Sawyer, Meryl

by A Kiss in the Dark

  Christ, no. That sounded as if all he cared about was great sex. It couldn't get any better than what they'd had, but sex didn't begin to explain how he felt. He'd waited five years, five long, lonely years, to get a second chance with Royce. It hadn't been easy. He'd pressed harder than he liked to get her into bed. But once he had, he knew she wanted him just as much as he'd wanted her.

  Trouble was, he didn't know how to express what he felt. Mitch laughed out loud. He was returning from L.A., where he'd been the penalty phase attorney for a man found guilty of murder. He'd persuaded a judge to sentence the man to life instead of the electric chair. The words had come easily —the usual dysfunctional-family/failure-of-the-system argument—but he couldn't think of a damn thing to say to Royce.

  What could he say after that macho bit? I want to get you out of my system. "That won't get you far with Royce," he said out loud. "You have to say something to let her know what you feel goes beyond sex."

  He thought about the two women who'd betrayed him. He'd almost forgotten the incident at Stanford, but almost twenty-five years later he still recalled the murderous look on his mother's face.

  "Royce is different," he told himself, his voice echoing in the sports car. "You disappointed her. It's up to you to win her back.

  "Okay, but how? How do you turn lust into love, into trust, into caring?"

  Women are sentimental, he thought. That's why cards and flowers and all that crap sold so well. What would Brent have done? The morning after that wuss would have sent long-stemmed roses and a syrupy card. Well, hell, it was too late for that, but he had to make some move, a small gesture to change the balance of their relationship.

  He drove to a newsstand that had a florist's cart stationed beside it. Mitch parked in the red, thinking a bouquet of wildflowers would be perfect. Roses were too formal, but a mixture of fragrant, colorful blossoms would say what he couldn't, what he didn't want to say just yet.

  He handed the man the money for the flowers and spotted the newspaper rack. Suddenly, his mouth was as dry as the Sahara and he couldn't hear the sound of the traffic on the street—even with his good ear.

  Somehow he managed to pay for the paper. He got in his car, shot out from the curb, and rounded the corner on two wheels. He threw the bouquet out the window and it landed blossoms down in the muddy gutter.

  Royce threatened Oliver, waving a wooden spoon at the cat. "Get away from the prosciutto."

  The cat retreated to the window box, but she had no doubt he'd jump up on the counter the first chance he got. She was too nervous about seeing Mitch to worry about that fatso. Last night after returning home from seeing Brent she'd carefully evaluated her feelings. She was only deceiving herself by not admitting Mitch meant more to her than one night of hot sex.

  Being with Brent again had demonstrated how selfish he was. Until she'd bullied him into not testifying against her, he'd been willing to do it to avoid a confrontation with his father. What had she been thinking when she'd persuaded herself that she was in love with him? She'd been desperate —plain and simple. And with her biological clock grinding to a halt, she'd assessed the situation. Brent had been a charming and caring—not to mention rich—man in a city where heterosexual men were about as easy to find as the Holy Grail.

  She'd given up on the kind of love her parents had enjoyed. She'd been willing to settle for less. Now she knew it was a mistake.

  What about the surge of emotion that swelled within her every time she thought of Mitch? Was it love, or the lingering afterglow of a night of lust? She'd made up her mind to find out, but she was nervous about seeing him again. What if he had gotten her out of his system? What if she'd been just another roll in the sack?

  "I thought you might be hungry," she rehearsed out loud, anticipating seeing Mitch for the first time in over a week. "This is Mama's carbonara recipe."

  What would he say? "You're out of my system. Get out of my kitchen."

  Not likely, she thought. All right, he hadn't called, but her sixth sense—which was usually accurate—told her he cared for her more than he was likely to admit. After he'd made love to her the first time, he'd become increasingly gentle. Almost loving. And when they'd finally fallen asleep, his leg was possessively curled across hers as if he didn't want to chance her getting away.

  "Then why didn't he call?" she asked Jenny. But the retriever's answer was a happy swish of her tail and a hopeful look at the pasta drying on the rack. Royce tossed her a piece. "That's all. Do you want to become a porker like Oliver?"

