"How gallant of him," Royce said, but her thoughts were on Maria. Had she regretted losing Mitch, or had she gone through this ordeal still loving Brent? "Did you forgive Maria?"
He looked at her as if she'd just suggested Hitler was a saint. "No way. Everyone gets one chance with me. That's it. If you keep forgiving people, they never stop letting you down. Maria had her chance. She chose Brent."
Royce heard a silent message in Mitch's response. She'd let him down once with Brent. There would be no second chance. She had no illusions about what would happen if he discovered Wally was investigating him.
"What happened to Maria?"
"She dropped out of law school. She's married and running a day care facility for migrant workers. Her son looks just like Brent."
A tide of emotion rose in Royce. How sad, she thought. Maria had found a man willing to share her dream, but hadn't been able to appreciate what she had until she lost it. How disappointing for Mitch too. He'd found someone to love after what must have been a hellish youth, but she'd been taken away from him by a man who had so many people who loved him that he never understood what a gift love is.
Had Brent ever truly loved a woman? Why should she care if he'd ever really loved anyone? It was Mitch who was important to her. He had the capacity to love with depth and passion.
"Ward had his revenge, though," Mitch said. "I'd worked hard to graduate first in my class so I'd be hired by a top legal firm in San Francisco. The best ones interviewed me and seemed enthusiastic, but I didn't get a single offer. Later I found out Ward had pressured them not to hire me."
"I'm not surprised. Ward is the most despicable, arrogant man I've ever met. It's a wonder he even thinks Caroline is good enough for his son."
"I can't help wondering if Ward's behind your troubles. You interfered with the grand scheme he had for his son."
"True, he didn't approve of me, but would he resort to such drastic action? If we could find Ward's mistress, she might answer a lot of questions." Royce noted how deftly Mitch had steered the subject from his personal life to her case. All this was old news to her. How many nights had she lain awake speculating about the possibilities? Until they had proof, that's all they were—possibilities.
"The night of the auction you implied you planned to get even with me on the next interview," she asked wanting to draw Mitch out more. "Just what were you planning?"
He set his glass aside and combed his fingers through her hair, testing its weight, its softness. His gaze locked with hers, he lowered his head and kissed her. The touch of his lips elicited reactions she'd come to expect and anticipate: nipples contracting, a sensation of heat and fullness between her thighs. She couldn't keep her arms from going around his neck, her breasts from seeking the solid wall of his chest.
"I knew you couldn't really love that wuss or you wouldn't let me kiss you and put my hand down the back of your dress. After the interview I was going to kiss you again and make certain Brent found out."
"Revenge." She had the sickening feeling she was just a pawn. "Retaliating for a lost love and thwarted career ambitions?"
"Hell, no. I had my revenge. I proved I'm a better lawyer by building my own firm. I got over Maria." His tone was firm, final, reflecting the determination she always sensed in Mitch. "I was prepared to do anything to get you away from Brent."
She should have wondered if he'd resorted to framing her as Brent suggested, but she remembered the night the narcs searched her house. He hadn't been acting, he was as shocked as she was. Even if she hadn't seen his expression, every instinct she possessed told her Mitch would never do anything like this.
"Admit it. There's been something between us that's survived five long years." His fingers scaled down the bare skin of her throat to her shoulders and lingered at the crest of her bosom, hot and tantalizing. "Ask yourself why you like me to get rough with you and force myself on you. It gives you an excuse to make love to me."
She couldn't answer. Of course she'd asked herself why she felt so physically attracted to a man she once hated. After that first kiss in the dark, guilt and shame had overwhelmed her. Still, she'd let Mitch touch her again. Even now she felt the heady sense of excitement that had swept through her when he'd slid his hand down her back.
And when they'd finally made love, it was everything she anticipated. No. It was better. Obviously, her body knew what her mind couldn't quite accept: Mitch was perfect—for her.
