Sawyer, Meryl (21 page)

"Okay," Mitch conceded. "Not one word about the
case."

"Thanks," Royce said to Paul, ignoring Mitch. "Tell
me what I can do to help."

"I'm going to get you a couple of wigs. Wear them when you go
out. Watch for anyone following you. Double back, stop and look in shop
windows, cross the street—that sort of thing.

"Don't
develop a routine. Most people are
creatures of habit. They leave by the same door every day, use the same bus,
return home at the same time. Vary your schedule."

Royce nodded, pointedly facing away from Mitch. "What I meant
was: What can I do to help with my defense?"

"Stay the hell out of my way," Mitch fired at her.

"You can't help Mitch," Paul said, "but you can
help me. I could use someone to go over the suspects' telephone records. It'll
be boring, but there's got to be a clue somewhere."

Her grateful smile twisted Paul's heart. Mitch didn't look
thrilled, but Paul knew he wouldn't object. The way costs were escalating, free
help was a godsend.

"I could work at night, too, since I'm all alone," Royce
said.

"You'll need a computer." Paul hesitated, then plunged
on, trusting his instincts. Enough of this verbal dog-fighting, strafing each
other constantly. Most obsessions were unhealthy, but Royce was exactly what
Mitch needed. Either they would fall in love—or kill each other. "You can
use Mitch's home computer. Right, Mitch?"

It took a second before she got it. "Mitch lives in the main
house? I'm in
his
apartment?"

"I can't stand this," Royce said to herself as she
looked out the window of her apartment at the lights in Mitch's house. She was
fighting for her life with this case, yet every time she tried to talk to Mitch
he was angry, his words calculated to hurt her.

It was bad enough that she was isolated like this, alone for the
first time ever. But not to be able to discuss the case rationally with the
attorney defending you was ridiculous, infantile. Should she change attorneys?

How could she? Even with Wally's help she didn't have enough money
to hire someone as talented as Mitch. As tenacious as Mitch. She had no choice
but to work with him.

She mustered her courage, tromped out of the apartment, and
charged across the dark garden. She banged on his door like a narc ready to
bust in, and the door swung open.

Mitch frowned at her, standing in well-worn sweatpants that gloved
his muscular thighs and rode low on his hips. He wasn't wearing a shirt to
conceal the captivating network of dark hair that fanned across his chest and
funneled down beneath the waistband of his sweats. It struck her that this was
the first time she'd seen his chest. Of course, he'd seen hers.

She barged in saying, "I need to talk to you."

"I'm on the phone."

She jammed past Mitch into the brightly lit kitchen, conscious of
him following her. A golden retriever bounded up to her. She couldn't resist
bending down to pat the friendly dog.

"Jason, call me tomorrow and let me know how you did on that
test. I'll see you this weekend." Mitch hung up and turned to her.
"That's Jenny," Mitch said, nodding to the dog. "The cat's
Oliver." The tubby tabby was doing a face-plant in his bowl. "Want
some pizza?"

"I've eaten... thanks." Someone had told Gerte about
Royce's diet. The fridge was stocked with Lean Cuisine. The enticing smell of
pizza almost made her sigh, but she refused to give in to her craving for
high-calorie food.

He leaned back against the counter, his arms belligerently crossed
over his bare chest and gave her a slow once-over. Twice. "Okay, pork
chop. Shoot."

She ignored his barb about her weight and his attempt to sexually
intimidate her. That tactic wasn't going to work anymore. Too much was at
stake. "Let's be completely honest with each other."

"Go on. This should be fascinating."

"You've been angry with me since I said I loved Brent."
Mitch remained stubbornly silent. "I would never have agreed to marry a
man I didn't love."

"Is this supposed to interest me?"

"Don't be such a wiseguy. It's childish." She'd raised
her voice enough so the tabby cocked his head to one side to peek at her but
kept chewing. "I know you hate Brent. He told me all about what went on at
Stanford."

"He did? Just what did he tell you?"

"I know you were"—she chose her words carefully. He'd
been deliberately cruel, but she wouldn't make a bad situation worse by calling
him a redneck—"poor, not as polished as Brent. He had lots of friends and
you found it difficult to make friends. You became so angry with him, you hit
him when he called you a hick."

"That's it? That's what Farenholt told you?"

"Well, Brent also admitted he resented you because you won
the National Moot Court competition that Wade Farenholt expected Brent to win.
That's why he teased you about being a hick."

"Really? That's what he said? That's all?"

"Yes." The subtle change in his voice warned her
something wasn't right, but what? "Brent feels terrible now. It was
immature, but you have to realize what pressure Ward had put him under, and to
lose out to a man who... ah, ah—"

"Was a redneck from Arkansas."

"You had the grades, but Brent had the class, the friends,
the social standing. So you spent the next years polishing yourself to be more
like Brent."

"That's crap! I worked on my accent because studies show juries
equate southern accents with uneducated people. I bought a sports car, a nice
home, and great clothes—not to be like Brent—but because I could finally afford
them."

"All right," she conceded, secretly glad he hadn't
wanted to be like Brent. Mitch should be proud of what he was, what he'd made
of himself. "But you're being nasty to me because I said I loved Brent,
aren't you?"

He pierced her with a look that forced her to suck in a calming
breath. "Hell, no. I'm pissed because you have shit for brains. I was
there, Royce. I saw it all. The minute you were in trouble that pantywaist
turned tail, didn't he? Yet you'd go right back to Brent if you got the
chance."

She didn't want to give Mitch the satisfaction of knowing how many
times she'd thought just that. Brent hadn't loved her enough to stand by her.
She would never go back to him. Never.

