Mitch wasn't surprised at the knowing looks and the eyeballs that rolled heavenward. He could kiss the appointment good-bye. Hell, he might even get a reprimand from the bar. Not that he gave a damn. He'd trade everything he had, or ever hoped to have, to save Royce.
"This is not a case of an unscrupulous attorney seducing a client." Her voice rose above the twitter, silencing everyone. "We fell in love five years ago. It didn't work out. But when we met again—before I was ever arrested—we discovered we were still in love."
She paused for dramatic effect. "Make no mistake about this, I wouldn't trust my life to anyone else except the man I love. And I'm certainly glad I did. Our relationship foiled a perfect crime."
She pointed her finger at the pack of astonished reporters. "Do you know why the public no longer trusts the media? Because you're here tonight for the wrong reason. You're here to destroy Mitch's reputation and make our love into an ugly scandal. If you're investigative reporters, your job should be finding the maniac who so brutally murdered Caroline Rambeau."
"This will only take a minute," Mitch told Royce as they walked toward Paul's office after she'd given her statement. "Paul's been working nonstop on your case since you were arrested."
"Couldn't you have talked to him on your car phone?"
"Nope. It's on the fritz. It keeps cutting out. Besides, one of the homeless guys living behind the office told me Ingeblatt's roaming around using a scanner that picks up portable phone signals as well as cellular conversations. Paul's cautioned us all to use only land lines when discussing the case. Watch what you say on your portable phone."
"Yes, sir." She gave him a sharp military salute, but she looked exhausted. He doubted she'd slept in jail.
Was there something deeper than love? Surely, what he felt was more powerful than "love"—the word everyone tossed around. He was still stunned by what she'd said to the reporters.
Obviously, she'd been trying to salvage that judicial appointment—not that he cared. But she loved him enough to face down the carrion eaters of modern society and tell them that their stories had become gossip mongering—not investigative reporting. That struck a raw nerve, for damn sure.
Where did she get her courage? Hell, he'd seen more than his share of hardened criminals facing a trial. They all became weaker, relying on him more and more as the court date drew nearer. Not Royce. If anything, she was stronger now than she had been at first.
Mitch opened the door to Paul's office and let Royce walk in ahead of him. He stopped in his tracks as he spotted Valerie Thompson beside Paul. What the hell was she doing here when Paul was working on Royce's case? Before Mitch could protest, Paul spoke.
"Val has an airtight alibi for the night Caroline was killed." Paul turned to the attractive woman beside him. "She was with me—in my bed—the way she is every night."
For a moment Royce appeared startled, then she bounded across the room and hugged Val. "Paul's the man you've been hiding from everyone? Wonderful!"
"We're getting married," Val said, unmistakable love in her eyes.
Mitch shook his head. How was it his best friend was getting married, and he hadn't even known Paul was in love? Come on, you should have suspected. Why in hell do you think he hired Val?
"Fabulous." Royce sighed. "Married."
"Royce is going to have to marry me," Mitch said before he could stop himself.
Royce turned to him, one arm still around Val. "Why? Are you pregnant?"
They all laughed, the giddy, relieved laughter that comes after you've weathered a crisis. When they'd regained their composure, Royce was in Mitch's arms and Val was nestled against Paul.
"Look," Mitch said, "I need to get Royce home. She hasn't slept in days. Is there anything new on the case?"
"They're in a tailspin at the police station," Paul said, more than a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "The coroner says the bruise on Caroline's arm definitely came from intense pressure—probably from a shoe."
It took a minute to explain the details to Royce. She closed her eyes for a moment. "That poor woman knew she was going to die. How terrifying."
"We've got a psycho on our hands," Paul admitted. "My guess is the perp also killed Linda Allen. I've prodded ballistics into comparing the bullets that killed the informant and Caroline. We should have an answer in a day or so."
Mitch raked his fingers through his hair. "So what the hell do we do until the killer is found? Royce could be his next target."
