Sawyer, Meryl

by A Kiss in the Dark

  "We're toasting you, Royce."

  "Me!" She almost spilled the champagne. "What on earth for?"

  He brushed her cheek with his knuckles, his eyes resting on her lips for an uncomfortably long time. "For holding up through pure hell until we saw the light."

  "What light?"

  "Sometimes things get so bad in your life, so terrible, that you think it's hopeless. But if you have the tenacity to hang on, you'll spot the light at the end of the tunnel."

  Recalling his troubled youth, she wondered if he weren't talking about himself as much as her. True, things were better. The interview had been a tremendous success. Her brief statement had been played hundreds of times.

  The latest poll showed far fewer people believed her guilty thanks to a media consultant who'd dished out info about her to the press, who embellished every word. Was the public so gullible that they'd now believe she wasn't a fortune hunter but a hardworking intellectual who watched nature documentaries when she wasn't writing poetry or reading philosophy?

  Well, maybe. Miracles did happen. Judge Ramirez had granted a delay, something even Mitch had sworn was a long shot.

  "When did you see the light, Mitch?"

  "The day I joined the Navy, I—" He stopped, obviously caught off-guard. "I'm talking you, not me. Guess what Paul found on the property inventory of Linda Allen's room?"

  By the triumphant gleam in his eyes something important had been discovered in the informant's room, but what?

  "The missing key to your house." He clinked his glass against hers. "To the light."

  There is a God, Royce thought, realizing just how important this was. "Her sworn statement said she met me at a party, and I told her to come to my home. She claimed I opened the door and let her in."

  "Obviously, someone gave her the key or told her where it was hidden. I didn't have a prayer of tearing her statement apart until now." He leaned closer and cupped her chin with his warm hand. "Not a word of this to anyone—not even Wally."

  "But if you're going to use the key as evidence, don't you have to let the DA's office know?"

  "True. But we've already exchanged documents." He sipped his champagne. "Christ! That's a paper blizzard. Now, there's a project for the Nature Nazis—the mountains of paper generated by depositions, discovery, witness lists. Forget the spotted owl. Entire forests vanish every year in the so-called pursuit of justice. Hell, there's one hundred and thirty-seven pages on your friend Talia. The testimony she'll give boils down to a couple of sentences: You didn't have any money and threatened to rob a bank to pay for your wedding."

  Talia's name evoked a feeling of sadness and disappointment. Sure, Talia had come to see her at the courthouse and she called—faithfully—every evening. But she was still dating Brent, claiming to be trying to help her.

  "Won't Abigail see my key on the property inventory?"

  "Yes, but no one described the special key ring your father made. When I send her the additions to the evidence list, I'm going to conceal the key among several other items." He poured himself more champagne and motioned for her to finish her glass. "Abigail will miss it because she'll be concentrating on the addition to our witness list—our star witness."

  "Who's that?" she asked, smiling. His excitement was contagious.

  "The FBI's top perp pro. You know, an expert who puts together a profile of the perpetrator. They've been amazingly accurate, especially about serial killers. This case was giving me so much trouble," Mitch confessed, "that I flew him out even before we received the inventory."

  Royce gazed into her champagne glass, the tiny bubbles bursting against the rim. Her preconceived ideas about Mitch were being destroyed like the bubbles floating to the surface. Obviously, he'd been extremely worried about how to defend her. How could she hate him when he was doing so much to help her? She was touched—and frustrated. Nothing on earth was worse than not being able to help yourself.

  "What did the perp pro say?"

  "Just what Paul already figured. The killer tried to make Linda Allen's murder look like a drug hit by using a Mac-10 semiautomatic, but she was shot at close range, a mistake a pro wouldn't make. A Mac bullet fragments on impact. There wasn't enough of Linda's head left to put in a Baggie. The killer had to be covered with her brains."

  Royce gagged, but Mitch had seen enough violence to make him immune. He went right on talking.

  "She was hiding in a one-room dive in Chinatown's worst area. If anyone saw the killer in bloody clothes, they aren't talking, but we know she let him in."