CHAPTER 22
Mitch studied the shadows flickering across the ceiling above his bed. Jesus, he couldn't sleep. How many nights now? Five? Six? He'd be worthless in court tomorrow, but he didn't give a damn. He knew exactly what was keeping him awake. Royce.
He moved a little and she unconsciously snuggled against him, her breasts nestled against his rib cage, her heart beating against his own. A sliver of moonlight played across her face. She looked peaceful, happy, and he should be too.
Since their talk three weeks ago they'd settled into a comfortable routine. During the day they both worked at the office, he on his cases and she on the upcoming trial. They seldom saw each other until evening, when he'd return home to find Royce busy in the kitchen with Oliver perched on the counter, set to steal anything, and Jenny at her heels.
Some men might have been threatened by the sudden domesticity of their relationship, particularly after years of living alone, but Mitch wasn't. Okay, Royce got on his nerves at times. She insisted on organizing his drawers, claiming she couldn't find anything. And she kept getting those damn Oreo cookie crumbs in his computer keyboard as she worked on the homeless files. A tragedy, sure, but nothing compared to not letting him eat pizza every night. Still, living with her was like making love to her—better than he'd imagined.
She shifted positions, her body still touching his, and her hand brushed his cock, coming to rest on the flat plane of his stomach. He ignored the upsurge in his groin.
Royce never initiated sex. Hell, she loved it and probably expected it just the way she got it—twice a night. But she expected him to initiate it, and she responded much more passionately if he was rough with her.
Well, could he blame her? She had to justify their relationship with the memory of her father. Long dead, but never, no never, forgotten.
If Mitch forced her to make love, she could tell herself it wasn't her idea. At least by deceiving herself she was able to keep up a front. Every night Brent called and she chatted with him, saying how lonely she was.
She used the same routine when her friends called each night and with Wally, who was still down South. Of course, during all these calls, Mitch wasn't far away. It was a hoot to know Brent was talking to Royce, believing she was alone, when Mitch was actually in bed beside her.
He ran his hand over her golden hair where it fell alluringly across her bare shoulder. What in hell was he going to do? No wonder he couldn't get any sleep. Her trial was a month away and he had no idea how he was going to defend her. Night after night he'd make love to her, then fall into a blissful sleep only to awaken later sheathed in sweat, tortured by the image of Royce in jail.
He realized Royce expected one of his miraculous defenses. But this time he couldn't conceive of an argument that would convince a jury to acquit her—not with her getting caught red-handed. Twice.
Jee-sus! A diabolical mind was behind this. His money was on Ward Farenholt, but so far Paul hadn't been able to implicate him.
Mitch gazed down at Royce, her face soft and sweet in the dim light of the moon. Trusting. He imagined the look she'd have for him if the jury returned a guilty verdict.
Unbidden, the past intruded on the present. He was a grown man, holding Royce, but in his mind's eye he saw a haunting vision from his youth. He was a young boy again, calling to his mother as she worked in the garden.
His mother rose to her knees, the three-pronged trowel in her hand as she turned to him. The smile on her face was like Royce's, soft and sweet. Trusting.
Until she saw him.
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Up to then his young life had been miserable, but from the moment his mother turned on him, it became pure hell. Of course, his father was responsible. He was never going to find him, but if fate ever changed its mind, he'd kill the bastard.
On Saturday morning Mitch was in the shower when Wally called Royce.
"I found that school where the nun worked," he said after a brief greeting.
"Oh," she responded cautiously, hearing the shower turn off. She headed downstairs, the portable phone to her ear. "What did she say?"
"She isn't there. The school's gone too. It's a strip mall now."
In the kitchen out of Mitch's hearing range, she stopped. "A dead end."
"Not at all. I know where Mitch got the name on his phony birth certificate. That Catholic school was on the corner of Mitchell and Durant streets."
"No." The word came out somewhere between a moan and a whisper. A cold knot formed in her chest, her heart refusing to accept what he'd just told her. She'd imagined Mitch's mother lovingly choosing Mitchell from a list of names she'd considered for months, but it hadn't been that way at all.
