Night Fever (5 page)

“They said he'd been arrested. Did you know?” he asked her.

She nodded her head.

He leaned back in his seat, glancing out the window. “Becky, why did he run out on us when Mama died?”

“He ran out on us long before that. You wouldn't remember, but he was always out with the boys, even when you and Mack were being born. I don't think he was ever around when we really needed him. Mama gave up eventually.”

“Don't you give up, Becky,” he said suddenly, turning his gaze back to hers. “I'll take care of things, don't you worry.” He was already thinking of ways that he could make enough money to take some of the financial burden off her shoulders. The Harris boys had made one or two suggestions. He didn't have Becky's conscience, and there was plenty of money to be made. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, and he'd be careful not to get caught twice.

“Okay.” She turned into the driveway, wondering how to break the news to their grandfather, how to cope with the future.

She hoped Clay would do what the juvenile officer had told him to. She hoped that being arrested had scared him. Maybe it would keep him straight.

She didn't know what to do. Life had become too complicated. She wanted to run away.

“What are you thinking?” Clay asked with dark perception.

“I was thinking about the chocolate cake I'm going to bake for supper,” she hedged, and smiled at him. The smile took more effort than Clay would ever know.

G
randdad took the news of Clay's arrest better than Becky had expected him to. It was a blessing that Clay had been arrested in town, and not at home. To his credit, he didn't balk at going to school, for once. He got on the bus without an argument, with Mack right behind him.

Becky settled Granddad in his armchair in the living room, concerned at his silence.

“Are you going to be all right?” she asked after she'd given him his pill. “Should I ask Mrs. White to come and sit with you?”

“I don't need fussing over,” he muttered. His thin shoulders lifted and fell. “Where did I fail your father, Becky?” he asked miserably. “And where did I fail Clay? My son and my grandson in trouble with the law, and that Kilpatrick man won't stop until he's got them both in jail. I've heard all about him. He's a barracuda.”

“He's a prosecuting attorney,” she corrected. “And he's only doing his job. He just does it passionately, that's all. Mr. Malcolm likes him.”

Her grandfather narrowed one eye and looked up at her. “Do you?”

She stood up. “Don't be silly. He's the enemy.”

“You remember that,” he said firmly, his stubborn chin jutting. “Don't go getting soft on him. He's no friend to this family. He did everything in his power to put Scott away.”

“You knew about that?” she asked.

He sat up straighter. “I knew. Saw no reason to tell you or the boys. It wouldn't have helped things. Anyway, Scott beat the rap. The witness changed his mind.”

“Did he change it—or did Dad change it for him?”

He wouldn't look at her. “Scott wasn't a bad boy. He was just different; had a different way of looking at things. It wasn't his fault that the law kept hounding him, no more than it's Clay's. That Kilpatrick man has it in for us.”

Becky started to speak and stopped. Granddad couldn't admit that he'd made a mistake with Scott, so he certainly wasn't going to admit that he'd made one with Clay. It wouldn't do any good to have an argument with him over it, but it left her holding the bag and Clay's future in her own hands. She could see that she'd get little help from Granddad now.

“Becky, whatever your father did or didn't do, he's still my son,” he said suddenly, clenching the chair hard with his lean old hands. “I love him. I love Clay, too.”

“I know that,” she said gently. She bent down and kissed his leathery cheek. “We'll take care of Clay. They're going to give him some counseling and help him,” she said, hoping she could make Clay go to the sessions without too much browbeating. “He'll come through. He's a Cullen.”

“That's right. He's a Cullen.” He smiled up at her. “You're one, yourself. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”

“Frequently,” she said, and grinned. “When I get rich and famous, I'll remember you.”

“We'll never get rich, and Clay's likely to be the only famous one of us—infamous, most likely.” He sighed. “But you're the heart of the whole outfit. Don't let this get you down. Life can get hard sometimes. But if you see through your troubles, think past them to better times, it helps. Always helped me.”

“I'll remember that. I'd better get to work,” she added. “Be good. I'll see you later.”

