Sawyer, Meryl (2 page)

"You're right," Royce conceded, inwardly cursing Mitch.
"I'll be polite."

Brent came up, saying he'd see her to her table, and Royce smiled
at Ward and Eleanor Farenholt as if Brent's parents had handed her a ticket to
paradise instead of a seat in hell. With Mitchell Durant.

The party's theme was sophisticated black and white. Didn't any of
the Farenholts' friends do anything different? Royce wondered as she walked
into the ballroom. Floor-length black silk table skirts peeked out from beneath
white damask cloths set with gleaming sterling. The centerpieces were clusters
of white orchids with deep plum centers arranged with an austere Japanese flair
around bent willow twigs.

"Watch out for Durant," Brent said as they approached
her table. "I don't want to lose you to him."

No chance, and Brent knew it. He spoke with the nonchalance of a
man whose good looks and wealth guaranteed he'd always have whatever he
wanted—any woman he wanted. A harmless form of inbred arrogance, Royce
acknowledged. Still, there was nothing about Brent she would change, from his
blond hair and brown eyes to his engaging smile.

His easygoing charm and love of life had first attracted Royce to
him, but later it was his concern for others that made her fall in love. He
cared for his family, his friends, but did it with such sincerity and
enthusiasm, it was easy to see why fathers approved of him and any mother in
San Francisco would give her left arm to have her daughter marry him.

Brent was the complete opposite of Mitchell Durant, Royce decided,
remembering the tragic expression on her father's face that last day when he'd
kissed her good-bye. Forever.

Brent introduced her to the guests at the table, leaving Mitchell
Durant until last, acting as if this were the first time she'd met the
prominent criminal defense attorney even though he knew Royce had met Mitch
years ago. "Royce, this is Mitchell Durant. Mitch was with me at Stanford
Law School."

Mitch had risen when they'd arrived at the table, but now as Brent
spoke there was a split second when the men's eyes met. Instantly she sensed
the hostility toward Brent that Mitch concealed with a nod. Mitch turned to
her, but she made certain she was looking at Brent, smiling happily.

She slid into her chair, hardly hearing Brent say he'd see her
later. Why didn't Mitch like Brent? She'd assumed the animosity was one sided.
Everyone liked Brent. He had a way of putting people at ease that certainly
wasn't hereditary.

She sipped her wine, covertly studying Mitch. In his late
thirties, tall, with dark hair, Mitch had a disturbing way of assessing people.
His eyes had never left her face, but she'd lay odds he'd noted her stiletto
heels and could tell a jury her bra size.

"Your column last week on divining rods was hysterical,"
Arnold Dillingham told Royce, nodding his gray head enthusiastically.

Mrs. Dillingham agreed with her husband who'd made a fortune in
cable television, then added, "I howled, simply howled, at your column
about house dust. Why, I had no idea half the dust in my home is actually dead
skin. I didn't realize people shed—like dogs."

"Our skin is always flaking off." She kept her eyes on
the Dillinghams, but she was disturbingly aware of Mitch looking at her. Why
had she worn such a low-cut dress?

"Well, the way you described it was so darn funny,"
added Mrs. Dillingham.

"That's what I'm counting on," Arnold informed everyone
at the table. "Royce has a humorous way of looking at the world. Offbeat.
Interesting."

She beamed, justifiably proud of herself. After all, how many
columnists her age—thirty-four—were nationally syndicated, producing a byline
twice a week and a feature article carried in Sunday editions nationwide?

"But can you carry a television show? And use that wit in
discussing important issues?" Arnold asked her.

"I believe I can," Royce said with as much confidence as
she could muster. She had no television experience, but she intended to give it
her best shot. She was tired of writing a humorous column. She wanted to deal
with important issues and this was her chance.

"I'm betting you can, so I personally found someone special
for you to interview on your first trial program."

"Great," she said, upset. She'd expected to discuss
Women in Crisis with someone from the center. The safe houses for abused women
were unique and a subject Royce knew well. Before Royce's mother had died,
she'd helped develop the program. Royce had given hours of volunteer service to
the group.

"This guest has a terrific new idea for helping the
homeless."

Royce wasn't familiar with programs for the homeless. Rather than
appear uninformed, she tried for a light note. "Not Governor Moonbeam.
Last I heard, Jerry Brown was trying to work off his campaign debt by waiting
tables in a Thai café."

Dillingham chuckled. "Our Mitch has a plan for helping—"

"Mitchell Durant?" she blurted out. She almost cursed
out loud. Mercifully the band struck up a waltz and distracted everyone. Except
Mitch.

The others rose to dance, but Mitch leaned close. "My name's
not a four-letter word, you know."

"You could have fooled me."

Arnold paused by her chair. "Come on, you two, dance."

She opened her mouth to make an excuse, but Mitch was already
pulling her chair out while Mrs. Dillingham babbled about how lucky Royce was
to have Mitch on her show. She stood, thinking Mitch was notorious for refusing
interviews. So, why now? Why me? Lucky, Mrs. Dillingham had said. Okay,
remember
luck
is a four-letter word.

Mitch swung her into his arms. She trained her eyes over the
shoulder of his expensive dinner jacket, ignoring him. Across the room Caroline
danced with Brent. Where was the Italian count his former girlfriend was
supposed to be dating?

Don't be jealous, Royce chided herself, thinking what she really
resented about Caroline was how easily she fit in with the Farenholts. Except
for Brent the group was terrified of rupturing a major artery by really
laughing. Instead, they made muted sounds worthy of an aspiring ventriloquist,
while Royce admitted she laughed a little too loudly at times. Especially at a
good joke.

