"Sure. I was one once. Why?"
"I jus' wondering what it means when a girl keeps walkin' by your locker but never says nothin'."
"It means she likes you but she's too shy to say hello. She probably thinks you won't talk to her."
Jason digested her observation in silence.
"Is she cute?" Royce prodded.
He shrugged. "Sorta."
Royce was tempted to remind him that he was no movie star. "Try saying hello first." How was it today's kids thought they were all grown up when in truth they were as insecure as teenagers had always been?
"If she turns out to be interesting you could ask her to go to Rocky Horror Picture Show. That's always a kick." The weird movie had become a cult phenomenon. All that audience participation, the dancing in the aisles. The crazies. Two shy kids wouldn't need to fumble around for conversation.
"Really?" He smiled for the first time.
"Yeah. Remember to bring lots of rice to throw."
The word throw brought a devilish gleam to Jason's eyes. "Great. Thanks a lot."
She got Jason out the door before the buses stopped running. "Mitch would appreciate it if you don't tell anyone— not even your mother—that you saw me here."
Jason trotted down the path and tossed "Okay" over his skinny shoulder.
Royce headed upstairs to Mitch's office, followed by Jenny, and heard the telephone ring and transfer to the answering machine. Mitch's voice came over the line.
"Royce, where in hell are you? If you're there, pick up." Mitch sounded frantic.
Royce sprinted into the office and grabbed the phone. "I'm right here. What's wrong?"
"Goddammit, where have you been?"
"I was walking Jenny." She decided to tell him about Jason later. He was in no mood to hear someone knew where she was.
"I want you to do exactly what I tell you. Exactly."
"All right." Her antennae had detected more than just another bit of bad news. Mitch wasn't easily rattled.
"Turn on the burglar alarm. Spend the night right there. And don't let anyone in."
"Why?"
"I'll explain it to you when I get home. The jury has reached a verdict. Gotta go."
"Just tell me—" Damn him! He'd hung up. What was wrong? Was she in danger?
CHAPTER 15
"What a jerk," Royce complained to Jenny as she trudged downstairs to set the burglar alarm. "Mitch never tells me anything."
At the sound of her master's name Jenny wagged her tail and licked Royce's hand. It was her way of reminding Royce to pet her. She stopped and rubbed Jenny's chest the way she'd seen Mitch do. Having a dog was great. The only pet she'd ever had was her bunny, Rabbit E. Lee. If she ever got out of this mess, she'd get a dog.
A noise came from the back of the house. "What was that?" she whispered to Jenny, but the retriever had gone still, her nose pointed toward the dark kitchen.
Had she turned out the light? Royce didn't remember, but she had no trouble recalling Mitch's warning. Don't let anyone in.
The feeling she was in danger returned. It was the same panicky feeling she'd had that night in the bathtub. Someone was trying to kill her.
She tiptoed to the fireplace and grabbed a poker, thinking how frequently she was able to predict something was wrong. She'd told Mitch she didn't have premonitions, but now she wondered. Certainly she didn't make the sensational predictions that the tabloids loved, but she often sensed things before they happened. Especially lately.
With Jenny at her heels Royce silently moved across the huge kitchen. The dog growled, a low warning deep in her throat. Royce stopped, clutching the poker. The moonlight from the window revealed the pantry door was ajar. It hadn't been that way when she'd said good-night to Jason.
Royce hesitated. Should she dial 911? What if it was nothing and the police found her at Mitch's? He'd be furious. Damn him. He should have told her more. Then she'd know what she was up against.
Jenny charged past Royce into the pantry. Frenzied barking echoed from the small room. Royce raised the poker with one hand and switched on the light with the other. Jenny was standing inside the pantry barking at Oliver.
Royce dropped the poker, cursing her nerves. "You stupid cat. Look what you've done."
Oliver had clawed his way into a fifty pound bag of dog kibble. The bag had fallen over, which must have made the noise she'd heard. Kibble was strewn across the pantry.
