He cupped her head between his hands as his lips met hers in a searing kiss. A kiss that made her toes itch. Itch for more. She angled her head to the side, her tongue dancing with his. Now her breasts itched, especially her nipples. She sensed there was a reason she shouldn't be doing this, but for the life of her couldn't think what it was.
She took his hand and edged it under the robe. He didn't need any more encouragement. In an instant his hand found one taut nipple, his fingers circling the tip. She furrowed into his thick hair, stroking his scalp. Before she realized it, Mitch had her stretched out on the bed and he was beside her, the robe fully undone, revealing damp skin still pink from the bath and scented with lavender.
"Don't stop." Did she say that?
Warm and firm, his hand closed over one breast, squeezing ever so slightly, reshaping it to fit his palm, then easing it back and forth against his shirt.
"Royce, you're so goddamned sexy."
Emboldened by his words, by his passion, she slipped her hand down to the waistband of his trousers. Then dipped underneath. Here his skin was hot, so much hotter to the touch. The tips of her fingers edged into the thatch of curly hair, knowing what she wanted, what she needed. Her mind might be groggy, still confused by lack of sleep, but her instincts were flawless.
She circled his shaft, squeezing, caressing the smooth tip. Mitch groaned and muttered, "Aw, hell, do you know what you're doing?"
"Uh-huh." She traced her thumb down the ridge, then cradled the full weight of his sex. "Why am I not surprised, Mitch? I knew you'd have big balls."
"Damn right." His hand shot between her thighs as his head bent to kiss an erect nipple. He sculpted the breast with an aggressive tongue while his fingers eased between the soft folds, testing the taut nub, then teasing it with expert precision.
Her stomach fluttered, then dropped in one long freefall. The strokes of his tongue matched his finger. Impossible to resist. She parted her thighs, her hand gliding up the hard length of his sex, squeezing, stroking.
"You're so hot, Royce. So damn wet." He muttered something else but she didn't understand. He lifted his head and cocked it to one side.
His good ear, she thought, suddenly wanting to kiss it.
He jerked upright. "Goddammit. Paul's back."
Dimly she realized he'd heard the van pull into the garage beneath the bedroom. He had the covers over her and was out of the room before she could utter another word.
CHAPTER 8
Mitch stared out his office window the following morning, thinking of what Paul had said to him last night. "A lawyer who screws his client fucks himself." An old saying, but true, Mitch decided. He'd tried to resist her, he honestly had, but she'd been so insistent. He heard the sharp knock on his door, but kept looking at the carbon-colored clouds skulking on the horizon as he told Paul to come in.
"I have a copy of the Outrage," Paul said. "Tobias Ingeblatt has another article about Royce. Helen Sykes was with her in jail—"
"Aw, shit!" Mitch spun around. "What does it say?"
"This Sykes woman claims Royce confessed she'd taken the jewels."
"Just what I expected." Mitch sank into his chair. Sure enough, not only was Royce getting tried in the press, she was being convicted. And he couldn't do a damn thing about it.
The gag order only covered the attorneys and witnesses. It gave the press carte blanche to cull info leaked by questionable sources. The classic nonstory. And the ultimate power because it allowed the press to make up their own version of events.
"I've got background on that informant whose word was good enough to get a search warrant for Royce's home," Paul said.
Gus Wolfe had called with the name late last night after Mitch had left Royce. A consummate professional, Paul had tracked down the woman's record within hours.
"Linda Allen is a new informant. This is the first time she's ever given the police a name."
"Unfuckingbelievable! A judge issued a warrant on the word of an untried informant? Next thing we know pathological liars will be getting exempt status to 'confidentially' rat on people."
"I know this search warrant violates standards, but Linda was working with the police on a Peruvian connection. They have total faith in her. That's why the warrant was issued."
Mitch nodded; with all the heat on the Colombians the drug kings were using Peru now. "I want to talk to this Linda Allen."