  Her glass was empty even though she didn't remember drinking it. "Him. So it's a man?"

  "The perp pro isn't sure. More women have been committing crimes. If they kill, they usually do it with a gun."

  A woman, Royce silently reflected. She couldn't imagine Eleanor or Caroline or even Talia shooting Linda at point-blank range. But then, she hadn't been able to imagine herself in prison either—until now. Anything was possible.

  Mitch moved closer as he poured her more champagne, his thigh now touching hers. She struggled to ignore the pulse of sexual tension that suddenly surfaced. She had to keep her mind on her problems.

  "Paul discovered Ward Farenholt has a mistress," Mitch said.

  "Really? Brent never mentioned it, but maybe he doesn't know. He's not as close to his father as he is to his mother." She took a sip of champagne, mulling over this new information. "In a way I'm not surprised. Ward is polite to Eleanor, but he's cold."

  "Since the money is hers, he's taken extreme care to hide the fact that he's having an affair. Only an expert like Paul picked up the subtle clues."

  Royce was intrigued and elated. She had two of the best in her corner. She'd fight her way out of this mess yet. "What clues?"

  Mitch chuckled. "Paul's a big believer in sifting through the trash. He found several cash receipts for items that Ward purchased from Victoria's Secret."

  "Really?" Royce giggled. "I can't imagine stodgy old Ward in Victoria's Secret. Well, Paul must be right. Ward certainly wasn't buying anything for Eleanor in that shop."

  "Right. We figure his mistress is a younger woman."

  "Didn't Linda Allen work for an elite escort service?" Royce asked, and Mitch nodded. "She claimed to have met me at a society party, right? Well, couldn't she have met Ward at a party? If she traveled in those circles, it's certainly possible."

  "True," Mitch agreed. "But nothing in her hideout links her to Ward."

  "Didn't you tell me the place had been ransacked? Maybe Ward removed any incriminating evidence."

  "Possibly. I've always thought Ward was behind this. I had the perp pro take a look at the whole case. He says the crime was well planned over months, maybe years. The work of a diabolical mind. He said find the motive and we'll solve the case."

  She should be able to solve this. She'd always been the top of her class. She'd been a Phi Beta Kappa, for God's sake. But the too familiar feeling of frustration and helplessness returned. She didn't have a clue. But there was a killer out there. Who knew why he was doing this to her or what he might do next?

  Mitch seemed to have reached the same conclusion. "I don't want you to move home. You may be in danger if the killer can find you."

  "Forget the murderer. He isn't going to kill me. Just make sure I don't go to jail. That's death to me."

  "You're not going to prison." There was such confidence in his voice, so much authority that she almost believed him. Mitch stood and held his hand out to her. She instinctively realized without knowing the details of his past that he'd been through hell. He'd endured. He'd survived. And triumphed.

  "Forget about prison for now." Mitch smiled. "Let's get some dinner. Put on a wig and we'll go to North Beach. No one will notice you there."

  Mitch was right. San Francisco had defined the sixties and had never forgotten its roots. Nowhere was this more apparent than in North Beach with its leather boutiques, head shops, and ethnic cafes and coffeehouses. Now that tie-dye and
bell bottoms had staged a return, it was like being caught in a time warp where past and present merged, creating a new reality.

  No heads even turned when they walked into Vaffanculo. The Italian café had clouds of fake ivy hanging from the ceiling and walls plastered with Roman street signs. In the middle of the room lit only by candles planted in bottles of Ruffino was a fountain that sent a trickle of water over its rocks and sounded, not like the a soothing stream, but like someone gargling.

  "Know what vaffanculo means?" Royce whispered as they sat down at a small table in the darkest corner of the café.

  "Nope. I thought it was the owner's name—or a place in Italy."

  Royce loved knowing more than Mitch. It was hard to get one up on him. "It means go screw yourself."

  Mitch chuckled, then said, "Great. I'll have to remember that."

  "Don't tell me you're going to have pizza," she said after Mitch ordered a carafe of Chianti. He nodded and she couldn't help thinking how adorable he was. Don't soften, she warned herself. "Tell me, when do you eat all that spinach you keep in the freezer?"

