He leaned back against the counter, his arms belligerently crossed over his bare chest and gave her a slow once-over. Twice. "Okay, pork chop. Shoot."
She ignored his barb about her weight and his attempt to sexually intimidate her. That tactic wasn't going to work anymore. Too much was at stake. "Let's be completely honest with each other."
"Go on. This should be fascinating."
"You've been angry with me since I said I loved Brent." Mitch remained stubbornly silent. "I would never have agreed to marry a man I didn't love."
"Is this supposed to interest me?"
"Don't be such a wiseguy. It's childish." She'd raised her voice enough so the tabby cocked his head to one side to peek at her but kept chewing. "I know you hate Brent. He told me all about what went on at Stanford."
"He did? Just what did he tell you?"
"I know you were"—she chose her words carefully. He'd been deliberately cruel, but she wouldn't make a bad situation worse by calling him a redneck—"poor, not as polished as Brent. He had lots of friends and you found it difficult to make friends. You became so angry with him, you hit him when he called you a hick."
"That's it? That's what Farenholt told you?"
"Well, Brent also admitted he resented you because you won the National Moot Court competition that Wade Farenholt expected Brent to win. That's why he teased you about being a hick."
"Really? That's what he said? That's all?"
"Yes." The subtle change in his voice warned her something wasn't right, but what? "Brent feels terrible now. It was immature, but you have to realize what pressure Ward had put him under, and to lose out to a man who... ah, ah—"
"Was a redneck from Arkansas."
"You had the grades, but Brent had the class, the friends, the social standing. So you spent the next years polishing yourself to be more like Brent."
"That's crap! I worked on my accent because studies show juries equate southern accents with uneducated people. I bought a sports car, a nice home, and great clothes—not to be like Brent—but because I could finally afford them."
"All right," she conceded, secretly glad he hadn't wanted to be like Brent. Mitch should be proud of what he was, what he'd made of himself. "But you're being nasty to me because I said I loved Brent, aren't you?"
He pierced her with a look that forced her to suck in a calming breath. "Hell, no. I'm pissed because you have shit for brains. I was there, Royce. I saw it all. The minute you were in trouble that pantywaist turned tail, didn't he? Yet you'd go right back to Brent if you got the chance."
She didn't want to give Mitch the satisfaction of knowing how many times she'd thought just that. Brent hadn't loved her enough to stand by her. She would never go back to him. Never.
"Brent Farenholt doesn't know how to fight for anything," Mitch insisted. "His mommy has to give it to him."
She understood that nothing had been handed to Mitch. He'd fought for everything he had. He was a born fighter; that's why he was so valuable to her now. But she hated his censuring look, knowing she'd disappointed him with Brent.
"When I agreed to marry Brent, I thought I loved him. During the test I said I loved him—past tense. I loved the idea of the stability a home and a family represents. Brent seemed so right." She smiled, attempting to lighten the mood with a dose of humor. "Who would refuse a rich heterosexual—a rare commodity in this city—who declares his undying love for you?"
Mitch didn't respond. Instead he leveled an unwavering stare at her.
"In retrospect I see marrying Brent would never have worked. Never."
The silence that followed felt as wide as the Pacific. She needed him on her side, completely. "It'll take a miracle to keep me out of prison. I have to be able to talk to you civilly. I can't go on like this."
He silently glared at her, his eyes so compelling, there was nothing she could do but gaze back at him. And wonder what he was thinking. His head was canted ever so slightly to one side, unconsciously favoring his good ear. What had happened? she wondered with a deep pang of compassion.
"Okay, so I've been shitty. I'll shape up." He picked up a slice of pizza and fed it to Jenny. "As long as we're being honest, let's talk about us."
"Us?" An unwelcome tightening in her throat made the word sound funny. Us? After the way she'd thrown herself at him, what must he think? Be honest; your future is at stake. "I'm sorry about the other night. You were right. I was so exhausted, I was paranoid, convinced Wally had been killed. I would never have clung to you like that except my mind was playing tricks on me. Now my head's on straight. It won't happen again."