She drove to the office, inwardly cringing at the thought of the ordeal ahead. She had to talk to Kilpatrick. What Clay had said about Kilpatrick trying to put him in reform school frightened her. Kilpatrick might decide to pursue it, and she had to stop him from doing that. She was going to have to bury her pride and tell him the real situation at home, and she dreaded it.

Her boss gave her an hour off. She phoned the district attorney's office on the seventh floor and asked to see the man himself. She was told that he was on his way down, to meet him at the elevator and they could talk while he got his coffee in the drugstore.

Elated that he'd deigned to at least speak to her, she grabbed her purse, straightened her flowery skirt and white blouse, and rushed out of the office.

Fortunately, the elevator was empty except for the cold-eyed Mr. Kilpatrick in his long overcoat, his thick black hair ruffled, and that eternal, infernal choking cigar in one hand. He gave her a cursory going-over that wasn't flattering.

“You wanted to talk,” he said. “Let's go.” He pushed the ground floor button and didn't say a word until they walked into the small coffee shop in the drugstore. He bought her a cup of black coffee, one for himself, and a doughnut. He offered her one. But she was too sick to accept it.

They sat down at a corner table and he studied her quietly while he sipped his coffee. Her hair was in its usual bun, her face devoid of makeup. She looked as she felt—washed out and depressed.

“No cutting remarks about my cigar?” he prompted with a raised eyebrow. “No running commentary on my manners?”

She lifted her wan face and stared at him as if she'd never seen him before. “Mr. Kilpatrick, my life is falling apart, and I don't care very much about your cigar smoke or your manners or anything else.”

“What did your father say when you told him about your brother?”

She was tired of the pretense. It was time to lay her cards on the table. “I haven't seen or heard from my father in two years.”

He frowned. “What about your mother?”

“She died when the boys were young, when I was sixteen.”

“Who takes care of them?” he persisted. “Your grandfather?”

“Our grandfather has a bad heart,” she said. “He isn't able to take care of himself, much less anyone else. We live with him and take care of him as best we can.”

His big hand hit the table, shaking it. “Are you telling me that you're taking care of the three of them by yourself?!” he demanded.

She didn't like the look on his dark face. She moved back a little. “Yes.”

“My God! On your salary?”

“Granddad has a farm,” she told him. “We grow our own vegetables and I put them up in the freezer and can some. We usually raise a beef steer, too, and Granddad gets a pension from the railroad and his social security. We get by.”

“How old are you?”

She glared at him. “That's none of your business.”

“You've just made it my business. How old?”

“Twenty-four.”

“You were how old when your mother died?”

“Sixteen.”

He took a draw from the cigar and turned his head to blow it out. His dark eyes cut into hers, and she knew now exactly how it felt to sit on the witness stand and be grilled by him. It was impossible not to tell him what he wanted to know. That piercing stare and cold voice full of authority would have extracted information from a garden vegetable. “Why isn't your father taking care of his own family?”

“I wish I knew,” she replied. “But he never has. He only comes around when he runs out of money. I guess he's got enough; we haven't seen him since he moved to Alabama.”

He studied her face quietly for a long time, until her knees went weak at the intensity of the scrutiny. He was so dark, she thought, and that navy pin-striped suit made him look even taller and more elegant. His Indian ancestry was dominant in that lean face, although he seemed to have the temperament of the Irish.

“No wonder you look the way you do,” he said absently. “Worn out. I thought at first it might be a demanding lover, but it's overwork.”

She colored furiously and glared at him.

“That insults you, does it?” he asked, his deep voice going even deeper. “But you yourself told me that you were a kept woman,” he reminded her dryly.

“I lied,” she said, moving restlessly. “Anyway, I've got enough problems without loose living to add to them,” she said stiffly.

“I see. You're one of
those
girls. The kind mothers throw under the wheels of their sons' cars.”

“Nobody will ever throw me under yours, I hope,” she said. “I wouldn't have you on a half shell with cocktail sauce.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked, lifting his chin to smile at her with pure sarcasm. “Has someone told you that I'm a half-breed?”

