Sawyer, Meryl (16 page)

Mitch put his hand on her shoulder, and she had to admit it felt
warm, reassuring. "Okay, let me explain what's going to happen. Paul is
driving us to an apartment where you'll stay—"

"I want to go home." Heaven—her own bed. There was a
mystery here, she knew, but she was beyond exhaustion, intellectually incapable
of solving the puzzle or even lending a coherent thought to the process. But
with just a little sleep she'd be herself again. If only she could sleep.

"You can't go home. The police are still inventorying it as a
crime scene. Even if you could go there, reporters would be on you like
locusts. They're a pack of self-anointed moral mascots led by that ass, Tobias
Ingeblatt."

"Part of our job is going to be to reverse the tide of
negative publicity," Paul said over his shoulder. "Contrary to what
you may think, the public perception of a defendant often affects the jury's
verdict."

"Until your trial the media isn't going to see you. No one is
except the defense team," Mitch added.

"I have to see my friends and"—she sucked in a
head-clearing breath of air. How could she have forgotten?—"Uncle Wally.
Have you learned anything?"

"Looks like he took a trip to me," Paul responded.
"Any ideas where he might have gone?"

"No. I can't imagine him taking a trip without telling the
editor at the
Examiner."

She worried about her uncle as the van left the brightly lit
streets for elegant Presidio Heights with its classical Beaux Arts homes
nestled between immaculate Victorians. They drove down a back alley and used a
remote control to open a single-car garage typical of the area.

Inside, Mitch helped her out as Paul said, "I'll pick up
Gerte and come back for you."

They're a good team, she realized, smooth, efficient. Mitch put
his hand on the back of her waist and guided her up a narrow flight of stairs
to an apartment over the garage that had obviously once been servants' quarters
for the main house she glimpsed on the other side of a small garden. Beyond it
she saw the bay and knew the main house would have a million-dollar view.

"We've stocked the kitchen and have what you'll need in the
bathroom. The clothes will have to do until I get the police to release
yours." Mitch opened the door and flicked on the light, revealing a small
living room and kitchenette. The furniture, in muted shades of aqua, looked
brand new but feminine. Mitch tossed his briefcase on the dainty coffee table.
"The bedroom's in there. Get some sleep and I'll wait for Paul to bring
Gerte."

"Who's Gerte?"

"She'll stay here and make sure no one bothers you."

She was still a prisoner, Royce decided, almost opening her mouth
to argue, but decided Mitch was right. She was so exhausted, she couldn't
concentrate. She didn't have the strength to fight off tenacious reporters like
Tobias Ingeblatt. "I need to take a bath. The showers in the jail don't
have hot water—unless you're first in line."

Mitch flopped down on the sofa. "Go ahead."

The small bedroom had a double bed with an eyelet dust ruffle and
an antique nightstand. Again everything looked and smelled new. It was even
more feminine than the living room. A dozen downy toss pillows in various
shades of aqua were arranged against the scalloped headboard shaped like a
seashell. The aqua towels in the adjacent bathroom were new, too, but the old
fashioned ball-foot tub reminded her that this was one of the city's oldest neighborhoods
as well as one of its most prestigious.

The cabinets held more than she'd need for a short stay. "How
long did Mitch say I'd be here?" she asked out loud, hoping the noise
would clear her muzzy brain. But her groggy mind couldn't formulate an answer.
She turned on the taps and poured a stream of bath salts into the deep tub. She
undressed and tossed the beaded gown into the waste-basket. "Talk about
bad memories."

There was a terry robe on the hook on the back of the door. She had
faith that she'd find suitable clothes in the bedroom closet. Obviously,
someone had gone to a great deal of trouble.

She was in the tub, neck resting against the rim, her hair tossed
over the side to keep it dry, when she thought about locking the door. She
wasn't comfortable being naked in the tub with Mitch just outside. Her mind
finally registered what her eyes must have seen when she'd noticed the robe.
The lock had been removed, leaving small holes and a mark.

Several disjointed thoughts occurred to her before her exhausted
brain settled on the obvious. "Mitch thinks I'm going to kill
myself," she said to the bank of bubbles tickling her chin. "That's
why Gerte's staying with me." She put her hands on the rim of the tub, set
to get out and tell Mitch that she'd never do such a thing. But all her energy
had been sapped. "It isn't worth the effort."

Bone weary, she closed her eyes, glorying in the luxury of the
privacy of a hot bath—and the quiet. It was never quiet in the county jail.
Someone was always talking or crying. It was never dark, either, she recalled,
seeking refuge in the darkness behind her lids. Heaven.

Her mind drifted and she went into a dreamlike trance. She
pretended to be at home again, standing in the living room she'd known all her
life. So very real, she mused, comforted by familiar surroundings. Home.

But why was it dark? So very dark. Pitch-black, shapes were
discernible only by varying degrees of darkness. Why wasn't the light on? She
reached for the switch, feeling the cool plaster of the wall beneath her
fingers. Nothing.

Something disturbed her, making her wary. The concealing darkness
hid an evil presence she could almost feel. Something evil. No. Someone evil.

Someone else was in the room with her. Breathing heavily. Like a
wild animal she sensed mortal danger and reacted instinctively. She spun
around, charging toward the door, her mind screaming, "Escape or
die!"

A glint of light shot at her, a reflection of the streetlight
through the hexagonal window in the front door. A knife. Its blade gleamed a
pure, hateful silver in the eerie light of the full moon. A deadly knife.

This was no ordinary knife, she realized, debilitating fear
overwhelming her. Before she could escape, the cold steel blade found her
jugular. Her only chance was to scream loud enough to attract the neighbors'
attention.

The keening cry made her flinch. Her eyes snapped open, the shrill
wail still echoing in the tiled bathroom. She wasn't at home.