"True," Paul conceded, "but if he—or she—wanted to kill her, Royce would be dead by now. I believe Royce was merely someone to frame. Still, you've protected her, Mitch, by keeping her hidden and being with her."
"She sure as hell won't be hidden now. The world knows we're living together."
"Exactly," Paul said, "so I've hired security to patrol your grounds. If nothing else, they'll keep Ingeblatt and the other reporters from bothering you. And when you're not with Royce, I've arranged to have Gerte be with her. I don't want her alone for a moment—until the killer is arrested."
"Good thinking," Mitch said. "I have to be in court tomorrow. I won't be able to stay with her all day."
"Remember"—Paul looked at them each in turn—"don't use the car phones or portable phones to discuss the case. Use regular land lines that require a wiretap to monitor our conversations. We don't want the perp to know what we're doing. He won't use a wiretap. They're impossible to get."
"Speaking of phones," Mitch said, "won't the list of people who have Royce's portable phone number help narrow down the suspects?"
Paul shook his head. "Val and I went over the list. Wally, Val, and Talia called Royce every evening."
"Don't forget Brent," Val cut in.
"But they gave out her number to others, and the word was out she was living alone in a safe house."
"It's true," Royce added. "I did speak to several old friends, people who knew my father, people who worked on the paper. I always gave the impression that I was living alone and moving constantly from safe house to safe house."
"I know you were counting on the perp being one of the people who called Royce the evening of the murder," Paul told Mitch, "but it doesn't wash. Too many people could have thought she was alone that evening."
"What about that call just after two-thirty?" Royce asked.
Paul shrugged. "So far we can't tie it into the crime. Could be a wrong number or a prank. Who knows?"
"We're back to where we started," Val said. "What was the motive for killing Caroline? Money?"
"No," Paul said, emphatically. "This was a crime of passion. Someone hated Caroline Rambeau and wanted her to suffer. I haven't ruled out the Italian count. He's a strange one."
"The house seems quiet without Jenny," Royce observed as they came through Mitch's back door. "How's she doing?"
"She's better. We'll stop by and see her tomorrow on our way out to that romantic dinner I promised you."
Mitch's arm around her, they crept upstairs without turning on any lights that would alert the herd of reporters hovering out front.
"Why's Wally been in the South so long?" Mitch asked.
Oh, no, Royce thought. Don't let Mitch suspect. Tonight marked a new beginning. She needed to solidify their relationship before confessing what she'd done.
"Wally's doing a series of articles on how southern states are stealing California's businesses by luring them away with tax incentives and cheap labor." She blessed the darkness; she couldn't have looked Mitch in the eye. "You saw the article on how chickens from the South are so much cheaper than chickens raised here, didn't you?"
"Yeah. Are you sure that's where he is? Have you actually called him down there?"
Royce stopped, shocked at what Mitch's words implied. He suspected, all right, but he didn't think Wally was investigating his past. He suspected Wally had something to do with the murder. "What are you saying?"
He hesitated a moment. "Nothing, angel. Just thinking out loud."
"No, you're not. You think Wally framed me, don't you? Well, you're wrong. Why would he kill Caroline Rambeau?"
"He doesn't have a motive," Mitch conceded, gently urging her up the stairs. "But there's something about him that bothers me. My imagination, I guess."
Again Royce blessed the darkness. Mitch was extremely intelligent—and intuitive. He'd sensed Wally was up to something. Don't let Mitch find out, she silently prayed.
"Do something for me."
"Anything," she whispered.
"When Wally returns, meet his plane. Be absolutely certain he gets off a flight from—where did you say he is?"
She could barely get the words out. "I didn't. Last I heard, he was in Arkansas... I think."
Oh, Lord, she hated lying. Should she tell Mitch the truth? He loved her, didn't he? Yes, but what would he think of her so cavalierly breaking her promise?
Like the dark side of the moon, there was a hidden element to Mitch's personality. She trusted him with her life, but she didn't quite trust him to understand why she'd allowed Wally to delve into Mitch's past.