  Before Jenny could swallow the pasta, Royce heard Mitch coming in the back door. She reached for the wooden spoon and sucked in a calming breath. Mitch strode into the kitchen, a suitcase in each hand and a newspaper tucked under one arm. The look on his face could have frozen lava.

  "What in hell are you doing here?"

  "I thought you—"

  "Get out." He dropped both suitcases. Jenny shied away, but Mitch gave her a reassuring pat.

  But there wouldn't be any such welcome for her, Royce thought, miserable that she'd so drastically misjudged the situation. Not only had he gotten her out of his system, he seemed to hate her now.

  He whipped out the paper still tucked under his arm and held it up for her to see. The front page was covered with a picture of her kissing Brent and the headline: fatal attraction?

  A suffocating sensation gripped her throat, stealing her voice. Oh, no. How had Ingeblatt discovered them? She'd been so careful. He must have followed Brent. "I can explain."

  "Don't bother. Just get out."

  His tone was shockingly vicious; words stalled in her throat. He threw the paper on the counter and she took a closer look. The grainy texture indicated it had been shot from a distance with a telephoto lens. She turned to explain Tobias Ingeblatt must have followed Brent, but Mitch had left. She chased him and caught him on the stairs.

  "Listen to me. I convinced Brent not to testify against me.

  His very stance spelled danger and he wasn't going to be appeased easily. "You use that body any chance you get, don't you?"

  The revulsion in his voice made her want to run and hide. Even Jenny was cowering beside Mitch. "He kissed me only once."

  "You expect me to believe that?" He laughed, a bitter, derisive chuckle. "I know what a hot number you are."

  She wanted to whack him, she honestly did, but another deeper part of her was profoundly hurt. Yes, she'd known Mitch would be furious about Brent, but she hadn't anticipated the depth of his anger. And it truly frightened her. There was a side to this man she didn't know.

  "Mitch, I hadn't heard from you," she said, following him into his bedroom. "I would have told you—"

  "Liar." His voice boomed and Jenny retreated to a corner, tail between her legs. "Paul could have found me. You wanted to see Brent."

  "You're right," she conceded. "I wanted—"

  He took one step toward her. Then another. He glared at her with burning, reproachful eyes. His look was so galvanizing, it sent a tremor through her. She didn't notice his hands on her shoulders until he pushed her down onto the bed, falling on top of her. For a second she thought he was going to strangle her. Hate glittered in his eyes, silently damning her.

  Anchored between his torso and the bed, she struggled against his superior strength, determined to get away, but escaping his brutal hold was impossible. She twisted madly in an effort to free herself, fear building inside her. She read his intent and the flare of desire in his eyes just as the swelling hardness pressing against her thigh registered.

  Before she could say a word, Mitch's lips smothered hers, his powerful body covering hers as if he wanted to keep her pinned to the mattress forever. He shifted his weight, his erection a hard wedge against the juncture of her thighs. Shock arced through her as she realized what he was going to do.

  Usually when Mitch was rough, she found it exciting because she sensed an inner restraint, a playfulness. Not this time. Tonight he seemed balanced on some e
motional cliff— one foot over the edge.

  Surely he was overreacting to what she'd done. She didn't know this man—not at all. She refused to let him make love to her. Not like this, not in anger.

  "Jenny!" she screamed.

  The dog bounded across the room and leapt up on the bed, responding to the distress in Royce's voice. Jenny hovered over them, whining. Mitch raised his head, his expression still venomous.

  "I had to go to Brent," Royce said, her voice as taut as her emotions. "From the moment I opened my purse and found those diamonds, my fate has been in someone else's hands. Despite everyone's hard work, this case is lost, isn't it?"

  Mitch didn't deny it.

  "This was my chance—for once—to do something to help myself. Do you think you could have persuaded Brent not to take the stand? Of course not. But I did." She levered herself up on her elbows. "I didn't sleep with him to convince him, but I might have been tempted had I thought that was the only way to convince him. I have to do something to save myself."