"She's undercover until this drug deal she's doing with the feds comes down."
"How convenient. Find her, goddammit."
"I've already got men on it," Paul assured him, then hesitated. "Do you have any idea how much this is costing?"
"You'll get paid. Send me the bills."
"I wasn't worried," Paul responded, and Mitch believed him. Paul didn't give a damn about money; he loved his work. He'd have been the best detective in the city if things hadn't gone wrong. "I mentioned money because I have the prelims ready on the case. A check into all the suspects' bank accounts doesn't show any unusual activity. It's going to cost a bundle to get a forensic accountant to go over all their financial records."
"The money to buy the coke planted in Royce's home had to have come from somewhere. The dealers don't take American Express. Get the accountant on it."
"Right. I also have the results of the supermarket poll."
Like many criminal attorneys Mitch used a polling service to monitor public opinion. It helped him gauge which jurors might be sympathetic to the defendant.
"Ninety-three percent of those polled think Royce is guilty."
"Christ! That's higher than Zou-Zou Maloof, and she was caught with the murder weapon in her hand. It's fight-back time."
"You plan to leak info to get around the gag order?"
"Damn right. That's exactly what Carnivorous is doing. I knew all the gag order would do was keep her off television. But she can't be held responsible for leaks or snitches like Helen Sykes selling their stories to the press, can she?"
"No, and neither can you," Paul reminded him.
"As soon as Royce has rested I want her to take a drug test. Then you find someone to leak the results to the media. I also want her to take a lie detector test. Again, I can't be involved in this, so you'll need to find a way to get the results to the press."
"No problem."
"I want Royce to take that laser lie-detector test."
"Jesus, Mitch. That's expensive."
"But totally accurate." Mitch grinned. "And revolutionary. The media will lap it up with a flavor straw. Front page news."
"You'll want another poll after the results are leaked, right?"
"Yeah. Schedule a series of polls. I want to know right through the trial how the public sees Royce."
Royce awoke, smiling; she'd been dreaming about going on a picnic with her mother and father. A memory that translated into a sweet dream, but the reality was quite different. Her parents were dead, her uncle had disappeared, and—she gasped at the thought—she'd almost made love to Mitch. She opened her eyes and saw the woman who'd introduced herself as Gerte last night.
"You are sleeping these thirty-six hours," Gerte informed her.
Had it been that long? Royce was still drowsy, still shocked at the memory of what had happened with Mitch. What was wrong with her?
"I have made soup. You will eat now."
Sitting at the table overlooking the peaceful garden between her quarters and the main house, Royce ate, wondering if lack of sleep had induced acute paranoia. The dream that had seemed so real last night haunted her now even in the light of day. It was hard to believe someone was trying to kill her. Still, her uncle was missing and she'd been framed. It wasn't too farfetched to think she might be murdered, was it?
The nightmare had seemed so real. Even so, something had been wrong, something about the house she'd lived in all her life hadn't, in the dream, been quite right. What was it? She gazed down into the garden where a frisky golden retriever romped with the largest tabby she'd ever see
n and tried to think what about her house wasn't the way it was supposed to be.
All she could remember clearly was darkness and an overwhelming, mind-numbing sense of fear.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Gerte motioned for her to go into the bedroom. She hid behind the door, listening. She wasn't easily frightened, but so much had gone wrong lately. What next? She recognized the familiar voice and rushed out.
"Uncle Wally," she cried, a sob stalled in her throat. "You're all right. Thank God."
He bear-hugged her, and she squeezed tight. "Royce, I'm so sorry I wasn't here. I had no idea." Tears shone in his eyes.
"Where were you? I was so worried."
Wally guided her over to the sofa. "I needed some time to think, so I went up the coast and rented a cottage overlooking the ocean. I didn't pick up a paper or watch TV."
"Shaun," she guessed. "You're not getting back together." For years they'd had an on-again-off-again relationship. The night of the accident that had killed her father's friend, they'd been going to see Wally after one of his fights with Shaun.