"Humor me," he said. "Make sure your uncle was down South."
"I will," she promised.
"The killer made a mistake—but a crucial one," Mitch assured her. "I can prove incriminating evidence was planted at the murder scene. What jury won't believe the other crimes were committed to frame you? Carnivorous knows this. She's going to drop the charges rather than face a not guilty verdict that will tarnish her conviction record."
"The charges will be dropped. Thank God." Royce sighed. "It's finally over." She should have screamed with joy, but a bone-deep numbness had taken over her body, her mind. Free at last. Somehow the thought didn't quite register.
Royce tossed her clothes in the hamper and headed for the shower, aware that she was totally comfortable with Mitch. Being nude in front of him didn't bother her. They loved each other; they belonged together.
She should be able to tell him about Wally, but the words wouldn't come. When she was rested and could think clearly, she'd find a way to explain what she'd done.
She climbed into the shower and let the water sluice over her head, intending to wash her hair, but unexpected tears blurred her vision. Free at last—the reality finally hit her. Hot tears flowed down her face, mingling with the warm water. For months she'd looked ahead and seen nothing but a black hole for the future. Now—horrible as it was—thanks to Caroline's death Royce had her life back.
Mitch stepped into the shower beside her and gathered her into his arms. He didn't say a word, but she sensed he was every bit as relieved as she was. He'd been frightened for her, she realized, maybe even more frightened than she. He cuddled her, letting the water wash over them until her tears stopped.
Now her future was again bright with promise, the bleak, dark world banished by a thousand shimmering possibilities for a new, better life. She loved Mitch—more than she'd thought it was possible to love another person. She needed to show him, little by little, day by day, how much she loved him.
Mitch helped her wash, lathering soap and gently running the washcloth over her. His movements were quick, businesslike. There was nothing sexual about what he was doing, and she knew he understood how exhausted she was. She helped him shampoo her hair and rinse out the suds. Then he sent her out of the shower.
She dried herself with a terry towel, listening to the thoroughly domestic sound of Mitch singing off-key as he showered. She flipped her head upside down and grabbed the blow-dryer from its wall bracket. She combed her thick hair with her fingers, letting the hot air dry it.
Mitch stepped out of the shower and treated her to an inverted view of his body. Tall and lean but sculpted with muscles across his impressive chest. Glistening with water droplets, his sex hung heavily between powerful thighs.
He was so superbly, utterly male that a familiar thrill spread out in ever widening circles from her lower body. She stood upright and tossed her hair back away from her face. Catching her reflection in the mirror, her unruly hair framing her face, she looked wild, wanton. She turned, ready to share some flip remark about her appearance with Mitch.
He'd dried his tousled hair—or at least attempted to—but his hand was now resting on the towel bar and he was staring at her. They'd seen each other without clothes many times. Why on earth was he giving her that odd look?
Her gaze traveled the length of his magnificent body, and she noticed his shaft was hardening as she watched, growing longer and thicker and rising slightly. The reaction of his body to just looking at her filled Royce with a heady sense of power. Until she realized merely gazing at him elicited a purely feminine response from her own body.
She forgot about her wild hair; in two strides she was across the spacious bathroom and standing before him. Sinking to her knees, she kissed the sensitive spot just below his belly button where no hair grew. Leaving a trail of moist kisses she moved lower and lower over his flat belly that was slightly damp and had the fresh, clean smell of soap. She stopped, his erection brushing her nose. She eased her hand between his thighs and cupped the full weight of his sex in her hand.
Heat swirled through her body, a brazen indicator of how easily Mitch aroused her. She ran one finger up the ridge of his cock, then circled the tip and was rewarded with a low moan. Mitch's fingers were in her hair now, gently massaging her scalp. She playfully licked him, her tongue retracing the route her finger had blazed. Another low moan. She smiled to herself, aware of the heavy, congested feeling between her thighs, as she stroked him with her tongue.
