Sawyer, Meryl

by A Kiss in the Dark

Gian took his time, lighting yet another cigarette and blowing a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "We dated two, three times a week for months, but Caroline was always very cool, very distant. That's not the reaction I usually get from women, so I was captivated—for a while. Then I stopped calling her. Why bother with a woman who won't even sleep with you?"

  Paul had to admit it must have come as a shock to this phony Italian stallion. How many women could resist a chance to hop in the sack with him?

  "Then she called and invited me to the auction. She said she missed me. We were having a good time until the robbery. Then everyone was upset and Caroline insisted on going home."

  "Did you put the earrings in Royce Winston's purse?"

  "Of course not. Why would I?"

  "I thought maybe one of the Farenholts asked you to."

  Gian shook his head. "No. I liked them, though. They treated me like gold. Ward even called after Caroline and I broke up and said how sorry he was."

  Paul studied the cigarette burning between Gian's fingers, his nails manicured and buffed to a high gloss. Could he have been so angry with Caroline that he'd wanted her to die a slow, excruciatingly painful death?

  "Was sex a problem after you and Caroline got together again?"

  Gian lifted both shoulders in an angry shrug. "We slept together—a few times—but that's it."

  "You were willing to put up with that?"

  "When a lady has a lot of money, you're willing to put up with crap. Anyway, I thought she was frigid. It wasn't until I got the big kiss-off that I found out the truth. She was in love with someone else."

  "Who?"

  "She didn't say, but I knew." Gian stood and jammed his clenched fists into his trouser pockets. "I was a fool. She always had this thing about Brent Farenholt. She always wanted to hang around the Farenholts so she could be with him."

  Forty-six hours. Royce had waited the long hours without sleeping, her eyes constantly drawn to the hall clock. In two hours they'd have to charge her or let her go. What evidence could they possibly have? She didn't have an answer just as she didn't have an explanation for why Mitch hadn't at least called. Surely he hadn't deserted her.

  Once she'd trusted her friends, her uncle. Mitch. Now she was alone, truly alone. The past months had reduced her to a bewildered shadow of the person who'd been Royce Anne Winston, but now, thanks to a wellspring of rage, she'd metamorphosed into a new person.

  She wasn't positive she liked her new persona—someone who'd ruthlessly hold a woman's head in a toilet bowl—but she sensed she'd need her newfound strength to get through this ordeal.

  A guard shuffled up to her cell. "Come on, Winston."

  Oh, boy, judgment day. Would there even be an attorney to stand by her side when the charges were filed? she wondered as she followed the guard. Where was Mitch? It didn't matter. She could go through this alone.

  But she wasn't led to the elevator that would have taken her to the van used to transport prisoners to court. Instead, she found herself in the booking room. Stunned, Royce stared in disbelief as the property clerk handed her a wire mesh basket with her clothes in it.

  "Omigod, they're not charging me."

  The clerk shoved a receipt across the scarred wood counter and Royce signed for her things. Inside the changing room she ripped off the prison jumpsuit, nearly bouncing off the walls with joy.

  Hold everything! They could let her go now because they didn't have sufficient evidence. But they could rearrest her later.

  "The dicks in charge of the Rambeau case want to talk to you," the guard said when Royce emerged dressed in her own clothes.

  "Without an attorney? No way. They can go to hell."

  The guard shrugged indifferently and led her through a door and down a hallway. It was a route Royce had never taken before. The guard left her outside a door marked private.

  "They're waiting for you in here."

  Royce yanked the door open. "You have no right to detain me.

  Mitch! She barely stifled a gasp of relief. He hadn't deserted her. How could she ever have thought that he had? Her gut instinct had always told her she could trust him.

  She noticed two men she instantly identified as policemen, even though they were dressed in suits. What was going on here? Mitch was sitting at the table, the two detectives opposite him.

  He flashed her an encouraging smile and pulled out the chair next to him. "The detectives would like to ask you a few questions."

  "Am I being charged with a crime?" She directed her question to the cops.

  "No. Not... yet."