"No, this time it's really over. Shaun and I are finished." Sadness etched every line in his face. "That doesn't matter right now. You're what's important."
She didn't know how to tell him she'd hired Mitch. If Wally had been around, she never would have turned to Mitch, but she'd been desperate when she'd seen the police ransacking her house.
"Mitch told me what he's—"
"You've seen Mitch already? Do you think I made a mistake hiring him?"
"If I'd been here, I would have called him immediately."
"Even after what he did to Daddy? If it weren't for Mitch, he'd still be alive." Guilt washed over her in suffocating waves. Hadn't she betrayed her father's memory by almost making love to Mitch? She couldn't meet Wally's steady gaze for fear he'd guess what she'd done.
"True. If Mitch hadn't insisted on prosecuting your father, he might still be alive." He gave her a reassuring hug. "But there's no denying Mitchell Durant is one of the finest legal minds—ever. He made his name overnight as a defense attorney."
"I was in Italy then, but I read something about DNA."
"Right. Everyone assumed a DNA match was as good as a fingerprint in identifying a criminal. But Mitch proved that some DNA matches are blurry like smudged fingerprints. They match only on certain points and aren't conclusive proof. He's got a kid on death row from a small town where everyone's related. Mitch discovered the DNA match that convicted him could have convicted half the town. The Supreme Court has agreed to review the case."
"Now a lot of DNA matches are being challenged."
"Exactly." Wally smiled encouragingly. "I spent several hours talking to him this morning about your defense while you were sleeping. I'm impressed."
"It's going to cost a fortune, isn't it?"
Wally's eyes, the color of her own, were weary pools of experience. None of it encouraging. "You'll have to sell your house and car. I'll have to sell my home—"
"No. I can't let you. You'll need the money to retire."
"I'll have to get by on Social Security. Millions do." He brushed back a tear she didn't know was dribbling down her cheek. "You're more important to me than that house."
"But, Uncle Wally—"
"Hush. You have no idea what my life was like when I was growing up. I didn't know I was a homosexual. I just knew I was different, and I was miserable. Who was the only person who loved me? My brother. When he married your mother, she was just as kind. That's more than I can say for my own parents."
She knew it was true; her grandparents were dead now, but they'd shunned Wally.
"It's a tragedy too many gays still face. Our families reject us, but I had my brother. I miss him to this day. And I'm going to take care of you just the way he took care of me. With him gone you're all I have left. I couldn't bear losing you."
A sob caught in her throat at the love in his eyes and the timeless wisdom in his voice. "If I'm convicted I'll be an old lady before I get out. My career will be over. I'll be too old to have children." An even worse thought occurred to her. "You might get sick and I couldn't be with you. You might even die before I'm free again."
Wally put his arm around her, and she indulged her tears for a few minutes, reminding herself things could be worse. Her paranoia was just prolonged lack of sleep. No one had killed Wally. No one was going to kill her.
Wally stroked her hair, soothing her the way he had when she'd been a child and had come to him with a cut or bruise, but now he talked to her like an adult.
"I want you to do exactly what Mitch says."
She listened while Wally told her Mitch's plans. It sounded complicated and frighteningly expensive. "How does the average person afford a trial?"
His world-weary expression intensified. "They can't. They get a public defender and pray. Think of it as getting cancer without health insurance."
"No wonder they call him Mitchell 'I'll Defend You to Your Last Dollar' Durant."
"Don't be hard on him. There are plenty of expenses we'll have to pay even though Mitch is skipping his fee."
"He is?" Her shame resurfaced, even more intense now, and along with it confusion. How could she accept Mitch's charity? Why was he helping her? Did he feel guilty about her father?
"Don't worry," Wally said, attempting to reassure her.
"I can't help it. Someone's behind this. Who?"
Wally shrugged. "Paul Talbott asked me the same thing. I told him, ah... well, it's my gut feeling that it's Valerie Thompson."
