Sawyer, Meryl (28 page)

"Yeah. They found the sonofabitch not guilty.

"I charged him five times the going rate just to put up with
him and what he did."

"Was he guilty?"

Mitch laughed, but he wasn't really amused. "Yup. Only four
percent of the felony arrests in this state go to trial. The government only
prosecutes slam dunks. Virtually everyone I defend is guilty."

"How do you win so many cases?"

"Depends." Mitch's eyelids were at half-mast now.
"This time it was the battle of the expert witnesses. My client stole
someone's patent. Our experts said it was different from the original. Their
experts argued it wasn't. The jury was confused. That's when reasonable doubt
kicks in to save asses like this guy."

"How do you live with yourself?" she blurted out.

"By taking certain cases for nothing."

"Innocent people like me."

He tried to smile. "Not always innocent—but deserving."

"Like the cougar they want to put down."

"Uh-huh." His insolent smile said he had his doubts.

"What about Zou-Zou Maloof? Was she paranoid from Halcion
when she stabbed her husband to death?"

He seemed more interested in the way the blanket molded her body
than the subject. "She had a prescription for Halcion," he responded,
an intimate pitch to his voice.

She tried to throttle the sexual current surging through her. This
was serious business. Her future depended on this man and his ability to
manipulate the system. But what did she really know about him? Not nearly as
much as she should.

"You have your own standards," she said with a flash of
insight into this complex man. "That's why no drug lord has you on
retainer. That's why you don't touch rape cases."

He edged closer; his legs, still above the covers, brushed hers.
The gleam of desire in his eyes couldn't be disguised. Why didn't she turn
away? Or say no?

But his hands... Oh, Lordy, his hands were already threading
through her hair, caressing her scalp. Then his lips touched hers, soft but
firm. Demanding. Of course, she opened her mouth.

Thick and heavy, her blood pounded in her temples. She should get
up this second. Mercy, what he could do to her without even half trying. There
was a dreamy intimacy to their kiss and the way his body, separated by the
covers, still managed to mold against hers. It wasn't as blatantly carnal as
some of Mitch's kisses, but it was a kiss for a frightened soul to melt into.

A soul kiss. Most definitely. It annihilated her defenses, her
better judgment. She lost the will to resist, with an inward sigh, as she
succumbed to the seductive kiss, his tongue burrowing a little deeper into her
mouth with each thrust.

Her breasts swelled with pleasure and a depth charge of excitement
exploded in the pit of her stomach. Though buffered by the thin covers, she
savored the muscular planes of his torso and the heavy thud of his heart
against her soft breasts. Oh, my, he was simply too good at this.

Unexpectedly, Mitch drew back and gazed at her. "Remember,
Royce. We're in hell. And the pact you made with the devil was never to dig
into my past or ask questions about my business."

Those lone wolf eyes flashed a warning that would have terrified
most people. Why, he'd kissed her to shut her up. He didn't want to explain why
he didn't defend men accused of rape. And fool that she was, she'd leapt at the
chance to kiss him.

"Sorry," she mumbled as he rolled onto his back, but she
wasn't one damn bit sorry she'd asked about his business. She wanted to know
more about him.

Why was he so protective of every facet of his life? Perhaps there
was
some kind of link between how he practiced law and his past. She
waited a few minutes for him to say something and fill the awkward silence.

Finally, she whispered, "Mitch."

He didn't respond. His chest was moving evenly; he'd fallen
asleep. She propped herself up on one elbow and studied him.

Whiskers bristled across his jaw, making him look even more
masculine and a little dangerous. He shifted restlessly to one side so his good
ear was now against the pillow. If she whispered his name, he wouldn't hear
her. If she said, "I love you," he'd never know.

She fought an overwhelming urge to gather him to her breast and
tell him how sorry she was about whatever had happened to his hearing. Instead
she reminded herself that he was the enemy. It didn't quite ring true, the way
it once had, but it did keep her from touching him, from caressing his bad ear.

What had cost him his hearing? It must have happened in those lost
years of his youth when he'd been desperate enough to forge a birth certificate
to get into the Navy. How old could he have been? He had to be eighteen to
enlist, so his troubles had begun before then.

But what about the present? Why an account in the Cayman Islands?
What was Mitch hiding?

She turned out the light and was surprised at how easily she fell
asleep. True, haunting thoughts of someone stalking Linda Allen paraded through
her mind along with the usual array of vignettes about people she suspected one
minute—-and trusted completely the next. Even so, having someone nearby,
someone she could rely on, comforted her more than she could have imagined.

The hazy light of early dawn filled the room when she awoke and found
the covers were down around her waist. Mitch's, head was on her pillow and his
arm was draped across her midriff, her breasts resting on his forearm.

She was still under the covers and he was on top, but she was
disturbingly aware of the intimate—almost natural— way their bodies were
entwined. How long had they been that way? All night, most likely.