  "Then what do you want?" She knew she sounded positively bitchy, but she was beyond caring. She'd been arrested three times, for God's sakes. Once she'd thought of the police as her friends. Now all she could think about was the agonizing days she'd spent in jail.

  Mitch said, "Royce, I know you're upset, but if you'll just cooperate we can clear your name."

  Wary, her anger threatening to erupt, Royce plopped down into the chair.

  The beefy detective, with jowls like bowling pins, punched a button on a tape recorder. "Tape's on. For the record, state your name."

  She bit out her name, conscious of the concerned expression Mitch wore.

  "Miss Winston, you're not being charged with a crime and you are giving this statement of your own free will in the presence of your attorney, correct?"

  "I've been advised to cooperate."

  "Let's go back to last Saturday. Tell us exactly what you did that day."

  She turned to Mitch and he nodded. "I got up at about eight o'clock."

  "Where were you?"

  Uh-oh. This was top secret. "I don't give out my address."

  The younger detective, who hadn't spoken, now said to Mitch, "I thought she was going to cooperate."

  Mitch turned to Royce. "Tell the truth. The whole truth."

  "I was at Mitch's home," she hedged. "I've been living in the apartment over his garage."

  "Is that where you woke up?"

  "I don't remember." Her thoughts spun angrily. What did this have to do with Caroline's murder?

  "Royce, they know you spent Friday night in my bed," Mitch said.

  Why would he tell them? She looked the beefy detective in the eye, feeling defensive and hostile. "Is that a crime?"

  Evidently, he'd interrogated his share of hard cases. Her surly response didn't bother him. "I'm asking the questions. Tell us how you spent Saturday."

  She gave them a very factual, bland, and annoyingly brief summation of the day's events right up to Jason's arrival. She paused, uncertain. "Some boy Mitch befriended came by about midnight."

  "How long did he stay?"

  "All night. He slept on the sofa. I called his mother to let her know."

  "What time did you make that call?"

  "Around two-thirty."

  "Did you identify yourself?"

  "No, I just said I was Mitch's girlfriend."

  "Then you returned to the apartment."

  She was half tempted to say yes to protect Mitch, but she felt his thigh pressing against hers and thought he was prompting her to tell the truth. "No. I spent the night in the house."

  "Where?"

  She hesitated, but he nudged her again with his knee. "In Mitch's bed."

  "Where was he?"

  "I don't see what this has—"

  "Answer the question." The detective loosened his tie.

  "Mitch was in bed with me."

  "You're certain he didn't get up all night?"

  What was going on here? Did they suspect Mitch? "I didn't fall asleep until dawn. Mitch never got up once."

  The two detectives looked at each other. The younger one shook his head.

  "Your story corroborates the statement given to us by Mr. Durant."

  "I have sworn statements from the pizza delivery man and Jason Riley," Mitch said. "A check of my telephone records will show the exact time Royce called Jason's number."

  "An airtight al
ibi," the young detective said grimly.

  "Alibi." Royce gasped. "You mean Caroline was killed on Saturday, not Sunday?"

  They nodded glumly. An hysterical laugh burbled past her lips. Suddenly she was giggling uncontrollably. Mitch put his arm around her, giving her a reassuring hug.

  "The coroner says Miss Rambeau was killed between midnight and five-thirty," the younger man informed her.

  Royce blurted out, "She was alive at two thirty-four."

  CHAPTER 26

  All three men stared at Royce as if she'd just confessed to the murder.

  "I—I mean I think Caroline was alive at two thirty-four."

  She directed her response to Mitch. "You see, my portable phone rang just after I spoke to Jason's mother. When the caller hung up, I believed it was a wrong number. I'd spoken with Val and Talia and Brent earlier, so people knew I was home, but no one knew I was with you. Now I think that someone called to make certain I was home—alone."

  The detectives looked baffled, but Mitch said, "You're right. The drugs were planted in your home to cover what the killer really wanted. Someone took a Coke from your refrigerator that had your prints on it." He turned to the detectives, who were listening intently. "That's why the Cokes were still in the cans. The killer couldn't use a glass. Royce's prints wouldn't have been on it."

