" 'Run, Bobby,' I screamed. 'Git away from her.'
"He hightailed it, blood streaming down his face. Tears were pouring from his eyes. It like ta broke my poor heart.
"Lolly kept yelling. 'I hate you. Touch me again and I'll kill you.' "
CHAPTER 28
"Omigod," Royce cried. "Lolly didn't recognize Mitch. She mistook him for the man who'd brutally raped her— Mitch's father. He must look just like him."
"Exactly." Wally switched off the machine. "Emma tried to explain this to Lolly, but she was so upset that they had to sedate her. Emma gave Mitch twenty dollars and made him leave before Lolly got worse."
What would it be like to go through life knowing your own mother had tried to kill you? Or would knowing what your father had done be worse? A heavy burden for a child.
After his mother attacked him, Mitch was truly alone in the world. And to think she'd crybabied about feeling alone during her ordeal. She'd always had Mitch. He'd never had anyone. Things would change, she assured herself. She'd show him how much she loved him, how he could count on her.
"Who knows how he spent the next two years?" Wally commented. "He probably lived on the streets until he somehow managed to forge a birth certificate and join the Navy."
"He was too young, not much more than sixteen."
"But he was big for his age and by the time he joined the Navy, Mitch probably had more street smarts than boys twice his age."
"No wonder he's so tough and self-reliant." A fierce need to protect Mitch gathered force inside her. "I don't want anyone to find out about these tapes. Obviously Mitch tunneled his money to the Caymans so no one would bother his mother."
"I agree. Mitch moved Lolly the first year he was out of law school, when he finally had enough money. He had a job then with the DA, and he was ambitious. And smart enough to know that a high profile attorney attracts attention. Some reporter was bound to harass his mother."
"It's just the kind of sensational story the tabloids would adore." Royce sighed. "No wonder I love him so much. He'd do anything to protect his mother even though she'd kill him if she got the chance."
She shook her head, disgusted with herself. "Why did I think Brent Farenholt was so great? Sure, he loves his mother, but for him it was easy. Exist and be loved. Adored, actually."
"I know how you feel." Wally reached across the table and clasped her hands with his. "I feel sorry for Mitch, too, but I still don't want you to become involved with him."
"That's what you said on the phone. Why? I know you're thinking of Papa, but don't you think his horrible experiences explain his burning ambition? Isn't success often a substitute for love?" She gazed into the eyes that were so like her own. "Papa might have killed himself anyway. He'd been horribly depressed since Mother died. The note he left me said he couldn't face the trial—or life—without Mama."
"I forgave Mitch—years ago—but I don't want you involved with him. You remember what happened to Shaun as a boy."
Oh, no, not Shaun, Royce thought. Wasn't Wally over him yet? As a child Shaun had been a victim of child abuse. She'd tried to be understanding but to be totally honest, she'd found Shaun to be self-absorbed and shallow.
"When children suffer traumatic experiences and don't have anyone to love them, they're rarely capable of sustaining a relationship. They want one, but they don't know how to go about it. Mark my word, Mitchell Durant will only hurt you."
Royce realized many psychiatrists might agree, but she knew better. Mitch had been emotionally cut off. That didn't mean he couldn't love someone. "I'm not giving up on him. Not now. Not ever. I love him."
"You're so like your mother." Wally sighed. "Loving but stubborn. I never thought you'd forgive Mitch. Even when I read about your alibi in the paper, I was surprised."
"I guess I am like Mother. Papa certainly wasn't stubborn. He was understanding, forgiving. If he were alive he'd forgive Mitch."
Wally hesitated, then said quietly, "No, he wouldn't. There isn't anything to forgive. Mitch was right. Your father's friend wasn't behind the wheel."
Alarm rippled up her spine. No! It couldn't be. She gripped the seat of the chair with both hands. "You're not telling me Papa—"
"No. I was driving that night, and I'd had too much to drink. With mandatory sentencing for repeat offenders I would have been sent to prison. Your father insisted on saying he was driving. We thought we could get away with it. Bruce had been thrown from the car and it was in flames, which was bound to destroy the evidence. It did. The police had very little to go on, but it was enough to interest Durant."