She flushed. “I didn't mean that. You're a very cold man, Mr. Kilpatrick,” she said, and shivered at his nearness. He smelled of some exotic cologne and cigar smoke, and she could feel the heat from his body. He made her nervous and weak and uncertain, and it was dangerous to feel that way about the enemy.

“I'm not cold. I'm careful.” He lifted the cigar to his mouth. “It pays to be careful these days. In every way.”

“So they say.”

“In which case, it might be wise if you stopped smearing honey over the mystery man who keeps you. You did say,” he reminded her, “that you were the kept woman of one of your employers?”

“I didn't mean it,” she protested. “You were looking at me as if I were totally hopeless. It just came out, that's all.”

“I should have mentioned it to Bob Malcolm yesterday,” he murmured.

“You wouldn't!” she groaned.

“Of course I would,” he returned easily. “Hasn't anyone told you that I don't have a heart? I'd prosecute my own mother, they say.”

“I could believe that, after yesterday.”

“Your brother is going to be a lost cause if you don't get him in hand,” he told her. “I came down on him hard for that reason. He needs firm guidance. Most of all, he needs a man's example. God help you if your father is his hero.”

“I don't know how Clay feels about Dad,” she said honestly. “He won't talk to me anymore. He resents me. I wanted to talk to you because I wanted you to understand the situation at home. I thought it might help if you knew something about his background.”

He nibbled the doughnut with strong white teeth and swallowed it down with coffee. “You thought it might soften me, in other words.” His dark eyes pinned hers. “I'm part Indian. There's no softness in me. Prejudice beat it out a long time ago.”

“You're a little bit Irish, too,” she said hesitantly. “And your people are well-to-do. Surely, that made it easier.”

“Did it?” His smile was no smile at all. “I was unique, certainly. An oddity. The money made my path a little easier. It didn't remove the obstacles, or my uncle, who tolerated me because he was sterile and I was the last of the Kilpatricks. God, he hated that. To top it all off, my father never married my mother.”

“Oh, you're…” she stopped dead and flushed.

“Illegitimate.” He nodded and gave her a cold, mocking smile. “That's right.” He stared at her, waiting, daring her to say something. When she didn't, he laughed mirthlessly. “No comment?”

“I wouldn't dare,” she replied.

He finished his coffee. “We don't get to pick and choose, and that's a fact.” He reached out a lean, dark hand devoid of jewelry and gently touched her thin face. “Make sure your brother gets that counseling. I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions about him.”

The unexpected apology from such a man as Kilpatrick brought tears into her eyes. She turned her face away, ashamed to show weakness to him, of all people. But his reaction was immediate and a little shocking.

“Let's get out of here,” he said curtly. He got her to her feet, purse and all, put the refuse in the appropriate container, and hustled her out of the coffee shop and into one of the elevators standing open and empty.

He closed the doors and started it, then stopped it suddenly between floors. He jerked her completely into his arms, and held her there gently but firmly. “Let go,” he said gruffly at her temple. “You've been holding it in ever since the boy was arrested. Let it go. I'll hold you while you cry.”

Sympathy was something she'd had very little of in her life. There had never been arms to hold her, to comfort her. She'd always done the holding, the giving. Not even her grandfather had realized just how vulnerable she was. But Kilpatrick saw through her mask, as if she wasn't even wearing one.

Tears tumbled from her eyes, down her cheeks, and she heard his deep voice, murmuring soft words of comfort while his hands smoothed her hair, his arm cradled her against his huge chest. She clung to the lapels of his coat, thinking how odd it was that she should find compassion in such an unlikely place.

He was warm and strong, and it was so nice for once to let someone else take the burden, to be helpless and feminine. She let her body relax into his, let him take her weight, and an odd sensation swept through her. She felt as if her blood had coals of fire in it. Something uncoiled deep in her stomach and stretched, and she felt a tightening in herself that had nothing to do with muscles.

Because it shocked her that she should feel such a sudden and unwanted attraction to this man, she lifted her head and started to move away. But his dark eyes were above hers when she looked up, and he didn't look away.