It wasn't enough that the beast kicked kitty litter to Chinatown twice a day. Now this. The damn cat had eaten so much kibble that his already bloated tummy looked like the Hindenburg.
She went to the back door and armed the sophisticated alarm system. It took a lot of sweeping, but she finally cleaned up the mess. This time when she shut the pantry door, she made certain it was secure.
"I have an overactive imagination," she told Jenny on the way upstairs.
Thanks to Mitch's obsession with space the second floor was an office and a huge master suite the size of a polo field. She'd ventured into the bedroom one time—just for a peek. Now she flipped on the light and studied the room.
Beige carpeting so thick she couldn't see her toes surrounded a king size bed with a headboard of rich mahogany that matched the nightstand and chest of drawers. The only picture in the room was an oil of a bayou.
Was there a bayou in Alabama? She didn't think so. Had Mitch spent time in Louisiana too?
Her curiosity got the best of her and she opened his walk-in closet. "I'm betting it's a mess," she said to Jenny, and the retriever wagged her tail in agreement as the door swung open and revealed a before shot for California Closets.
Really! How did you account for a man who appeared to be frozen in the anal stage, yet in reality was alarmingly disorganized? To look at his home or office you'd think Mitch was compulsively neat. Everything had its place, but just open a drawer or closet.
Jenny nosed through the pile of dirty clothes on the closet floor and found sweatpants. She dragged them to the edge of the bed and plopped down on them. No question about it, Jenny loved Mitch. And he was crazy about her. He would sit at his desk, pen in one hand, the other stroking Jenny.
Royce took a T-shirt that didn't look too dirty off the closet floor to sleep in. Nestled down in the bed she inhaled deeply and smelled Mitch's spicy after-shave on the pillow. Or was it coming from the shirt? It didn't matter. She found the scent oddly comforting and slightly arousing. She hugged the pillow, anticipating another sleepless night, another night of wondering who and why.
She came awake with a start, not certain if hours or just minutes had passed. Someone was standing beside the bed. This time it wasn't her imagination. The dark shape was hovering over her. She unleashed a scream that could have been heard across the bay. He jumped back, caught off-guard, and Royce vaulted out of bed.
The lights flipped on. "Shut up, Royce."
She spun around and saw Mitch. Relief and anger waged a war. Anger won. "You sneaky bastard. You scared me."
"A bastard, huh? I'd never deny it." He smiled, doing a slow pan of her from head to toe. A tide of heat washed over her as she realized Mitch had targeted her breasts. She didn't have to look to know how well she filled out his T-shirt. Or that her nipples were erect.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Why are you here?"
"Verdict's in. I said I was coming home." His eyes scorched a trail down her bare thighs to her toes and up again, coming to rest on her lips. "Get back in bed."
"With you here? No way."
"I've been holding my client's hand for the last forty-eight hours straight. I just drove from Sacramento. I couldn't get it up if I tried."
She didn't believe him for one minute. Look at him. He was mentally taking off what little she wore. Still, there were deep shadows under his eyes and lines etched into his brow. How well she remembered that bone-deep fatigue. What was so important that he hadn't stayed the night and rested?
"Remember, you promised to do exactly
what I said. Now, get in bed and I'll explain what's happening."
Reluctantly she climbed between the sheets and sat up, making certain the comforter covered her. Mitch stretched out on top of the bed. Uhh-ooh. She didn't trust him—or herself, for that matter.
"We located Linda Allen."
"The informant. Thank God," she said with a sigh of relief. Finally, something had gone right. "Now we can find out the truth."
Mitch looked down and traced the herringbone pattern on the comforter with his fingertip. "She's been murdered."
For a second Royce was tongue tied. How could something like this happen? She'd been hoping and praying. And believing that the truth would save her. "I was counting on her to lead us to the person behind this. Do you know who killed Linda?"
"The police don't have any suspects."
Oh, God, could things get any worse?
"Paul and I think Linda was killed to keep her from telling the truth about you." He touched the pillow behind her head. "It's possible your life may be in danger."