Mitch wasn't even his real name. She could understand him changing his last name, but why hadn't he used his real first name? Wouldn't that have been the logical thing to do? "His given name must have had terrible memories."
The words were hardly out of her mouth when Mitch walked into the kitchen, still damp from the shower. A tuft of wet hair kicked upward like a rooster's comb, and a towel hung from his hips, barely covering his strong thighs. She flashed him a smile that she hoped didn't look too guilty and mouthed, "Wally."
"It's more likely he changed his name because he had a police record," Wally informed her. "That would have kept him out of the Navy."
"H-mm." She watched Mitch brush Jenny, the way he did each Saturday morning. Just like the Italian count Mitch had become a new person. Why? What had he done?
Mitch cocked his head, favoring his good ear as his private line rang upstairs in the office. He walked out of the kitchen and Royce relaxed.
"I've got a line on the nun, though." Wally sounded so clear, he could have been in the room with her. "She must be retired by now. There's only one retirement convent down here. It's in Bascom Springs, not far from Woodville."
"Woodville. Mitch is supporting someone in a clinic there," Royce blurted out, then cursed herself. He might return any second. Things were going so well between them that she couldn't afford for him to find out what Wally was doing.
"They're seven miles apart. I can visit them both in a day.','
"Please, don't-—" Royce halted midsentence. Mitch walked into the kitchen.
"Don't worry. I'm a pro, remember? Mitch isn't going to find out a thing."
Mitch studied her like a wolf picking up a scent
"Come home, Uncle Wally. I need you."
"I'll be back soon," Wally assured her. "My reports are being used by UPI. I can't leave now, honey."
For the first time she questioned Wally's motives. Was another Pulitzer more important than she was? What if she didn't have Mitch? She'd be all alone. She barely heard Wally's parting remarks.
"What didn't you want Wally to do?" Mitch asked as she hung up.
"To stay there." The lie sounded as fiat as week old beer. "The trial's so close. I—I need—" The look on Mitch's face told her that he suspected something.
"I need to get out. I feel like Rabbit E. Lee trapped in a cage. Can't we go to the park and picnic with Jenny? Please?" she pleaded, unnervingly aware of the strange look on his face. "Unless you have to work. Was that call—"
"Jason," he said, stepping closer and she realized she was shaking. "He's back from camp." Mitch locked both arms around her, his eyes brimming with tenderness and understanding. "Don't be afraid."
She wasn't trembling with fear for herself. Heartfelt anguish ripped through her. For God's sakes, why had he named himself for an intersection? Tears dampened her lashes, making it hard to see the muscular curve of his shoulder as he held her.
What a story! A tale of courage and eventual triumph. A story that could win a Pulitzer. A fresh rush of tears blurred her vision even more.
Wally. He was absolutely fascinated with this story, and in his own way he was every bit as ambitious as Mitch. Once she would have sworn his word as a premier reporter would have guaranteed he'd never break his promise.
But now she was worried. So much had happened—all of it bad—that she wondered. She had to stop Wally.
Mitch framed her head with his palms and looked into her eyes. "Angel, it's going to be all right."
"Please, let's go to Golden Gate Park for a picnic. Let's rent bikes and—" Oh, Lordy, why had she suggested that?
"It's okay, Royce. I know you pumped Jason for information about me. So, I can't ride a bike." He shrugged and shot her a who-gives-a-damn grin, but she thought she detected a flicker of pain—or perhaps anger—in his eyes. A childhood lost; a past that couldn't be regained. "Every kid in America isn't given a bike, you know."
"I could teach you to ride." She pointed to the warm sunlight trumpeting a summer song through the window. "Please, it'll be fun."
"I look like an ass," Mitch cussed as he wobbled along a trail on a bike, Royce running beside him, keeping him upright. Jenny scampered with him, too, but she had the sense to give him a wide berth. He'd tipped and almost fallen a dozen times or more. What the hell was he doing?
