Sawyer, Meryl (10 page)

"What could I tell Brent?" she mumbled.

"The truth."

In that tiny portion of her brain that wasn't sexually obsessed,
she knew he was right. She had no business marrying a man—if another man could
make her feel like this. But she didn't dwell on the thought, the melting heat
between her thighs forced her to concentrate on the moment.

"When are you going to tell him, Royce?"

Before she could answer, a male voice yelled, "Durant...
Royce." Omigod, not Tobias Ingeblatt.

Mitch swung her around to face the reporter. A flash went off,
capturing her startled expression. Mitch was still standing behind her, his
hand down the back of her dress. Oh, Lordy, there was another reporter with a
minicam.

They couldn't see what Mitch was doing. Thank God. The crowd was
too dense, and the way he was standing behind her must look perfectly natural.
But it didn't feel that way.

"Is it true you're defending a cougar?" Tobais Ingeblatt
asked.

While Mitch explained he was assisting an animal rights group,
Royce marshaled her thoughts. Clearly, she needed a psychiatrist. She hadn't
come from a dysfunctional family; she had no unresolved childhood issues she
knew of; she didn't go in for kinky sex. Then why did she find this so
exciting?

Mitch had his fingertips tucked just under her gown's waistband,
his thumb tracing erotic circles on her bare skin. In front of millions of
viewers—for God's sakes. Her pulse rate soared and moisture built between her
thighs. Was she crazy? Absolutely. A screw—or two—loose.

"Ms. Winston, how do you think Mitch is going to defend that
cougar?" asked the TV reporter.

Royce prayed she didn't look as flushed as she felt. "I think
he's going to get the cougar off pleading self-defense," she answered,
justifiably proud of her calm tone. Somehow she found the strength to step
forward, forcing Mitch to move his hand.

"That would be an impossible defense," Mitch cut in.
"The hunter was attacked from behind. We'll be discussing this—and other
issues—on her next
San Francisco Affairs
program, right, Royce?"

"Right," she said, the sensual haze evaporating. What
kind of game was Mitch playing? She waited until the reporters left. "What
are you talking about?"

"We're such a great team," he said with a go-to-hell
grin that implied just what kind of team he had in mind. "Arnie's putting
me on again. Didn't he tell you?"

A flash of insight hit her like lightning. His head was slightly
canted to one side, exuding a primal sex appeal most women would find
irresistible, but she'd learned her lesson. He was deliberately trying to ruin
her life. And she was making it easy for him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"No, he didn't." A gusher of anger erupted deep inside
her, taking with it the fragile hold she'd kept on her temper. "Why are
you doing this? You know I hate you."

"I noticed that last weekend. If you'd hated me another few
minutes, I'd have had your panties off. And tonight—"

"You bastard." She reminded herself how much she hated
him—not that it would do any good to tell him, considering the way she'd just
allowed him to touch her.

"Ditch the mama's boy and come home with me. Let's hop in the
sack and you can show me how much you hate me."

"Dream on, Mitch." She rushed away from him, elbowing
her way through the crowd.

"I promise, you'll never forget your next interview,"
Mitch called after her.

"Lordy," she said under her breath. As surely as the sun
came up, she knew any chance she had at a TV career was finished. Mitch was too
clever to let her best him a second time. Worse, he'd be certain to make her
look like a fool.

"He's the enemy," she said out loud, but no one heard
her. She paused, not certain where she was going. Why? Why did she let him do
this to her?

It had to be the result of that summer when she'd met him. She'd
been so certain he was THE ONE. Loving, tender, intelligent. And sexy. All the
things she'd wanted in a man.

She'd spent a month in Italy daydreaming about Mitch. Erotic
dreams. The way he'd kissed her that night in the parking lot had triggered a
profound reaction.

Her body craved him like a potent narcotic. It was as if he'd
unleashed something dark and forbidden in her. But now she knew Mitch for the
cunning opportunist he was. Tonight's little episode had been part of a plan to
show her.

Mitch: one life, so many women—too much testosterone. An ego the
size of the Titanic. And she was the one fish that got away. Add to that the
fact she'd embarrassed him on TV, and Mitch was determined to humiliate her.

She couldn't let him do this to her. No. Don't blame him, she
warned herself. You're letting him do this. There had to be something she could
do, but what?

She checked around for her friends, but couldn't find them in the
crowd. Even Uncle Wally had vanished. She couldn't bring herself to go back and
face the Farenholts. What had begun as a triumphant evening was now a disaster.

Royce scanned the crowd, hoping to find her uncle before they
began serving dinner. She didn't want him sitting alone. She glimpsed Wally at
the door. Was he leaving? She opened her mouth to call to him, but saw Wally
was with Shaun.

Pivoting on one high heel, she turned back before they saw her.
They'd split up more than a year ago, but Royce knew Wally still cared. He hadn't
been the same since Shaun had left.

"There you are." Talia said, her brown hair tumbling
across her cheek, her dark eyes serious. "Your uncle asked me to tell you
he was leaving with a friend. He'll call you later in the week."

"Thanks." Over Talia's shoulder Royce saw the blue-white
flashes of cameras. The already congested auction area was jammed, people
standing shoulder to shoulder looking at someone. "Who's the fuss
about?"

"A soap star. She's wearing a dress you can practically see
through. I think—"

"Attention! Attention!" A sharp voice came over the
loudspeaker. "The diamond earrings belonging to the set from Cartier have
been misplaced. Could you check the floor around you? Anyone who finds them
please tell a security guard."