  "I mix it with salsa and have it for breakfast."

  "Yuck! It's a wonder you're so healthy." There was no denying he was in prime shape. She'd never been quite as aware of a man's body as she was of his.

  "I might try something else if you'd fix me breakfast every morning." He gave her a smoky look that would have sent most women into a core meltdown.

  "I'm on a diet, remember? Just Slim Fast for me."

  "It isn't working."

  "I'll have you know I've lost thirteen pounds."

  His eyes dropped to her breasts and she cursed herself for wearing the halter-top sundress. "We have to be careful how we dress you. Suits like the one you wore to court won't make you look so top heavy." He still hadn't taken his eyes off her chest. Why did he always do this to her when they were discussing something important? "The jury will see you sitting down most of the time. We don't want you to look fat to them."

  "I didn't realize so much went into image," she said, and he lifted his eyes to meet hers. About time.

  "Most experts would have dressed Amy Fisher in a school girl dress with a wide white collar to play up her youth, her innocence, not the grown-up power suit she wore. Your case is the reverse. We want you to look professional, so when you're on the stand, the jury will believe you."

  "That's why they're drilling me so hard—to make sure the jury believes me. Wouldn't it be better if I just told the truth in my own words?"

  The waiter arrived with the Chianti and took their order. Royce had a salad again. Naturally, Mitch wanted pizza— hold the anchovies.

  "What do you think most cases come down to?" Mitch asked.

  She shook her head. Her perception of justice had changed dramatically since her arrest. Was there justice in America?

  "The battle of the expert witnesses. Hell, if you look hard enough and are willing to pay enough, you will find an 'expert' to testify to anything. How do you think I found that vet? I told the Nature Nazis if they wanted to spring the cougar to find a vet sympathetic to their cause. I needed a nearsighted cougar."

  He's a realist, she thought. But was this justice? What if you couldn't afford someone like Mitch, who swam so well with the sharks because he was one?

  He leaned closer, radiating a virility that she was powerless to ignore. "It's the system, Royce. If I don't defend these people, someone will. If you want to be angry, be angry with the courts. Judges allowed these 'experts' to testify. No one else can waltz into a courtroom and draw conclusions. They can only state the facts—what they saw or heard.

  "Eleanor Farenholt can't say she thinks you're paranoid from too much cocaine because you had a hissy-fit over the lettuce in the washer. She can only say what happened—no conclusions. But trust me, Abigail will haul in experts to say that type of behavior is symptomatic of heavy drug use."

  "You're forgetting the drug test I passed."

  "No, I'm not. Their expert will challenge the way the lab processed the sample or some other bullshit."

  Their food arrived and Royce gazed at her bowl of lettuce, downhearted.

  "Don't worry. We'll have impressive experts. In the end the jury will be judging you. Your job is to convince them you're telling the truth."

  CHAPTER 17

  Royce knew she shouldn't have come to the nightclub with Mitch. Being alone with him in a pitch-black club filled with snuggling couples wasn't her brightest idea. But she honestly couldn't face another evening by herself.

  "Want a drink?" Mitch asked.

  "Champagne and Chianti—I'm beyond my limit."

  Mitch looked around. "I don't see a table and there's no place at the bar either. Guess we should dance."

  The dance floor was a semicircle hardly bigger than a bath mat. Directly in front of it was a stage with its crimson velvet curtains drawn. A quartet stood off to one side playing a waltz.

  What on earth are you doing? Royce asked herself as she stepped into Mitch's arms. He didn't pull her any closer than was proper, but his warm hand planted squarely on her bare back felt too good, his powerful body too comforting. As he danced his thighs brushed hers through the cotton skirt. Uh-oh.

  "I'm driving Jason to camp tomorrow." Mitch couldn't think of what else to say. Royce felt like a tombstone in his arms. Would she ever relax? Would she ever trust him?

  "How long will he be there?" She wished she hadn't noticed the intriguing whisk of dark hair visible beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt.