"Why? I'm as good as dead already."
But the premonition she'd had earlier hung over her: Someone was trying to kill her. Maybe she wished they would kill her. Turning the screws like this was mental torture. The little time she'd spent in jail was a glimpse of her future—a bleak, ugly future with creeps like Maisie Cross hounding her.
He moved nearer, closing the small space between them, and gazed intently at her, his face now just inches from hers. She was uncomfortably aware of how much bigger he was than she. Normally, her body would have had its usual shameless physical reaction, but she was too shell shocked by his news.
"Royce, I won't tell you this isn't a setback, but we can overcome it."
"How?" She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but couldn't help herself.
"By continuing the investigation." He adjusted his pillow and she had to admit he looked bone weary. "Remember, there's no perfect crime. Every perp screws up sooner or later."
His confidence boosted her spirits a bit. "You're right. But do you really think I'm in danger?"
His eyes skimmed down her body, barely concealed by the lightweight comforter. She was in danger, all right.
"It's possible. This is such a weird case that it's hard to tell what's going on. There may be a bigger picture here—a hidden agenda—that we haven't discovered yet. But let's not worry about it tonight," he said, clearly indicating his mind was on her, not the killer. "Paul is having a security system installed in the apartment. And you're not to go out alone."
Prison. She was already in prison. Her nightly walks had been so special. Suddenly she thought of her beloved pet, Rabbit E. Lee. Often she took the bunny out of his cage and he hopped with glee, kicking up his heels. How Lee must have cherished those moments of freedom. How trapped he must have felt in his cage.
Trapped and lonely. Thank heavens her father spent time with him. No wonder Lee had simply given up when her father had died. He hadn't responded to her pleas for him to eat because Royce had never understood him. His frustration, his loneliness. Oh, Lee, I'm so sorry.
A silent scream ripped through her. It was all she could do not to cry. Someone had extinguished the small hope she'd harbored that Linda Allen had the key to this puzzle. And her freedom, her chance for a happy life.
Mitch brushed a strand of her hair off her shoulder. The defeated expression on his face mirrored her thoughts. He'd been counting on Linda Allen, too, hadn't he?
Her sense of despair went beyond tears. But why was he so upset? Maybe his case had gone badly. Immediately contrite for her selfishness, she asked, "Did you win your case?"
"Yeah. They found the sonofabitch not guilty.
"I charged him five times the going rate just to put up with him and what he did."
"Was he guilty?"
Mitch laughed, but he wasn't really amused. "Yup. Only four percent of the felony arrests in this state go to trial. The government only prosecutes slam dunks. Virtually everyone I defend is guilty."
"How do you win so many cases?"
"Depends." Mitch's eyelids were at half-mast now. "This time it was the battle of the expert witnesses. My client stole someone's patent. Our experts said it was different from the original. Their experts argued it wasn't. The jury was confused. That's when reasonable doubt kicks in to save asses like this guy."
"How do you live with yourself?" she blurted out.
"By taking certain cases for nothing."
"Innocent people like me."
He tried to smile. "Not always innocent—but deserving."
"Like the cougar they want to put down."
"Uh-huh." His insolent smile said he had his doubts.
"What about Zou-Zou Maloof? Was she paranoid from Halcion when she stabbed her husband to death?"
He seemed more interested in the way the blanket molded her body than the subject. "She had a prescription for Halcion," he responded, an intimate pitch to his voice.
She tried to throttle the sexual current surging through her. This was serious business. Her future depended on this man and his ability to manipulate the system. But what did she really know about him? Not nearly as much as she should.
"You have your own standards," she said with a flash of insight into this complex man. "That's why no drug lord has you on retainer. That's why you don't touch rape cases."
He edged closer; his legs, still above the covers, brushed hers. The gleam of desire in his eyes couldn't be disguised. Why didn't she turn away? Or say no?