Making Royce happy. When she looked up at you with tear-filled green eyes, you couldn't say no. She was more vulnerable now with the trial so close. She needed him, not just physically, but emotionally as well. That knowledge frightened him in a way that he hadn't been truly frightened since he was a kid. What if he couldn't save her?
"Way to go," Royce cheered, and he realized he'd traveled quite a distance without her guiding hand. "That's it!"
Jenny barreled ahead of him, her tail held high. Over the top of the hill he sailed, going faster, then shot down the other side. Without warning the bike teetered, but he obeyed Royce's earlier instructions and concentrated on keeping his balance.
He hit the hairpin turn—out of control. Shazammm!! He skidded onto the grass beside the trail and landed on his hip, the bike between his legs.
Jenny bounded up to him and licked his sweaty face. He groaned and lay back on the grass. Royce trotted up, laughing.
"That'll teach you to go too fast. Can't you keep a normal pace?"
"Nah, I love speed. Give me fast cars and faster women."
She dropped to the ground beside him. "If you rode slower, I could rent a bike and ride with you. You're ready to ride on your own."
He lay on his back and stared up at the cloudless blue sky as if he couldn't tolerate the thought of an afternoon riding bikes, but the hell of it was, he was having an unexpectedly good time.
"Ride all the way back to the stand?" He stroked Jenny's head, moaning. "Tell her to have mercy."
"Come on, crybaby."
"Meanie," he teased, giving her a thorough, intimate appraisal. She looked so damn cute in those shorts. Even the bandanna tied babushka style to disguise her and sunglasses the size of hubcaps added to her appeal. Aw, hell. He liked her in anything. Or nothing. Preferably nothing.
Mitch leaned across the fragrant grass, warm and moist in the summer sun, intent on kissing her, but he stopped when he looked into her eyes. And saw the future. Other summer days—and summer nights. Cool winter evenings by the fire. Colder winter nights making love in his bed.
Most of all he saw two images of Royce he knew he'd never forget even if he lived long enough to go to hell. Royce in the morning. Waking slowly, snuggling into his pillow, determined to go back to sleep. And Royce in the evening when he opened the back door and found her in his kitchen.
He slumped back on the grass and gazed at the blazing ball in the sky until he was forced to close his eyes. Why in hell had he fought for mandatory drug sentences? If they weren't in effect, he'd stand a chance of
getting her off with a suspended sentence, a steep fine, and a whopping number of community-service hours. But as things stood, he was scared pissless she'd get the max.
Jenny licked his nose and Royce said, "We can quit if you want."
It took him a second to muster a playful tone. "I'm no quitter. Let's get you a bike. After the picnic we'll race."
They rented a bike for Royce, then rode through the park. The trails were skateboarders' turf. They whipped up and down the hills, nearly colliding with yuppie cyclists on Italian bikes that were as expensive as cars.
Around the windmill, like a garland of bright flowers, were the homeboys in their gang colors. In the park's neutral zone by the teahouse were groups of preteens, their boom-boxes blasting rap or salsa.
The benches along the walks were off-limits to anyone under seventy-five. Clusters of stoop-shouldered men sat there playing cards. Nearby sat the gossiping old women, swathed in black despite the heat.
But the grass—the rolling meadows of blue-green grass— was for the dogs. And lovers. On the far side of the park Royce and Mitch found a shady patch of grass in a deserted area. Jenny charged into the brush after a squirrel.
"Did you have a dog when you were a kid?" Royce asked as she offered him a sandwich she'd made at home.
"Yeah," Mitch said, hoping she wasn't going to ask a lot of personal questions. "I had a dog... once." Naturally there was no stopping Royce.
"What kind?"
He swallowed the bite of chicken salad. "My past is a closed book. Remember?"
"I was just thinking how well you trained Jenny and wondered if you had a lot of experience."
"I had just the one dog." It had suffered such a painful death that it had taken him twenty-five years to get another.
"Jenny," Royce called and the retriever darted out of the bushes, her tail wagging. "Here's a Bonz for you."
Sawyer, Meryl Page 27