  "The whole summer. He'll be back just before the trial."

  "You don't think Jason will tell anyone he saw me, do you?" She'd told Mitch about Jason and he'd spoken with the boy.

  "He won't say a word." Mitch silently wondered why Royce wouldn't relax. He'd done his best all evening to make her feel better.

  Had the nice guy routine worked five years ago? Hell, no. And it wasn't getting him anywhere now either. The sensitive male might work for some guys, but he obviously hadn't received an instruction manual.

  What did work with Royce? Don't let her think too much. She says no because of what happened to her father, but deep down, she wants you. And he was tired of pussyfooting around. Tonight was the night.

  But first, he was going to set her straight. He changed his stance so she was forced to look at him. "Welcome to the real world, babe. I'm no white knight. I'm the meanest son of a bitch in the valley. Five years ago you found what a bastard I can be. Remember, only the strong survive. You need me."

  Royce sucked in her breath. What had brought on that comment? She didn't know what was more unnerving, the fierce look in his eyes or his caustic tone. She was almost afraid of him. "I know I need your help."

  Royce understood—she hoped—what he was really saying. Her perception of the world had been shaped by her father, who was an intellectual and an idealist. But Mitch represented reality, the cold, ugly world as it existed, not her idealized view.

  From everything she knew about him, Mitch had faced the brutal world since... since when? How young had he been when he'd left home? Fifteen, sixteen? Or younger. Was it any wonder he was so cynical? He was well equipped to deal with adversity.

  Her father, though she loved him dearly and missed him even more as time went on, had been quite the opposite. He'd emotionally collapsed when her mother had been diagnosed with cancer. Royce had moved home to keep him from breaking down just when her mother needed him most.

  Oh, yes. She got the message. Justice in America was an ideal distorted by grim reality, but Mitch had the key to the system. She needed him in a way that she'd never needed anyone before. He was the last person in the world she wanted to need, but she had no choice.

  "While you were prissing around some girls' school, I was on the street. Hell, I was usually in some dark alley—the school of hard knocks. I educated myself in the Navy when I finally had food and a place to stay so I could study."

  "What happened to your parents?"
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  The dance ended and everyone clapped. Mitch didn't let Royce go. As disconcerting as it was to hold her, it was even more disturbing to be this close to her lips. The only light on the dance floor was a faint glow from the lone spotlight trained on the singer, who was again belting out a torch song. Mitch tightened his hold, eliminating what little space had been between them.

  Royce knew she should pull away, but when he looked at her in that special, intimate way, her willpower evaporated. Besides, she was thoroughly discouraged by her situation and profoundly disillusioned with the legal system. What would become of her? She longed to be comforted and allowed herself to enjoy the reassuring strength of his arms.

  "Remember your promise, Royce?" There it was again, that threatening glint in his eyes. "My past is off limits. If I catch you snooping, you'll have to find another lawyer."

  "I'm not snooping." She prayed he would never find out what Wally had done. "I know so little about you, but you know everything about me."

  "Not everything." His thumb casually stroked the inside of her finger. Somehow that subtle movement caused her body to react shamelessly. "You haven't told me how lousy Brent was in bed."

  "What makes you think he was lousy?" She could have kicked herself for stepping into another of Mitch's verbal minefields.

  "You were engaged, but you were dying to get into my pants."

  She was tempted to slap that smirk off his face. "Brent was wonderful in bed." Not quite true, but she wasn't about to give Mitch satisfaction. "I admitted I was attracted to you. That explains everything."

  "Does it?"

  "Of course. What do you want out of my life?"

  "You know what I want."

  She pretended she'd stolen her Phi Beta Kappa key and was so dumb that she'd missed his arousal. He couldn't do anything on the dance floor, could he? She didn't want to think of how she'd put him off later, but she'd have to.

  Mitch swayed to the music, the full curves of Royce's body molded against his. He let his hand drift across her bare back. He savored her involuntary shiver. Damn straight. They communicated much better physically than verbally. Tonight was one night he'd be damned if he'd let the past come between them.