With one swift stride he closed the gap between them. His hand came up under her chin and tilted her head upward so she had no choice but to look into eyes that were unusually blue, unusually turbulent. Eyes that were staring at her parted lips. "Wanna bet it won't happen again?,"
Her heart didn't flutter too much as she took a step back. "My whole future's on the line. Your reputation could be ruined if you were involved with me. Don't you carry malpractice insurance to protect you against situations like this?"
That got him. He retreated toward the refrigerator.
"Let's behave professionally," she said, knowing Mitch was a man who targeted a weakness and exploited it ruthlessly. Fine. His career, his unbridled ambition, was his Achilles' heel.
"Okay, but don't deny you're attracted to me."
"It's ridiculous," she conceded, "but it's true. I find you very"—she stopped herself from saying sexy—"interesting. But I promise not to come on to you. We've got a monumental task ahead of us. Getting involved is out of the question."
Uncomfortable seconds ticked by. Why was he looking at her like that? Finally, her patience gave out. "Right? Right." She mustered a weak smile. "So now we agree."
He subjected her to a thorough, intimate appraisal meant to shock her. But this time she wasn't letting him get to her.
"I admit you turn me on." He shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense, but it's a fact."
A secret thrill shot through the barrier of her control, but she tamped it down. "Then it's settled. We can work together if we ignore this-—this attraction. No more hateful jibes, no more"-—she didn't know quite how to put this— "physical contact. We're a team now."
He gazed at her, his look so intense that she almost flinched.
"You know, Royce, I've never met anyone like you. With luck I never will again."
CHAPTER 11
Still busy? Who could Val be talking to? Royce hated telephones, but this was the only way she could keep in contact with her friends. She dialed Talia's number on the portable telephone Paul had given her.
"Royce," Talia cried, "you're home. I've been so-o-o worried about you."
"I'm not home. I'm in a safe house." She stared at the blinking cursor on Mitch's computer as she sat in the office he had on the second floor of his home.
"Safe house? You mean you're hiding? Why?"
"There's been too much bad publicity. I don't need more, so I'm keeping out of sight. But I have a phone. You can call me anytime."
Talia took down the number then asked, "Do they know who framed you yet?"
"I can't talk about the case—at all."
"Why not? They don't suspect me, do they?"
"It's just the way Mitch operates." She sidestepped the truth. They suspected everyone, but didn't have a substantial lead.
"Really? When are we going to see each other?"
"Not for a while. But call me. I'm a little lonely."
A little lonely didn't come close to describing how she felt. Mitch had left town on a case, and she was living in his apartment, spending her days—and nights—using his computer to check phone records for Paul. Each day she battled the frightening, suffocating feeling of being trapped in a situation beyond her control with no one she could truly trust.
"So, what's been happening with you, Talia?"
"The usual. AA meetings. Work." Talia paused and Royce imag
ined her hooking one long strand of dark hair behind her ear the way she always did when she was nervous. Royce closed her eyes. Lord help her; she was developing a sixth sense about bad news.
"The police have been interviewing me, Royce. I know you can't talk about the case, but just listen. They asked me if you were having financial problems with the wedding. I told them the truth."
Royce kept herself from groaning. What had she told Val and Talia that day at lunch? "I'll have to rob a bank." The police were bound to find out about the fancy wedding she couldn't afford, but did Talia have to be the one to give them the details?
"Val told me to refuse to talk to the police. That's what she did, but my therapist says I avoid telling the truth if I think it's going to cause trouble. Chronic Avoidance Syndrome. That's my problem. My therapist says the truth will set me free."
The therapist was right; Talia avoided confrontation. She needed support to make changes that would keep her away from alcohol, but right now Royce didn't have the strength to give it. She hung up with the disturbing thought that Talia, one of her oldest and most trusted friends, was going to be a witness for the prosecution.