  "Is that the only place you found my prints?" Royce asked.

  "Yeah," the brawny detective glumly conceded. Obviously, he resented giving up his prime suspect. No doubt he'd thought her story would become a TV movie with him as the hero.

  Mitch smiled at Royce. "They discovered your charm bracelet between the cushions of the chair where the perp sat."

  "Is that all the evidence against me?"

  The younger detective's eyes cut to the beefy man, who was toying with his pencil. Clearly, they had more evidence. The bubble of hope floating inside her turned to lead.

  Mitch grinned. "I understand you found a few blond hairs that you'd like to compare to Royce's."

  "Yup," the younger detective responded, annoyed at the question. Obviously, he didn't like Mitch having confidential information.

  "Wanna bet the killer took that hair from a brush or comb in Royce's home the night the drugs were planted?" Underneath the table Mitch squeezed Royce's hand. "Since then an image consultant straightened her hair. They'll never match."

  Royce dug her nails into Mitch's palm to keep from crying out. Please, let it be this easy. Let this psycho screw up.

  "I guess we don't have a case," the chief detective conceded, jabbing the off button on the tape recorder with a pudgy ringer.

  They were so clearly disappointed she wasn't the killer that the anger she'd been suppressing refused to stay locked inside her. "I reported that bracelet missing after your cronies in Narcotics kicked in the stained glass door my father made and ransacked my home."

  Mitch put a hand on her shoulder. "Calm down, Royce."

  She swallowed hard, but there was so much pent-up anger, she could barely think clearly. She answered a few more questions, then left with Mitch. As soon as the elevator doors had closed, she sagged against the wall. "God, Mitch, I was so worried. I thought you'd deserted me."

  He stared at her, utter disbelief written across his face. "What?"

  "Why didn't you at least visit me?"

  He hit the off button, bringing the elevator to a jarring halt between floors. "I thought you were smart enough to realize I was busting my ass to free you. Shit! I just got back from Chicago twelve hours ago. I had to track down the pizza guy, who got himself fired.

  "Then I had to find Jason. I'd promised him a new leather jacket if he never mentioned your name. Well, guess what? "The man' had taken him fishing. It took me hours to locate Jason's stepfather and get Jason's sworn statement."

  He glared at her with smoldering, reproachful eyes, and she really couldn't blame him for being angry. Deep down she trusted him, but she had been so vulnerable, weighted down by everything happening to her. She put both arms around him, even though he felt as cold and unresponsive as a tombstone.

  "I'm sorry, darling, but it's gotten to the point where I don't know what to think—or who to trust." She rested her head against the solid wall of his chest, his heartbeat as steady and reassuring as it was when she'd awaken late at night, terrified. "I knew I could count on you, but I was frightened. So much has happened—all of it bad—until now. Thank you for helping me. I'm sorry I doubted you."

  He put both arms around her waist and whispered, his lips brushing the top of her head. "If you don't know by now I love you, when are you going to figure it out? Hell, I persuaded Arnold Dillingham to give you a shot at that TV anchor position just so I could see you again."

  "Really?" She looked up into his intense eyes. "You went to all that trouble?"

  He framed her face with both hands. "I've loved you from the moment I sat beside you on that rock with the surf pounding at our feet."

  Dumbfounded, Royce remembered the exact moment when she'd met his eyes, his face just inches from hers. Even now, years later, she could hear the surf crashing on the rocks almost as loudly as the beating of her heart. She'd tried to forget him, she truly had. She'd run away to Italy and stayed for five years.

  Mitch drew back, evidently mistaking her reminiscing for rejection. "Your father's always going to be between us, isn't he? What can I do? Five years ago, I said I was sorry. I admitted the evidence was weak and I'd pushed to prosecute him out of blind ambition. But I can't change what happened. I can't bring back the dead."