"Val?" She sat bolt upright. "Never."
"Maybe not, but she's always seemed jealous of you."
"Perhaps Val was a little envious when we were younger, but she grew out of it. Don't you think it's more likely Eleanor or Caroline did it?"
He paced across the small living room. "Something's fishy about this whole deal. Tell you what, I'm doing some sleuthing on my own. Being an investigative reporter has its perks."
"Don't you think you should coordinate with Paul Talbott?"
"He won't tell me much. I'm on the suspect list, you know."
"Why? That's crazy."
"It's sound technique. Anyone who had the opportunity to put those jewels in your purse has to be a suspect until they can be eliminated."
"Of all people, you wouldn't have had any reason to do it."
"True." He chuckled derisively. "But I would have a good motive for killing you. I'd inherit your house."
"With its huge mortgage?"
Wally chuckled and gave her a reassuring hug.
How could anyone be so lucky? She had an uncle willing to give up everything to help her.
PART II: Rabbit E. Lee
CHAPTER 9
The following evening Paul Talbott drove into a less than fashionable area of Seacliff. He'd warned Mitch about getting involved with Royce, and Mitch had left without a word, a stick of dynamite in his pants.
It wasn't like Mitch to get involved with a client. He knew better; it was against the bar's code of ethics. True, many attorneys' ethics were like bringing coals to the devil's hearth, but Mitch set high standards for himself. Except for Royce Winston. From the night Mitch had told him about Royce, Paul had known she wasn't just another sexy blonde.
"Don't get personally involved in your cases," Paul reminded himself as he parked in front of Valerie's apartment. "You don't have to see Val to find out why she called."
But he didn't take his own advice. Instead he rang the bell and waited, adjusting the knot in his tie. The door swung open. Hair in pink rollers, Val glared at him, her face covered with a brownish masque that looked like a curbside deposit by one of the neighborhood mutts.
"You left a message that you needed to talk to me."
Val closed the door and left him standing under a yellow bug light. Minutes later she let him in, her face scrubbed pink and her russet hair softly tumbled around her face. Paul's groin tightened; he knew exactly why Mitch was
involved with a client. It was mighty tempting. Eyes on her slim hips sheathed in leggings and almost concealed by an oversized sweater, he followed her inside.
"Sister Rosemary from the Center for Women in Crisis made this videotape of the auction." Val handed him a tape.
"The police haven't seen it?"
"No." There was something strange about the way Val was looking at him as she spoke. "They haven't interviewed the sisters yet."
Paul knew they wouldn't. With an airtight case, why waste manpower? Why was Val studying him so intently? "I want to run this through the equipment at the office, but I'll need help identifying all the people. Can you spare an hour?"
"Sure," she said, but she still had an odd expression.
No question about it. Val was gorgeous but weird. He didn't want to think she was guilty. Still, his instincts told him she was hiding something. He recalled Wally's suspicions. He was an ace reporter. Was he onto something?
Paul drove to the office with Val riding beside him in silence. He supposed she'd be friendlier if he was driving his own Porsche instead of the battered Chevy he used for surveillance. Beautiful women had plenty of rich boyfriends. They didn't encourage gumshoes with overdrawn bank accounts.
Not that Paul was poor; he had more money than he'd ever imagined having. He'd bet Valerie would be a lot sweeter if she knew he owned Intel Corp. Why tell her? Women who were after your money were nothing but trouble.
"Intel Corp occupies two floors," he said when they were in the building, waiting for the elevator. "We're going to the sixteenth floor where we have video analysis equipment."
Val surveyed the building's roster. "I see Mitchell Durant's office is here too."
"He has the floor above us." On the way up he added, "Intel has technical units to investigate credit card fraud and cellular scams."
"What do you do?" She sounded genuinely interested.
"I'm not much for punching a computer to track fraud operations," he hedged. "I'd rather be out on the street."
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