  Why couldn't Mitch understand? He'd lived through hell. "Haven't you ever done anything wrong because it would save you?"

  Mitch rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. Jenny nuzzled him several times, but he didn't respond. Finally, he said, "Get out."

  CHAPTER 20

  Getting to see Ward Farenholt was surprisingly easy for Paul. Ward's vanity got the better of him. He agreed to an interview with a reporter from The Lawyer. The prestigious ABA magazine was sent each month to members of the bar.

  Paul had a professional makeup artist disguise him so he could pretend to be a reporter without Ward's recognizing him. He'd never actually been introduced to Ward, but Paul had been seen around enough to be concerned. Ward didn't seem to recognize him as his secretary led Paul into the office that looked like an antique showroom with a mahogany desk and an armoire that dated back to the turn of the century. Just which century Paul couldn't say, but the thing was old. And damned impressive.

  Everything about the office was designed to impress. Antiques. Original oils worth a fortune. Paul couldn't help comparing it to Mitch's office. Mitch's office was three times as large as Ward's. Mitch had had several walls removed to make one gigantic office, but it wasn't filled with expensive furnishings. In fact it had an empty feeling to it, as if it weren't quite finished.

  Until Mitch walked in. Unquestionably, Mitch was so impressive that he didn't need a backdrop of priceless antiques to impress his clients.

  "My article is on multigeneration law firms," Paul explained.

  "I see." Ward didn't bother hiding his disappointment. Obviously, he'd expected to be the focus of the article.

  "Your father founded this firm, didn't he?"

  "Yes, but I built it into the powerhouse it is today." His tone stated plainly that he considered himself—and no one else—responsible for the firm's success.

  Paul asked a series of questions suggested by an attorney in Mitch's office so that Ward would relax and assume the interview was legitimate. Ward exuded an arrogance that bordered on outright disdain. Paul knew, without a doubt, Ward Farenholt would never have spoken to him unless he believed he was a reporter from The Lawyer.

  What type of woman would be attracted to such a man? Paul asked himself. Black hair brushed with silver and a sportsman's tan acquired on the Olympic Club's golf course. While Brent resembled his mother, with pretty-boy appeal, Ward was intensely masculine. Totally domineering.

  He was the kind of man who demanded a showpiece mistress. Young. In awe of a powerful older man.

  But Ward had carefully guarded the secret mistress with almost an animal cunning that Paul thought had been bred out of the very wealthy. Obviously, as much as he dominated his wife, she had the money. Ward was far too clever to let a mistress break up his marriage.

  "Is your son helping build the firm, the way you did?" Paul asked, edging into the territory he wished to discuss.

  "Yes." The single word sounded as if a mule team had dragged it out of Ward's mouth. "His mother spoiled him, but he's on track now."

  "I guess that Winston woman distracted him."

  For a moment Paul thought Ward wasn't going to take the bait, then he spoke. "Royce Winston is a cheap slut. You watch, she's going to spend the best years of her life in prison."

  There was almost as much hatred in Ward's voice as there had been in his wife's at the mention of Royce's name. Paul decided that it was entirely possible either or both of them had framed Royce. But why? Why hadn't Ward bullied Brent into giving up Royce? His sources confirmed Ward had no trouble manipulating his son.

  "Caroline Rambeau is a much more suitable wife for your son, don't you think?"

  "No." The word thundered through the room, catching Paul off-guard—just the way Caroline's defending Royce had blindsided him. What was going on here?

  "My son," Ward continued, his tone now softer, apparently realizing he'd come on too strong, "and Caroline have known each other for years. If they loved each other, they'd be married by now."

  "Jesus, I've never had a case like this," Paul complained to Mitch. "I can't find a trace of Ward Farenholt's mistress. I'll bet she knows all the Farenholt business. Mistresses usually do, you know. Statistics prove that men tell their lovers more than their wives."

  He waited for Mitch's response, but he kept looking out his office window at the moon rising over the bay. In the week since Mitch had returned, he'd been unusually silent and withdrawn. Even when Paul had told Mitch about his interviews with the Farenholts and Caroline, he hadn't seemed interested.