She wandered downstairs into Mitch's living room and gazed out at the bay. She was uncomfortable having to work in Mitch's house, but she had no choice. The police still had her home impounded as a crime scene. If she wanted to help with her case she had to use Mitch's computer, which was fine now. But what would happen when he returned?
Their confrontation had cleared the air. In his own cynical way he'd admitted to being as attracted to her as she was to him. And he wasn't any happier about it than she was. I've never met anyone like you. With luck I never will again. Could she work in his office every evening if he were home?
It was more than his sexual attraction that disturbed her. Each day her curiosity about Mitch grew, magnified by spending so much time where he lived. What about his past? she wondered. There wasn't a clue in his home. There were no personal photographs, diplomas, or awards anywhere. Didn't Mitch have a life beyond his job?
She turned away from the window with its panoramic view of the bay. Mitch's home left few clues about him, yet there was something strange about the place. Paul had told her Mitch had bought the run-down mansion and remodeled it. The exterior was a tasteful example of Beaux Arts design: a narrow lot with a hidden garden and servants' quarters over the garage in the rear.
Mitch had restored a classic mansion, but why had he restructured the interior? He'd taken the linen closet, butler's pantry, breakfast area, and kitchen and bashed out the walls to create one huge kitchen. The dining room wall had been sacrificed to make a living room the size of Golden Gate Park. He'd taken down the wall between two bedrooms to create one enormous master bedroom suite with an awesome view of the bay. Obviously Mitch had a fixation about big rooms. He needed space with a capital S.
Something cold touched her hand and she jumped sideways. "Oh, Jenny, for heaven's sakes. You frightened me." She patted the golden retriever's head. Jenny tugged at the leg of Royce's pants. "What are you trying to tell me, girl? You've already eaten."
The dog sprinted toward the kitchen, barking and turning, urging Royce to follow. In the kitchen Jenny stopped in front of a drawer and bumped the handle several times with her nose. Royce couldn't imagine what Jenny wanted. Royce had agreed to care for Jenny and the porked-out tabby, Oliver, while Mitch was away, but their food wasn't in this drawer.
Jenny barked at the drawer until Royce opened it. Inside was a jumble of paraphernalia for pets: flea spray, brushes, chew toys, a choke chain.
"What a mess!" Royce looked around the kitchen. It was every bit as Spartan as the rest of the house and just as spotless. "Mitch's cleaning lady must love him. He's an anal retentive treasure, but what happened here?"
Jenny nosed into the hodgepodge and grabbed a leash. She sat back on her haunches, leash in her mouth, wagging her tail.
"A walk? Is that it? I'm not supposed to leave the house." She thought about the wigs Paul had given her. In the dark, wearing a wig, who would recognize her?
She set the burglar alarm and led Jenny, who still had the leash in her mouth, across the garden to her apartment. Before she could put on a wig, the portable phone in her purse rang.
"Royce, how are you?" Val sounded more like her old self, the predivorce Val. "Talia gave me your number."
"I'm fine. Tell me what's happening with you."
"I have a new job." There was no mistaking the excitement in Val's voice. "I'm working with computers at Intel Corp."
"Intel Corp?" Warning sensors fired in Royce's brain. What was Val doing there? Would she be working on the case even though she was a suspect?
"I'm in the credit card fraud division. I... ah, really like it there."
The unnerved feeling heightened. Royce knew Val and Talia so well that she sensed withheld information immediately. She cradled the receiver against her shoulder, wondering what next.
After a few awkward seconds Val continued, "I've been seeing someone—someone special."
Relieved that Val's hesitancy had nothing to do with the case, Royce said, "Tell me about him."
"There's not much to tell," Val hedged, and Royce decided Val didn't quite trust this man yet. Who could blame her after that disaster of a marriage? "We'll see what happens."
"I'm glad," said Royce, truly happy for her friend. She shouldn't be so concerned about Val working at Intel Corp. "How did you know about the job?"