Her hands seemed molded to the chair, almost lifeless now like the rest of her body. Why hadn't Wally told her the truth before now?
"I would never have let Terry be tried for my crime," Wally said, his eyes misted over. "Your father was more than a brother. He was a father and a friend all in one. After the arraignment we agreed that I'd go to the police—with Terry —the following afternoon. But he killed himself. I would have turned myself in except the note Terry left me begged me—for your sake—not to go to the police. He didn't want you to be alone in the world."
It sounded just like Papa, she decided. He'd always been fiercely protective of those he loved—especially Wally. Papa had always done what he could to protect Wally because he knew how cruel the world was to him.
Prison—for a homosexual—would be hell on earth. No doubt Papa had done it to help her as well. Without Wally she would have been alone. Her mother's cousins in Italy were a world away.
"I haven't had a drink since that night," Wally said, "and I made myself a promise that I'd look after you just as your father would have. That's why I was driven to discover the truth about Mitch. That's why I'm concerned that he'll hurt you."
He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. "I only did what your father asked. I wouldn't have told you now except that I can see you love Mitch. He was arrogant and ambitious, but he was right. Please, forgive me for not having told you sooner."
Once Royce might have been bitter and blamed Wally as well as Mitch for her father's death, but no longer. Too much had happened, too many people had suffered, to cause any more heartache by holding a grudge. She scooted her chair close to his and gave him a loving hug. "Of course I forgive you. You know I love you. I understand why you did it. Our family always knew the importance of love. Please help me show Mitch what it means to have a loving family."
"Jenny," Mitch called softly, and her tail thumped against the wall of the enclosure as they stood in the recovery section of the animal clinic. Royce squeezed his hand. "I knew you had the heart to make it," he told the retriever.
"How soon can she come home with us?" Royce asked as she extended one hand to pat Jenny and the dog gave it an affectionate lick. The room seemed sterile, cold. Jenny would be far happier at home, where Royce could take care of her.
"The vet says it'll be a few more days." Mitch gazed at Royce, who was still petting Jenny. "Home with us," she'd said. Were there any sweeter words than those? For once things had worked out. Jenny and Royce were still his.
There was one last hurdle, though. Until the killer was apprehended Royce wouldn't be safe. The killer might not be stalking her, but who knew? The whole case was so damn crazy, unpredictable. He wasn't taking any chances with the woman he loved.
Mitch was uncomfortably aware that the seventy-two-hour rule had kicked in. Once that amount of time had passed without finding the perp, chances became slimmer and slimmer that the murderer would be caught.
The attendant told them their time was up, and Mitch guided Royce toward the exit. Behind them Jenny whined mournfully.
"I can see why the vet didn't want us to visit Jenny," Royce said. "Dogs aren't people, you can't explain that you're not deserting her. Jenny can't understand why you're not taking her home."
"Bye, Jenny," Mitch called, the retriever's mournful eyes haunting him. It was amazing how much she reminded him of Harley. It was her soulful eyes,
windows to her loyal heart.
Royce was quiet as he drove to the restaurant and the waiter showed them to a table screened by lush ferns. Flickering candlelight revealed an intimate banquette upholstered in soft peach colored fabric and a table set with gleaming sterling and crystal.
Mitch had noticed that Royce hadn't been herself all day. She'd been surprisingly melancholy, considering her uncle had been on that plane. And she was unusually affectionate. She never lost the opportunity to touch him or kiss him. Hey, he wasn't complaining. He loved it.
For the last five years he'd tried to imagine what it would be like if Royce were in love with him. He'd thought she'd be more aloof. Uninhibited in bed, but distant during the day. Wrong. Royce was a snuggler, and he had to admit he liked her this way.
Mitch ordered a bottle of Cristal. Just as the wine steward popped the cork, Mitch's beeper went off. "It's Paul. Hold the champagne until I call him."
