broader powers than the police, that much Gus knew. They weren't hamstrung by the same laws. But did they have the right to search this many people?
"What should we do, boss?" asked one of the kids he'd hired at minimum wage for tonight's bash.
"No one left after the jewels disappeared?" Gus hedged.
The kid shook his head and Gus peered across the crowded room. Shit, he didn't know what to say. He wiped off his brow again, running the back of his hand over his receding hairline. Then he spotted Mitchell Durant.
Cocky sonofabitch. Once he'd crucified Gus on the stand. But the bastard was sharp. He'd know what to do. The last thing Gus needed was to screw up now. If he did, his insurance would go through the roof and he'd have to close down. Then all he'd earn would be the crappy salary the police department paid.
Gus made some excuse to the kid and walked over to Mitch. Durant was looking across the crowded room. Gus followed his gaze and recognized Royce Winston from the television program.
Mitch turned to him. "Find the jewels yet?"
"Nah. Boy, it's a tough one."
Mitch nodded, his eyes on Royce again. The bastard wasn't going to volunteer anything. Gus would have to ask. "What do you think?"
Mitch trained his blue eyes on Gus, making him dead certain he never wanted to piss off this prick. "You're going to have to do something fast or people will start wondering why you haven't called the police."
"Yeah, right." He looked across the room. So many people. Rich, influential people. He turned back to Mitch. Was he still looking at Royce Winston? Yup. "Do we have probable cause to search people?"
"You've got cause, but I'd cover my butt or your security service will be up to its eyeballs in lawsuits. Just because you have more freedom than the police doesn't mean you don't have to watch your ass."
"Gotcha'. No strip search." He chuckled in spite of the seriousness of the situation. "I was looking forward to pussy-peeping rich broads."
"Get real. Go for voluntary compliance. Ask people to allow you to use a metal detector. They've all been through enough airports to be familiar with the wand detector."
"I don't have any detectors. I've been meaning to invest, but shit... you know how it is."
"Ask hotel security if you can borrow theirs."
"Why didn't I think of that?"
"I have no idea." Mitch stared across the room. Royce Winston—again. "My guess is the perp will ditch the earrings, and you'll recover them before the police arrive. The thief is probably expecting you to call the police right away. He has no way of knowing the bond you put up for tonight doesn't begin to cover the loss, and you're desperate to find the earrings."
Arrogant bastard, Gus thought, but he was dead on. "Thanks, Mitch." He choked out the next words. "I owe you one."
"I won't forget."
"They'd better let us go," Ward Farenholt complained to Brent. "This is ridiculous."
Royce studied the lavender beading on her dress rather than look up. Mitch was watching her again with a hot, knowing gleam in his eyes. She could almost feel his hands on her—down the back of her dress. The heat between her thighs said her body remembered too. She couldn't deny she'd played into his hands.
Why? Why? No answer, just a queasy feeling of self-loathing. Clearly, she needed professional help. First thing Monday she'd contact a psychiatrist.
"Attention, please," came the voice over the loudspeaker. "We've searched the auction area and haven't located the earrings. We'd like you to form a line by the fountain and volunteer to have a metal detector scan."
"We might as well do it," Ward said, his eyes on the mass of people moving toward the fountain, "or we'll be here all night."
It took a moment, but Royce finally located her cat bag on a chair. Brent put his arm around her waist, guiding her along behind Caroline and his parents. A funnel-shaped line formed with Royce trapped in the center.
"I'll bet the metallic beads on this dress trigger the alarm," Royce said to Brent.
"It won't matter unless you have the jewels."
The malice in Eleanor's voice astounded Royce. She had made the right decision. That woman would make life hell if she married Brent.
Royce couldn't resist saying, "I put the earrings in my bra."
Caroline giggled. "Stop it, Royce, or they'll strip-search you. That would be terrible."
"Actually, I have the earrings in my purse." She held out the cat bag, balancing it in the palm of her hand. "It was just big enough to get them in."
"Careful, someone will take you seriously," Brent warned.
The Farenholts were glowering at her as if they really thought her capable of theft, their eyes frighteningly cold. There was a maliciousness there that she hadn't noticed before.
"No one would be stupid enough to have the earrings right where they could be found." Royce snapped open the bag.
For a split second she thought there was a photographer nearby sh
ooting pictures. But the intense flashes of light she saw weren't from a camera. The diamond earrings were in her purse.
CHAPTER 5
"This is somebody's crazy idea of a joke." Royce turned to Brent, but he'd moved away, joining his parents.
"Royce, how could you?" Brent's voice echoed his disgust.
Fear mushroomed inside her as she appealed to him. "Why would I open my purse, if I'd known—"
"You're under arrest." A muscular hand latched on to her arm.
"This is a mistake," she argued, aware of the crowd crushing closer each moment, straining to see the earrings in the purse the security guard had just grabbed.
"I knew she'd do something like this," Eleanor said to her son.
Ruddy splotches of color mottled Brent's handsome face, his jaw set in a censuring line. Could he actually believe she'd done it? Yes. How could he? He loved her, didn't he? Why didn't he say something?
No one was saying anything. She saw nothing but condemnation in their eyes as she searched the throng for a friendly face. To the rear of the group she spotted Mitch, staring at her, his expression unreadable.
"Why would I do anything so stupid?" she protested.
"Don't say anything." Val suddenly appeared at her side, and Royce saw Talia elbowing her way toward them. "We'll get you help. Don't worry."
Several guards approached, parting the curious crowd. This is really happening. They're going to take me away. A white-hot wave of shame surged through her. Her face set in the stubborn, lockjawed expression her father used to tease her about, Royce trained her eyes on the exit, barely conscious of the exploding flashbulbs or the phalanx of mini- cameras recording her humiliation to boost their late-night ratings.
The ride to the station passed in a blur of images and sensations she was too numb to feel. The staticky squawk of the radio. The wail of the siren. The worn vinyl of the backseat tinged with the odor of stale tobacco. The steel mesh screen that separated her from the front, caging her in like a dangerous animal.
Sawyer, Meryl Page 7