"Brent Farenholt doesn't know how to fight for
anything," Mitch insisted. "His
mommy
has to give it to
him."

She understood that nothing had been handed to Mitch. He'd fought
for everything he had. He was a born fighter; that's why he was so valuable to
her now. But she hated his censuring look, knowing she'd disappointed him with
Brent.

"When I agreed to marry Brent, I thought I loved him. During
the test I said I loved him—past tense. I loved the idea of the stability a
home and a family represents. Brent seemed so right." She smiled,
attempting to lighten the mood with a dose of humor. "Who would refuse a
rich heterosexual—a rare commodity in this city—who declares his undying love
for you?"

Mitch didn't respond. Instead he leveled an unwavering stare at
her.

"In retrospect I see marrying Brent would never have worked.
Never."

The silence that followed felt as wide as the Pacific. She needed
him on her side, completely. "It'll take a miracle to keep me out of
prison. I have to be able to talk to you civilly. I can't go on like
this."

He silently glared at her, his eyes so compelling, there was
nothing she could do but gaze back at him. And wonder what he was thinking. His
head was canted ever so slightly to one side, unconsciously favoring his good
ear. What had happened? she wondered with a deep pang of compassion.

"Okay, so I've been shitty. I'll shape up." He picked up
a slice of pizza and fed it to Jenny. "As long as we're being honest,
let's talk about us."

"Us?" An unwelcome tightening in her throat made the
word sound funny. Us? After the way she'd thrown herself at him, what must he
think? Be honest; your future is at stake. "I'm sorry about the other
night. You were right. I was so exhausted, I was paranoid, convinced Wally had
been killed. I would never have clung to you like that except my mind was
playing tricks on me. Now my head's on straight. It won't happen again."

With one swift stride he closed the gap between them. His hand
came up under her chin and tilted her head upward so she had no choice but to
look into eyes that were unusually blue, unusually turbulent. Eyes that were
staring at her parted lips. "Wanna bet it won't happen again?,"

Her heart didn't flutter too much as she took a step back.
"My whole future's on the line. Your reputation could be ruined if you
were involved with me. Don't you carry malpractice insurance to protect you
against situations like this?"

That got him. He retreated toward the refrigerator.

"Let's behave professionally," she said, knowing Mitch
was a man who targeted a weakness and exploited it ruthlessly. Fine. His
career, his unbridled ambition, was his Achilles' heel.

"Okay, but don't deny you're attracted to me."

"It's ridiculous," she conceded, "but it's true. I
find you very"—she stopped herself from saying
sexy
—"interesting.
But I promise not to come on to you. We've got a monumental task ahead of us.
Getting involved is out of the question."

Uncomfortable seconds ticked by. Why was he looking at her like
that? Finally, her patience gave out. "Right? Right." She mustered a
weak smile. "So now we agree."

He subjected her to a thorough, intimate appraisal meant to shock
her. But this time she wasn't letting him get to her.

"I admit you turn me on." He shook his head. "It
doesn't make any sense, but it's a fact."

A secret thrill shot through the barrier of her control, but she
tamped it down. "Then it's settled. We can work together if we ignore
this-—this attraction. No more hateful jibes, no more"-—she didn't know
quite how to put this— "physical contact. We're a team now."

He gazed at her, his look so intense that she almost flinched.

"You know, Royce, I've never met anyone like you. With luck I
never will again."

Still busy? Who could Val be talking to? Royce hated telephones,
but this was the only way she could keep in contact with her friends. She
dialed Talia's number on the portable telephone Paul had given her.

"Royce," Talia cried, "you're home. I've been
so-o-o worried about you."

"I'm not home. I'm in a safe house." She stared at the
blinking cursor on Mitch's computer as she sat in the office he had on the
second floor of his home.

"Safe house? You mean you're hiding? Why?"

"There's been too much bad publicity. I don't need more, so
I'm keeping out of sight. But I have a phone. You can call me anytime."

Talia took down the number then asked, "Do they know who
framed you yet?"

"I can't talk about the case—at all."

"Why not? They don't suspect me, do they?"

"It's just the way Mitch operates." She sidestepped the
truth. They suspected everyone, but didn't have a substantial lead.

"Really? When are we going to see each other?"

"Not for a while. But call me. I'm a little lonely."

A little lonely
didn't come close to
describing how she felt. Mitch had left town on a case, and she was living in
his apartment, spending her days—and nights—using his computer to check phone
records for Paul. Each day she battled the frightening, suffocating feeling of
being trapped in a situation beyond her control with no one she could truly
trust.

"So, what's been happening with you, Talia?"

"The usual. AA meetings. Work." Talia paused and Royce
imagined her hooking one long strand of dark hair behind her ear the way she
always did when she was nervous. Royce closed her eyes. Lord help her; she was
developing a sixth sense about bad news.

"The police have been interviewing me, Royce. I know you
can't talk about the case, but just listen. They asked me if you were having
financial problems with the wedding. I told them the truth."

Royce kept herself from groaning. What had she told Val and Talia
that day at lunch? "I'll have to rob a bank." The police were bound
to find out about the fancy wedding she couldn't afford, but did Talia have to
be the one to give them the details?

"Val told me to refuse to talk to the police. That's what she
did, but my therapist says I avoid telling the truth if I think it's going to
cause trouble. Chronic Avoidance Syndrome. That's my problem. My therapist says
the truth will set me free."

The therapist was right; Talia avoided confrontation. She needed
support to make changes that would keep her away from alcohol, but right now
Royce didn't have the strength to give it. She hung up with the disturbing
thought that Talia, one of her oldest and most trusted friends, was going to be
a witness for the prosecution.