She was—where was she? For a moment her brain stalled. Oh, yes, at
some apartment Mitch had found. Safe.

"A dream." She gasped. "Thank God."

"But you're not safe," she said to herself. "This
is a premonition." Someone would try to kill her.

Mitch burst through the door. "What the hell's going
on?"

She put her hand to her throat where the knife had been, dead
certain she could feel blood, but there was nothing on her fingers. Still,
she'd been warned.

"Royce, why did you scream? The neighbors will call the
cops."

She sagged back, head against the rim of the tub, unaware the
bubbles didn't quite conceal her breasts. "It's the only way."

Mitch studied her a moment, and she vaguely noticed he'd taken off
his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. His cuffs were rolled back to the elbow,
revealing strong forearms. He flipped the lever on the tub. "Get
out."

It took several seconds to comprehend the tub was quickly
draining. She'd be sitting stark naked in bubbles. "I dreamed someone was
trying to kill me."

Mitch handed her the terry robe, then turned away for a moment.
She stood, up to her shins in bubbles. Before she could tie the belt, he lifted
her out of the tub. Her feet hit the cold tile and she almost collapsed, fear
and exhaustion overwhelming her.

A thought nagged at her. There was something strange—
different—about the house, something didn't fit. She was so weary that she was
intellectually incapable of solving the mystery.

"Mitch, I'm serious"—he was rubbing her briskly now,
drying her off with the robe, the oddest expression on his face—"someone
is trying to kill me."

He stopped and looked into her eyes. The intensity of his gaze was
enough to take most women's breath away. He freed her long hair trapped beneath
the robe's shawl collar and fanned the damp strands across her shoulders.
"Angel, listen to me."

The intimate tone of his voice brought her up short. Angel? We're
in hell, aren't we?

"You haven't slept much in almost a week, have you?"

Angel.
The word kept ringing through her mind. "No."

"Without sleep the mind plays tricks and induces paranoia.
It's the best way to brainwash a person. Always has been."

"But it wasn't a dream exactly, it was a premonition."

"Do you get them often?"

"No. This was the first time."

"It was just a nightmare, Royce. That's all."

"No, it was a warning," she protested as he guided her into
the bedroom. There was something very strange about the dream. Something was
wrong. Still, her mind couldn't focus on what it was.

"They've killed Uncle Wally." She had no idea what made
her say it, but she knew it was true. Just as she knew she'd face a psychopath
with a knife.

Mitch didn't answer, instead he yanked back the covers, then eased
her down on the bed. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"You don't believe me." She had the feeling he was
concentrating more on the deep V of her robe than what she was saying.
"Someone's after me."

Mitch sat on the bed beside her and touched her cheek with the pad
of his thumb. "Only Paul and I know where you are. Gerte, the woman
staying with you, is tough. Her family invented the SS. She comes with a black
belt—and a Magnum."

He put his arm around her, bringing her against the solid strength
of his chest. She was astonished at how safe he made her feel, even though she
knew he was wrong. Someone had killed Uncle Wally. She'd be next.

But for now it was comforting to have someone strong, someone
who'd thought about her protection—even before she knew she was in danger. She
tested the idea. "I'm safe." Safe with Mitch. This had to be hell.

His lips brushed her forehead; she was too groggy to decide if it
had been an accident or if he'd kissed her.

He started to rise, but she grabbed his hand. "Get some
sleep. I'll be nearby preparing for court tomorrow."

She couldn't stop herself from reaching for him, his broad form
silhouetted against the light from the living room. He leaned toward her, and
her hands grasped his muscled shoulders, slid around his neck, and clung.

"Don't leave me." Her words were muttered against the
curve of his neck. "I'm afraid."

His arms circled her waist. "I won't let anyone hurt
you." His hands caressed her tangled hair, then gently kneaded the base of
her neck. "I promise."

"Mitch." His name was really a sigh, an exhausted
expression of her relief and growing sense of security. As she said his name,
her lips brushed the hollow of his neck. His hands froze, no longer soothing
her. "Hold me," she whispered against his warm skin.

"Royce." He pulled back a fraction of an inch.

But she refused to let him go. The grip of mind-numbing fear had
eased. Still, being in his arms felt right, safe. Affectionate by nature, she'd
always enjoyed cuddling. He held her snugly, rocking ever so slightly. She
allowed one hand to slide down to the opening of his shirt and touch the whisk
of chest hair, brushing the skin beneath. Before she knew it, she was sensuously
stroking the wall of his chest and the strong muscles that greeted her
fingertips.

"Royce," he repeated, his intake of breath sharp.

Exhausted, frightened by her dream, she still sensed he wanted her
as much as she needed him. A fair trade, she bargained, unwilling to face the
night alone. She tilted her head back and offered him her lips, vaguely aware
the robe had opened, revealing even more of her breasts.

He cupped her head between his hands as his lips met hers in a
searing kiss. A kiss that made her toes itch. Itch for more. She angled her
head to the side, her tongue dancing with his. Now her breasts itched,
especially her nipples. She sensed there was a reason she shouldn't be doing
this, but for the life of her couldn't think what it was.

She took his hand and edged it under the robe. He didn't need any
more encouragement. In an instant his hand found one taut nipple, his fingers
circling the tip. She furrowed into his thick hair, stroking his scalp. Before
she realized it, Mitch had her stretched out on the bed and he was beside her,
the robe fully undone, revealing damp skin still pink from the bath and scented
with lavender.

"Don't stop." Did she say that?

Warm and firm, his hand closed over one breast, squeezing ever so
slightly, reshaping it to fit his palm, then easing it back and forth against
his shirt.

"Royce, you're so goddamned sexy."