"From one of the detectives who interviewed me about your case. Paul told me to—"
"Paul," Royce cried. She slumped down in the sofa; Jenny licked her hand sympathetically. "Not Paul Talbott."
"Yes. Do you know Paul?"
"Of course. He owns Intel Corp. Paul's personally conducting the defense investigation." Why would he hire a suspect?
"He owns Intel Corp? He never told me."
Royce heard a knock on the door and knew it was Wally. She promised to call Val later, then answered the door with Jenny at her heels. She gave her uncle a bear hug.
"Wait for me to put on a wig. Then let's go for a walk. I have to get out of here."
Wally talked about things at work as they strolled through the quiet neighborhood. She knew he was trying to take her mind off her desperate situation. Finally he stopped under a streetlight haloed by the condensing fog creeping in from the bay.
"What's the matter, Royce?"
"I hate not knowing who's behind this mess. I'm beginning to be suspicious of everyone—even my closest friends." Without commenting Wally listened while she told him about Val and Talia. "Be honest, do you think I'm paranoid? We've been friends for over twenty years and suddenly I'm riddled with suspicion."
"No, you're not being paranoid. You're being realistic."
"Are you implying Val or Talia might be responsible?"
Wally stopped and Royce reined in Jenny. His expression was troubled, hardly the reassurance she was seeking. "I've been conducting my own investigation. So far, I can't even establish a motive. It simply doesn't make sense."
"Eleanor wanted to get rid of me."
"I'm not certain I buy that. There are easier ways of dumping a fiancee."
"You didn't see the look on her face when I was arrested. She was elated—believe me—elated."
"I don't doubt it," Wally conceded, "but that doesn't mean she framed you."
"Surely you must have some theory about my case."
"I wish I did." They rounded the corner and found the fog thicker, spiraling up from the bay as sullen as the ominous clouds lurking beyond Golden Gate Bridge. "I had a very interesting call... from Val."
"Really? She didn't mention it." Royce saw an odd expression on her uncle's face. "You've never liked Val, have you?"
"I thought you two had an unhealthy relationship. She was always hanging around the house when you were growing up. She imitated you, wearing her hair the same way, choosing the same clothes. It wasn't healthy."
"Val was just unhappy. You know how cruel her family was. And you know what happened with that jerk she married. Her mother and father knew about his affair, but no one bothered to tell Val."
"Two troubled friends," he responded. "You're just like your mother. Misfits clung to her—me included."
"You're not a misfit and neither is Val." By her omission she'd silently conceded that Talia was, and always had been, a misfit. "If Val hadn't married that creep, she'd be well adjusted, happy."
"Mmmmm." Wally did not sound convinced.
"So tell me, what did Val call you about?"
Wally motioned for her to turn around; the fog was so dense now that she could barely see Jenny at the end of the leash. "Val called because she's worried about you. She thinks Mitchell Durant is too interested in you."
Royce was aware of her uncle's eyes examining her. Did he suspect how attracted she was to Mitch—in spite of everything? Wally had been so upset after her father's suicide that she'd been terrified he would kill himself too.
He'd taken a leave of absence from his job and came to Italy with Royce. It was almost a year before Wally returned to the newspaper. And his reporting had never been quite the same.
Her life had never been quite the same either. She'd lived in Italy, continuing to write her column for the San Francisco Examiner. But staying in Italy hadn't changed a thing. She still felt guilty about her father's death. And so did Wally.
Wally might admire Mitch professionally, but he would never understand if their relationship became physical. "I think Mitch feels guilty about what happened to Daddy. That's all."
"Val asked me to investigate him."
Royce stopped, jerking Jenny to a halt. "You can't do that. He made us promise—"
"Not to print anything, not to go public. I don't plan to." Wally put his hands on her shoulders. "There's something mysterious about Mitch. If it has anything to do with you, I want to find out about it before you're sent to prison."
Sawyer, Meryl Page 15