Mitch twined his hands in her hair and pulled her head back. "Dammit, Royce, if you don't stop, I'm going to—"
"I know. I want you to—"
"No, you don't." He drew her to her feet.
"I'm in charge tonight," she said with a flirtatious smile as she switched off the light. She pushed him backward, forcing him to sit on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub. Facing him, she looped one leg around his waist, then the other, and sat on his lap. Shifting her weight, she used one hand to guide him inside her.
They rocked back and forth, gathering momentum. Her mind reveled in the sensation, possessing him for a change, owning him the way he'd claimed her for so long. She'd made love to him enough times before to recognize the signs. Any second, he'd climax. She couldn't help smiling inwardly; tonight Mitch couldn't control himself the way he usually did. She felt her own body clenching, but she forced herself to tip Mitch's face upward.
A stray moonbeam played across his face, heightening the hollows beneath his cheeks, casting shadows from his eyelashes, and deepening the two scars that she'd wondered about so often.
"I love you, Mitch. I'll always love you. No matter what." She didn't give him a chance to answer, covering his lips with hers.
A shudder racked his body just as her body peaked, and his powerful arms clutched her tightly. She collapsed against him, spent. And satisfied with herself.
Before she realized what was happening, he had her in bed, between cool, clean sheets, and was smoothing her tangled hair away from her damp temples. He murmured words of love, of their future in a hushed, affectionate tone that was uncharacteristic for Mitch.
They were cradled in each other's arms, drifting off to sleep, when a noise came from downstairs.
"Oliver," Mitch whispered against her cheek. "I forgot to feed him. If I don't he'll keep us up all night."
"It wouldn't hurt the fat little beast to miss a meal," Royce insisted, but Mitch was already out of bed.
He'd been gone a few minutes when her portable phone rang. She quickly checked the luminous dial of the clock-radio. Ten-thirty. It seemed a lot later. Reluctantly, she trotted across the room and retrieved the phone from her purse.
"Royce?"
"Uncle Wally—"
"I don't want you involved with Mitchell Durant."
She sighed; obviously her arrest hadn't made national headlines. He didn't know what everyone in the Bay Area already knew. She'd bett
er tell Wally and hope he would understand why she loved Mitch.
Before she could break the news, Wally rushed on. "This is an unbelievable story, Royce. Do you know where Mitch was before he came to St. Ignatius Academy?"
Mitch walked into the bedroom and whispered, "Land lines, Royce, if this has anything to do with the case."
She covered the receiver and whispered, "It's Wally."
"By God, Royce," Wally continued, oblivious to the side conversation, "Mitch came to St. Ignatius from the Fair Acres Home for the Criminally Insane."
CHAPTER 27
Royce stood with Gerte at her side as a stream of passengers scurried down the tarmac until the crowd thinned to a trickle. Where was Wally? The vague sense of alarm she'd felt since Mitch asked her to meet her uncle's plane intensified.
She was positive Wally would never do anything to hurt her. But—there it was again, that shadow of a doubt. At least she could be certain now that Val wasn't involved. That was some comfort, but it was eclipsed by her concern about Wally. And Mitch.
Utter exhaustion had forced her to sleep last night. Still, she'd been haunted by dreams. What had Mitch done to be sent to an institution for the criminally insane?
"Idon't want you involved with Mitchell Durant." Her uncle's warning had sounded dishearteningly ominous.
Dammit, she didn't know what to think. The only thing she was certain about was Mitch. She'd lived with him more intimately than she had with any other person. She would have sensed a psychological quirk that would have indicated he was a dangerous man.
But she hadn't. Granted, he was cynical, totally disillusioned with the world. That didn't make him a menace to society.
How could she explain the scars on his face, and his being deaf in one ear? Why did she think he might have—with cause—hurt one of his parents? Then he would have been sent to an institution. If so, had they released him, or had he escaped?
There had to be an explanation. One that would clear Mitch. Despite all he was and what he'd done to her father, she knew—in her heart of hearts—he wasn't a bad person. There had to be a reasonable explanation for his having been in such an institution.
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