When he returned to the table, he knew he had a shit-eating grin on his face, but he was so damn happy that he couldn't help it. Royce responded with the first uninhibited smile he'd seen all day. He lifted his champagne glass to hers. "To victory."
Her matchless green eyes were wide with surprise. "You mean—"
"That was Paul. He called to say Abigail Carnivali went on TV—during prime time, of course—and said they're dropping the charges against you."
She closed her eyes, leaving a fringe of golden lashes that cast shadows across her cheeks. "Thank God." She opened her eyes, her expression earnest. "Is it over? Really over?"
Damn. He longed to say yes, but he had to be honest. "Your legal problems are over, but we can't forget there's a killer out there. Paul's sources say the police are about to make an arrest."
"Who?"
"Paul will call us the minute he finds out." He picked up his champagne glass and waited until Royce picked up hers. "Victory."
They sat quietly sipping champagne. He'd expected Royce to be more excited, but she seemed unusually introspective. She kept gazing at him, her expression difficult to read. "Mitch, about what happened to Harley—did you—"
"Aw, hell. I'm sorry I told you about him. I don't want to dredge up the past tonight." He wanted to tell Royce everything about himself so she'd understand him the way no one had ever understood him, but not tonight. The past was too damn depressing to talk about on a night when he wanted to plan their future. "I promised you a romantic evening, remember?"
She smiled, a warm, loving smile and kissed his cheek. "Candlelight and champagne is a big improvement over the elevator in the police station."
"I love you, Royce," he said, his voice husky. "I've never felt this way about anyone."
"You know I love you too."
"No reservations about your father?" Aw, hell, why'd he asked that?
She didn't hesitate. "None. As a matter of fact, this morning Wally told me you were right. My father's friend wasn't driving." She took a deep breath. "Wally was."
"Wally?" For an instant Mitch was dumbfounded. "That possibility never occurred to me. The police thought he'd run down from his house when he heard the crash." He studied her a moment. "He just told you? Now? After all this time?"
"Yes. My father didn't want Wally to tell me."
Mitch listened to the rest of her explanation, asking himself for the hundredth time if there was any way Wally could be involved in the aborted attempt to frame Royce. It seemed odd that he'd waited years to tell Royce the truth. Then again, maybe Wally couldn't risk losing her love. Mitch understood that perfectly.
"No matter who was driving, I prosecuted out of blind ambition. I wanted to make a name for myself. Of all the lessons I learned in the school of hard knocks—and some of them were killers—this was the worst. It cost me five years without the woman I love."
"Let's put the past where it belongs—behind us." She raised her glass. "To us. To the future—our future."
"To us." Mitch clinked his glass against hers, then took a sip. "I have to go into the office for a minute tomorrow morning. Afterward, let's go pick out a ring."
She almost gasped at his matter-of-fact declaration accompanied by his comment about business. Never mind, she chided herself. Interpersonal relationships weren't Mitch's forte. How could they be, considering the past?
"I don't remember you asking me to marry you."
He pulled her close, sliding her across the banquette and into his arms. "Royce, I love you. I want you to marry me."
His expression was more serious than she'd ever seen it, but there was a tenderness there as well that made him look vulnerable for the first time since she'd met him. A glimpse of a little boy looking for love, she thought, recalling the tragedy of his youth. She forced a joking tone into her voice, half afraid that if she didn't she'd cry. "That's better."
They both chuckled, not the uncomfortable laughter that they once would have shared, but the natural laughter of lovers. For a moment they sat, arms entwined, bodies pressed together, silently acknowledging their love.
"You realize this house has only one bedroom," Royce informed him after they'd eaten dinner and returned home.
Mitch tossed his shirt on the closet floor, more interested in watching Royce undress than anything else, but her disapproving glance reminded him to put his dirty clothes in the hamper instead of dumping them on the closet floor the way he usually did. Aw, hell, marriage was going to take some adjusting. Still, it was fun teasing Royce with his bad habits and letting her reform him.
"You're right. This place is too small. Maybe we should move to Marin where our kids can have a big yard."