But his hands... Oh, Lordy, his hands were already threading through her hair, caressing her scalp. Then his lips touched hers, soft but firm. Demanding. Of course, she opened her mouth.
Thick and heavy, her blood pounded in her temples. She should get up this second. Mercy, what he could do to her without even half trying. There was a dreamy intimacy to their kiss and the way his body, separated by the covers, still managed to mold against hers. It wasn't as blatantly carnal as some of Mitch's kisses, but it was a kiss for a frightened soul to melt into.
A soul kiss. Most definitely. It annihilated her defenses, her better judgment. She lost the will to resist, with an inward sigh, as she succumbed to the seductive kiss, his tongue burrowing a little deeper into her mouth with each thrust.
Her breasts swelled with pleasure and a depth charge of excitement exploded in the pit of her stomach. Though buffered by the thin covers, she savored the muscular planes of his torso and the heavy thud of his heart against her soft breasts. Oh, my, he was simply too good at this.
Unexpectedly, Mitch drew back and gazed at her. "Remember, Royce. We're in hell. And the pact you made with the devil was never to dig into my past or ask questions about my business."
Those lone wolf eyes flashed a warning that would have terrified most people. Why, he'd kissed her to shut her up. He didn't want to explain why he didn't defend men accused of rape. And fool that she was, she'd leapt at the chance to kiss him.
"Sorry," she mumbled as he rolled onto his back, but she wasn't one damn bit sorry she'd asked about his business. She wanted to know more about him.
Why was he so protective of every facet of his life? Perhaps there was some kind of link between how he practiced law and his past. She waited a few minutes for him to say something and fill the awkward silence.
Finally, she whispered, "Mitch."
He didn't respond. His chest was moving evenly; he'd fallen asleep. She propped herself up on one elbow and studied him.
Whiskers bristled across his jaw, making him look even more masculine and a little dangerous. He shifted restlessly to one side so his good ear was now against the pillow. If she whispered his name, he wouldn't hear her. If she said, "I love you," he'd never know.
She fought an overwhelming urge to gather him to her breast and tell him how sorry she was about whatever had happened to his hearing. Instead she reminded herself that he was the enemy. It didn't quite ring true, the way it once had, but it did keep her
from touching him, from caressing his bad ear.
What had cost him his hearing? It must have happened in those lost years of his youth when he'd been desperate enough to forge a birth certificate to get into the Navy. How old could he have been? He had to be eighteen to enlist, so his troubles had begun before then.
But what about the present? Why an account in the Cayman Islands? What was Mitch hiding?
She turned out the light and was surprised at how easily she fell asleep. True, haunting thoughts of someone stalking Linda Allen paraded through her mind along with the usual array of vignettes about people she suspected one minute—-and trusted completely the next. Even so, having someone nearby, someone she could rely on, comforted her more than she could have imagined.
The hazy light of early dawn filled the room when she awoke and found the covers were down around her waist. Mitch's, head was on her pillow and his arm was draped across her midriff, her breasts resting on his forearm.
She was still under the covers and he was on top, but she was disturbingly aware of the intimate—almost natural— way their bodies were entwined. How long had they been that way? All night, most likely.
Anyone walking into Mitch's bedroom would assume they were lovers. She scooted away an inch at a time, but she only got so far before Mitch hauled her back against the solid wall of his chest.
He didn't awaken, but just snuggled closer, his face now buried in her hair. She had to concede it felt comforting to be cradled in his arms, the firm length of his body curved securely around hers. Drowsy, she drifted back to sleep, feeling protected.
How could her life be in danger?
"You remember what to say?" Mitch asked Royce. "Just those two sound bites. Nothing more. It'll be perfect for the evening news. Then Wally takes over for a full interview."
"Yo, Mitch. She's got it," Paul said from the driver's seat. "You've been over it fifty times."
Royce and Wally were riding in Paul's car to the courthouse, where Judge Ramirez would listen to their request to postpone the trial. Before the hearing Royce would give her first interview, part of Mitch's strategy to change the public's opinion of her.
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