  Royce didn't know what to say. She'd been forgiving him —by degrees—for weeks now. Maybe she'd subconsciously forgiven him after he'd apologized at her father's funeral. That would certainly account for the way she'd physically reacted to that kiss in the dark. To be honest, she wasn't certain exactly when—or what—had made her forgive him. But she had.

  She recalled what Val had said about forgiving her brother. Everyone makes mistakes. If you love someone, you can forgive them. And set yourself free. Her father would understand. He knew what it was to love someone passionately.

  What more could any woman ask of a man? Mitch loved her. He'd waited five years for her to forgive him. And when the legal system nailed her to the cross of justice, he'd come to her rescue.

  He punched the start button and the elevator began to move. She knew that hordes of reporters would be waiting on the street level. She had to talk to him now. She pressed the stop button and turned to Mitch as the elevator again jerked to a halt. He gazed at her speculatively.

  "My father isn't between us, Mitch. Not anymore." She wound her arms inside his jacket and around his back, pulling herself against his muscular torso, her eyes never leaving his.

  "I do love you. I hesitated because you shocked me. That day on the rock, I looked into your eyes the way I am now. I said to myself: Oh, no. Not him. Mitchell Durant is everything you despise—a cocky lawyer. But in my heart I knew you were the man I'd been waiting for."

  He brushed her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. "Say it again."

  "I knew you were the man I'd been waiting for." She gazed into his captivating eyes. "I'll always love you."

  "Not as much as I love you." His lips met hers in a suggestion of a kiss, a sweet, gentle caress that was so unlike the aggressiveness she'd come to expect from Mitch.

  "I can't believe we're having this conversation in an elevator covered with gang graffiti," she said. "Not too romantic."

  Mitch turned on the elevator, but kept his arm around Royce. "Tomorrow night we'll go out and celebrate with a romantic dinner."

  She rested her head against Mitch's shoulder, at peace for the first time in months. Even the anger she'd vented on the detectives had disappeared. Mitch loved her. And the killer had made a mistake that would surely expose him.

  "Will all the publicity about our living together cause you a problem?" she asked. She loved him so much. The last thing she wanted was for their relationship to
become an albatross. Politicians were expected to be saints.

  "Don't worry about it. If I'm not appointed to the bench this time, there'll be other vacancies."

  "A judge! Your aren't going into politics?"

  "No. That's the last thing I'd do." He laughed and ruffled her hair. "See, angel, you outsmarted yourself. My name's up for a superior-court appointment."

  The elevator doors slid open and they stepped into a dark lobby. She'd been cruel, needlessly vindictive, when she'd interviewed him on television. But he loved her anyway. Was she worthy of his love? Had she ever done anything for him?

  He'd spent untold hours and a small fortune defending her. Even more importantly, he'd given her courage and moral support when she'd needed it the most. And how had she responded? Like a miser with a gold nugget, she'd clung to her anger.

  Outside the station she saw a phalanx of reporters and she braced herself. She had no doubt that the reporters, with their myriad sources, already knew about her alibi. They'd turn her relationship with Mitch into an ugly scandal. He wouldn't be appointed to the bench this time. Maybe his name wouldn't even be proposed again.

  "Ignore them," Mitch said. "My car's right over there."

  A blast of klieg lights hit them. "There they are."

  Mitch cussed under his breath as the reporters charged up and dozens of microphones were shoved in their faces.

  "Hey, Durant, is it true you're sleeping with your client?" yelled Tobias Ingeblatt.

  "Miss Winston," called a female reporter, "when did he seduce you?"

  Royce felt Mitch's arm go rigid, but he kept his face expressionless as he shouldered his way through the crowd.

  "Mitch, I'm going to talk to them." She stepped away from him and turned toward the cameras. "I have a short statement. Then we're leaving. I haven't slept in three days."

  The crowd stilled, all eyes trained on Royce. What the hell was she doing? Mitch asked himself. He watched her take a calming breath. She loved him, Mitch thought, amazed. He'd done the impossible. He'd made her fall in love with him.

  "The murder charge against me was dropped because I have an irrefutable alibi. I spent the entire night with Mitchell Durant."