Royce raised her arms, giving him a helluva provocative view of the length of her sexy body, as she slithered into a black silk nightgown he'd never seen before.
"Marin." Royce's lip curled, as if she'd spotted a disgusting bug. "I suppose you'll want a BMW—basic Marin wheels. No way. I'm a city girl."
He couldn't help smiling—-not just at the adorable picture she made in that nightgown, but at her emphatic opinions. Now, this was Royce, the woman he remembered. He was going to have a lot of fun baiting her. He loved playing the devil's advocate just to hear another of Royce's offbeat ideas.
Royce slowly twirled around, the black silk sculpting every luscious curve. "What do you think?"
"Sexy." He ran his hands up the slender curve of her hips to her full breasts, the nipples barely visible through the lace inset bodice. "Don't plan on being in it long."
She shoved his hands aside. "It took me hours to find this negligee with that Nazi, Gerte watching." Her eyes were smoldering, seductive. "Besides, I'm in charge tonight."
"Again, tonight?" He almost laughed—she was so damn cute—but her hands were in his shorts, homing in on his cock. She gently stroked him, her head resting against his chest.
"I like having you make love to me," Mitch said.
She gazed up at him, her expression serious. "Remember what you said about me wanting you to force yourself on me? You claimed I used it as an excuse so I wouldn't feel guilty about my father."
"Didn't you?"
"No. I liked the excitement of not knowing how far you'd go-"
Her tone told him this wasn't a prelude to making love, this was a serious discussion. "You're the only woman I've ever pushed like that, Royce. I wouldn't have done it if all your signals hadn't said you wanted me. Rape is an inexcusable crime. You can't imagine how much I hated myself that night you screamed for Jenny."
"You frightened me," Royce admitted.
"I wanted you to kiss me and say you loved me, not Brent, but I was so angry that I came on too strong."
"I understand," she murmured, then kissed the sensitive curve of his neck.
She didn't understand, but, aw, hell, he couldn't bring himself to tell her he'd come alarmingly close to forcing her. He'd told himself he would have stopped—that he was just teaching her a lesson—but the fact was Royce had found it necessary to scream.
For years now he'd l
ooked in the mirror, not seeing what others saw. Instead he saw his father—a brutal man who'd sadistically raped a young girl.
Mitch had told himself that he was absolutely nothing like his father and he'd believed it—even though he avoided looking in mirrors. But that night with Royce proved the same aberrant genes that determined his physical appearance might also affect him psychologically.
He'd spent most of his life assuring himself that he only looked like his father. But now he wondered. What would Royce say when he told her about his father? Would she wonder too?
Damn, it was going to be harder than hell to tell her the truth. Even so, he would tell her everything. But not yet. Not when he finally had won her love.
Why not? If love didn't mean trust, it didn't mean anything at all. He trusted her the way he'd never quite trusted anyone else. So what was stopping him from telling her?
CHAPTER 29
Royce followed Mitch into his office the next morning. The receptionist greeted them, then quickly looked down. They passed a cluster of young associates on the way to Mitch's office. More quick hellos, but they seemed almost... embarrassed.
Why hadn't anyone congratulated Mitch? Wouldn't that have been normal?
Mitch's secretary handed him a stack of messages and mumbled a brief good morning, sounding unusually nervous.
Mitch didn't seem to notice, saying, "Paul wants to talk to me. I'll see him, make a few calls, then we'll go pick out a ring."
Mitch was on the telephone when Paul and Val arrived a few minutes later. They both looked as if they'd just met the grim reaper.
"Is David..." Royce didn't know how to ask if her brother had died.
"He's doing a little better," Val said.
Why hadn't either of them congratulated her on having the charges dropped? With growing apprehension Royce noticed Val didn't look her in the eye.
Mitch hung up and asked Paul, "Did you find out who they're going to arrest for Caroline's murder?"
Paul nodded solemnly and Royce's scalp prickled. Not Wally, she prayed. What was wrong with her? Why would she even think that? What possible motive would he have?
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