  No one needed to tell Paul that Mitch was having problems with Royce. Tobias Ingeblatt's picture of her with Brent had rocked the legal community. Abigail Carnivali had withdrawn Brent Farenholt's name from the witness list. A small triumph, Paul thought, but one that had cost Mitch. For reasons Paul never fully understood, Mitch hated Brent.

  Seeing Royce in Brent's arms after all Mitch had done for her must have pissed Mitch off—big time. Paul was certain they'd been having an affair, but now... who knew? The team was still working on Royce's defense, but Mitch hadn't even stepped into the suite where they were conducting the mock trial.

  Mitch broke the silence, turning his back on the panoramic view. "What do the polls say?"

  "Interestingly enough, the latest poll is quite favorable to Royce. At least Brent was honest enough to say that he called Royce and asked to see her. The public loved that. The fatal-attraction syndrome."

  Mitch shuffled through some papers on his desk, but Paul wasn't fooled. He'd straightened those papers just moments ago.

  "Look," Paul said, "I'm sorry I haven't been able to find out who's behind this. I may never solve this case."

  "You're kidding," Mitch said, looking up.

  Paul gazed into his friend's turbulent eyes. So that's the problem, Paul thought. Mitch doesn't have a way to save Royce either. He'd been counting on Paul.

  "I'll keep looking for Ward's mistress," Paul attempted to assure Mitch. "I'm positive she's the key to this case."

  Mitch didn't respond, and Paul glanced at his watch. Val was waiting; she was upset enough without him being late. "Mitch, I've got to run."

  Paul hustled up the back stairs to his office to meet Val. Now he understood why it was wrong for an attorney to represent someone he was involved with. You became so emotionally entangled that it was difficult to know how best to handle the case. If Royce was found guilty, Mitch would never forgive himself.

  "All set?" Paul asked Val as he came into his office.

  She rose, adjusting her summer suit, a soft lemon-colored creation that accentuated the copper highlights in her auburn hair. "I'm ready."

  Paul held the door for her, thinking it had been days since she'd learned of her brother's terminal illness, agonizing days spent in an emotional tug-of-war. When she'd finally decided to face her whole family again, she'd insisted Paul accompany her. He was relieved she wanted him. Surely it was a sign that she loved him�
��even though she'd never said the words.

  David Thompson's house on Lafayette Square was like many others in the affluent neighborhood. It was a three-story townhouse with a garden in the rear. Like the rest of San Francisco parking was at a premium, and Paul had to double-park behind a Porsche in David's driveway.

  Inside Val's parents greeted them, and then scuttled away. Obviously they didn't want to be around when Val talked to her brother. Paul wondered if he should be there either. Wasn't this too personal? But Val's courageous smile never left her face, nor did she relax her grip on his arm.

  Upstairs, they met Trevor, Val's former husband. The boy next door, Paul thought, noting his sandy-blond hair and square-cut jaw. He sure as hell didn't look like a guy who'd deceive his wife—for years. And he didn't look gay, but who could tell? Living in San Francisco had shown Paul the absurdity of stereotypes.

  "Val," Trevor said, his voice breaking. "David's so ill... I don't know what I'm going to do."

  Val didn't answer; Paul knew she couldn't. Even though Trevor was too distraught to notice, she was still angry with him.

  "Don't upset David," Trevor insisted. "He's weak from all the tests."

  Val nodded and walked into the bedroom. She stopped at the door and Paul felt her tense. Propped up in the four-poster bed was a man who so closely resembled Val that he had to be her twin. Auburn hair, intriguing hazel eyes, softly sculpted lips.

  "Y-you came," David said, his voice slightly slurred by the brain tumor that would soon claim his life. "I—I didn't think you would." His eyes misted over. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you never spoke to... me again."

  Paul nudged Val forward. He had no idea what she was thinking, what she might say. She sat on the edge of the bed and Paul positioned himself behind her, waiting for her to introduce him, as she had to the others, as her "friend."

  Val took her brother's hand. The skin was a livid purple from an IV shunt. "The other night I was thinking about the time we went to that dude ranch in Montana, remember?"