"What a mess." Talia looked distracted. "I'd better
find my date. See you later."

As Royce made her way toward the table, she noticed security
guards hired by the charity had blocked the exits and were searching the
auction area, their flashlights combing the plush carpeting.

"Darling, I've been looking for you," Brent said.

He'd been angry earlier, he wasn't now. It suddenly occurred to
Royce that she'd never seen him angry until tonight. But even the most
laid-back types had their moments, didn't they? Brent couldn't always be happy
go lucky, could he?

She stepped into the welcoming curve of his arm. He was a kind,
gentle, wonderful man. Mitch could just go to hell.

Gus Wolfe wasn't the brightest bulb in the police chandelier, and
he knew it. He kept dabbing sweat off his brow as he walked around the
ballroom. Shoulda listened to the wife, he thought, and never opened Wolfe
Security. But no, he'd wanted to moonlight and make easy money with a private
security company. Being a policeman didn't pay squat. And it had been easy
pickings—until tonight.

Christ! A roomful of San Francisco's richest citizens. Missing
jewels. What should he do? Good question. He couldn't think of a case quite
like this whopper.

Private security forces had much broader powers than the police,
that much Gus knew. They weren't hamstrung by the same laws. But did they have
the right to search this many people?

"What should we do, boss?" asked one of the kids he'd
hired at minimum wage for tonight's bash.

"No one left after the jewels disappeared?" Gus hedged.

The kid shook his head and Gus peered across the crowded room.
Shit, he didn't know what to say. He wiped off his brow again, running the back
of his hand over his receding hairline. Then he spotted Mitchell Durant.

Cocky sonofabitch. Once he'd crucified Gus on the stand. But the
bastard was sharp. He'd know what to do. The last thing Gus needed was to screw
up now. If he did, his insurance would go through the roof and he'd have to
close down. Then all he'd earn would be the crappy salary the police department
paid.

Gus made some excuse to the kid and walked over to Mitch. Durant
was looking across the crowded room. Gus followed his gaze and recognized Royce
Winston from the television program.

Mitch turned to him. "Find the jewels yet?"

"Nah. Boy, it's a tough one."

Mitch nodded, his eyes on Royce again. The bastard wasn't going to
volunteer anything. Gus would have to ask. "What do you think?"

Mitch trained his blue eyes on Gus, making him dead certain he
never wanted to piss off this prick. "You're going to have to do something
fast or people will start wondering why you haven't called the police."

"Yeah, right." He looked across the room. So many
people. Rich, influential people. He turned back to Mitch. Was he still looking
at Royce Winston? Yup. "Do we have probable cause to search people?"

"You've got cause, but I'd cover my butt or your security
service will be up to its eyeballs in lawsuits. Just because you have more
freedom than the police doesn't mean you don't have to watch your ass."

"Gotcha'. No strip search." He chuckled in spite of the
seriousness of the situation. "I was looking forward to pussy-peeping rich
broads."

"Get real. Go for voluntary compliance. Ask people to allow
you to use a metal detector. They've all been through enough airports to be familiar
with the wand detector."

"I don't have any detectors. I've been meaning to invest, but
shit... you know how it is."

"Ask hotel security if you can borrow theirs."

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"I have no idea." Mitch stared across the room. Royce
Winston—again. "My guess is the perp will ditch the earrings, and you'll
recover them before the police arrive. The thief is probably expecting you to
call the police right away. He has no way of knowing the bond you put up for
tonight doesn't begin to cover the loss, and you're desperate to find the
earrings."

Arrogant bastard, Gus thought, but he was dead on. "Thanks,
Mitch." He choked out the next words. "I owe you one."

"They'd better let us go," Ward Farenholt complained to
Brent. "This is ridiculous."

Royce studied the lavender beading on her dress rather than look
up. Mitch was watching her again with a hot, knowing gleam in his eyes. She
could almost feel his hands on her—down the back of her dress. The heat between
her thighs said her body remembered too. She couldn't deny she'd played into
his hands.

Why? Why? No answer, just a queasy feeling of self-loathing.
Clearly, she needed professional help. First thing Monday she'd contact a
psychiatrist.

"Attention, please," came the voice over the
loudspeaker. "We've searched the auction area and haven't located the
earrings. We'd like you to form a line by the fountain and volunteer to have a
metal detector scan."

"We might as well do it," Ward said, his eyes on the
mass of people moving toward the fountain, "or we'll be here all
night."

It took a moment, but Royce finally located her cat bag on a
chair. Brent put his arm around her waist, guiding her along behind Caroline and
his parents. A funnel-shaped line formed with Royce trapped in the center.

"I'll bet the metallic beads on this dress trigger the
alarm," Royce said to Brent.

"It won't matter unless you have the jewels."

The malice in Eleanor's voice astounded Royce. She had made the
right decision. That woman would make life hell if she married Brent.

Royce couldn't resist saying, "I put the earrings in my
bra."

Caroline giggled. "Stop it, Royce, or they'll strip-search
you. That would be terrible."

"Actually, I have the earrings in my purse." She held
out the cat bag, balancing it in the palm of her hand. "It was just big
enough to get them in."

"Careful, someone will take you seriously," Brent
warned.

The Farenholts were glowering at her as if they really thought her
capable of theft, their eyes frighteningly cold. There was a maliciousness
there that she hadn't noticed before.

"No one would be stupid enough to have the earrings right
where they could be found." Royce snapped open the bag.