Royce felt Mitch watching her, subjecting her to a thorough,
intimate appraisal. She studied his lapels for a moment, then lifted her head,
making eye contact for the first time. Involuntarily she flinched at the
intensity of his gaze. She'd almost forgotten how captivating his eyes were—
marine blue with flecks of black and rimmed by black bands the same dark color
as his hair.

His face was thoroughly masculine with an arresting expression that
made it hard to look away. Its angular planes were tempered by two curious
scars, small dents like oversized razor nicks. Whatever had caused the scar on
the rise of his cheekbone below his eye had narrowly missed blinding him.

The second scar, it, too, bone deep, had etched a hole the size of
a nailhead near his hairline. No one could see the third scar, identical to the
others, that she knew was hidden by his thick hair.

Mitch had a certain way of holding his head, tilting it ever so
slightly to one side as if he were listening intently, anxious to catch every
word. Once she'd thought this particular mannerism was endearing. Now it
annoyed her. She knew him for what he truly was. An ambitious jerk who'd
hounded an innocent man to death.

"We must be in hell," he said, more than a hint of a
jeer in his tone.

"What do you mean?" Good work, Royce. You sound
indifferent.

"You bastard," he mimicked her voice. "I'll see you
in hell before I ever have anything to do with you again."

She recalled her heated words. And a lot more. "You're right,
we
are
in hell."

"If memory serves"—now Mitch was smiling, gliding across
the dance floor, holding her too securely for comfort —"when I last saw
you, you promised... now, how did you put it?"

"To hack off your balls with a rusty machete."

"Right. So ladylike."

True, it had hardly been a refined statement. She'd gone nuts when
Mitch appeared at her father's funeral. The rusty machete popped into her mind
as the best way to kill Mitch —a slow, painful death—the best way to avenge her
father.

Mitch leaned closer, his turbulent blue eyes just inches from
hers. Boy oh boy she'd love to kill him. But it wouldn't bring back her father.
Nothing would. She caught Arnold Dillingham looking at them and managed to come
up with a wisp of a smile.

"About my balls"—Mitch's grin bordered on a smirk—
"if you touch my zipper, you'll have to come home with me."

"You know, you're a real bastard."

"You're not the first to bring it to my attention. And you
haven't changed, either, except I hear you're engaged." He glanced at her
bare left hand. "Love your engagement ring."

"I'll have it next week. A pear-shaped diamond the size of a
doorknob. Nine carats."

That stopped him. But she wished she hadn't mentioned the huge diamond
Brent had insisted on. The size of the stone wasn't important; Brent was the
catch. She still couldn't get used to the idea he'd chosen her when he could
have had his pick of all the eligible women in San Francisco.

"How are you getting along with the Farenholts?"

"Fine," she fibbed, "they're delightful."

Mitch stared at her and she felt a taste of what it must be like
to be on the witness stand, being cross-examined by him. "Doesn't it piss
you off—big time—to have people you don't like reject you because you're not
good enough for their son?"

She reined in her temper, reminding herself that Mitch specialized
in tricking people into revealing things. "What makes you think they don't
like me?"

He grinned—his big-bad-wolf grin—making her wish she hadn't taken
the bait. "Lots of things. Let's start with your dress."

"What's wrong with it?" Royce looked down; she hadn't
anticipated dancing in the strapless sheath. Her raised arms pulled her breasts
upward, dangerously close to exposing the dusky rims of her nipples. She tried
dropping her arms, but Mitch wouldn't let her.

His eyes, unusually blue, unusually intense, roamed slowly over
her half-exposed breasts. "I can see what you had for lunch."

She would have whacked him except the Dillinghams were dancing too
close, smiling approvingly at them.

"Caroline Rambeau, Brent's old girlfriend, would never be
caught dead in that dress."

"Of course not. She couldn't possibly hold it up."

Mitch chuckled, a deep, masculine laugh she'd chosen to forget.
She cursed herself for having made him laugh.

The Dillinghams stopped beside them. "What's so funny?"

Think of something quick, Royce told herself. A joke came to mind,
but she wasn't truly comfortable with it, considering the plight of the
homeless in the bay area. But she told it anyway, determined not to let Arnold
Dillingham know what really amused Mitch.

"Since Mitch wants to help the homeless, I was telling him
about a woman he should date. Instead of carrying a placard saying will work
for food, hers reads: WILL WORK FOR SEX.

Arnold hooted. "That's what I like about you, Royce. You can
inject humor into any topic, even a serious one."

Royce didn't think it was the least bit funny. In fact, it was
disgusting. Just what did Arnold expect on the show, a tasteless comedienne?
She wanted to be serious for a change and get away from the fluff pieces she'd
been writing.

But Arnold probably did want someone outrageous. After all, he'd
made his fortune with TV stations that played nonstop infomercials that touted
ways to become rich, successful, beautiful—or dice an onion in thirty
seconds—with a money back guarantee.

Had he lived, what would her father have said?
You're a born
writer. Someday you'll be famous.
Well, maybe. Someday. But right now all
the newspaper wanted from her was humor. They'd rejected all her serious
articles. At least Arnold was giving her a chance.

"Arnie's agreed that during my appearance on the show, your
questions will be limited to the homeless," Mitch informed her as the
dance ended. "No questions about my practice, my private life... my
past."

Watching Brent approach, set to rescue her, she recalled Mitch
usually avoided the press. "You know what I think?"

"Royce, I'm always afraid to hear what you think."

"I think you have something to hide." She left him
standing alone and went to Brent.

"What were you doing with Durant?" Brent pulled her into
his arms as the band began to play another waltz.

She told him about the revised plan for the show. He gave her a
reassuring smile; once again she realized how startlingly handsome he was. But
unaware of it. Just being with him made her happy. Despite being rich and
outrageously good looking Brent was down to earth and so affectionate. He had
many of the qualities she had admired in her father.