Anyone walking into Mitch's bedroom would assume they were lovers.
She scooted away an inch at a time, but she only got so far before Mitch hauled
her back against the solid wall of his chest.

He didn't awaken, but just snuggled closer, his face now buried in
her hair. She had to concede it felt comforting to be cradled in his arms, the
firm length of his body curved securely around hers. Drowsy, she drifted back
to sleep, feeling protected.

"You remember what to say?" Mitch asked Royce.
"Just those two sound bites. Nothing more. It'll be perfect for the
evening news. Then Wally takes over for a full interview."

"Yo, Mitch. She's got it," Paul said from the driver's
seat. "You've been over it fifty times."

Royce and Wally were riding in Paul's car to the courthouse, where
Judge Ramirez would listen to their request to postpone the trial. Before the
hearing Royce would give her first interview, part of Mitch's strategy to
change the public's opinion of her.

Since staying the night with Mitch, she'd seen little of him. He
had spent the weekend going over the details of Linda Allen's murder with Paul
while she watched the workmen install a security system in the apartment.

Mitch and Paul believed that there was something going on that
they didn't understand. They were convinced that she could be in danger.
Personally, she had her doubts, but they insisted she keep the alarm on even in
the daytime. Walks, of course, were out of the question.

Paul and Mitch left her in the car with Wally, outside the
courthouse. In the distance she saw the legions of reporters, the mobile news
units, and even a helicopter circling overhead. Her mind was congested with
doubts. She wished she were as confident about pulling this off as Mitch was.

"My friend was able to check into that Cayman account,"
Wally said interrupting her thoughts.

She smoothed the skirt of the suit Mitch's consultant insisted she
wear, a conservative gray skirt with a long jacket and a demure white blouse.
This was the first time she'd been alone with Wally since Mitch had arranged
for the interview.

"Mitch's money is going to a private clinic in Alabama— a
very expensive private clinic," Wally added.

Royce wondered if Wally heard her sigh of relief. "What kind
of patients are there?"

"They treat everything from schizophrenia to mental
retardation. It's a first class place."

She saw Mitch talking to the reporters. The breeze ruffled his
hair, making him look slightly boyish despite his intense expression.
"Obviously, it's someone in his family. Drop it. He has a right to his
privacy."

"True. If I snoop around the clinic, someone's bound to
report it to Mitch, but I'm going to the South to do an article on chicken
ranching's negative impact on the environment. I'm going to try another angle
and see what I can find out about him."

She put her hand on Wally's arm. "Please, don't."

"Oh, shit."

Royce flinched; Wally never cursed.

"What the hell are Ward and Brent doing here?"

Her gaze swung to the top of the courthouse steps, where Brent and
Ward were talking and looking down at the crush of reporters. She stifled a
gasp. Why were they here? Of course, they might have business, but now? Or was
it merely Ward's perverse way of humiliating his son, showing him that he'd
almost married a common criminal?

It took her a few seconds to realize she was staring at Brent.
Handsome, charming Brent. And feeling nothing but disgust. A fine sheen of perspiration
covered her—pure nerves generated by the thought of facing the media. Once she
would have sworn Brent would have stood by her side throughout an ordeal like
this. Now she knew better.

"You know," Wally said quietly, and she turned to meet
his earnest green eyes, eyes that were so like her own, "I just had a wild
thought. Could it be that this is a huge conspiracy involving Brent, his
parents, and Caroline?"

Royce would have laughed if Wally hadn't looked so serious.
"Like the Agatha Christie novel where everyone was guilty? I doubt it. I
can understand the Farenholts and Caroline, but why Brent?"

Wally shrugged. "You're probably right. I'm just frustrated
that I can't find anything. I hope Paul Talbott's having better luck."

Royce didn't answer. Her uncle was too savvy to honestly believe
Paul had found anything. If he had, they wouldn't be asking for a continuance.
Mitch had opted for the delay after the informant's murder. Without Linda Allen
the defense had a weak case. No case, actually.

The car door swung open and Paul said, "They're ready for
you." He gave Royce an encouraging smile.

Royce and Wally walked up to the bank of microphones just as Mitch
had instructed. Think of Marie Antoinette stepping up to the guillotine, he'd
said. Look noble, but tragic. She wasn't much of an actress, but she'd
rehearsed, and watched herself on the video playback, enough to know just how
to hold her head, how to keep her eyes open wide as if fighting back tears.

She looked over the reporters elbowing each other, jockeying for
position, and the dozens of cameras, and froze, seeing Tobias Ingeblatt. Why
did that man make her so nervous? she wondered, staring at him. His bald head
glistened in the sun, the bristly tuft of red hair shot up from his crown and fluttered
in the breeze. No question about it; he gave her the willies.

She was aware of the crowd's expectant glare. Could she do this?
Mitch touched the small of her back, and beside her —the way he'd always been
throughout her life—stood Wally. For some reason Royce thought of her father.
He always told her: "You'll never walk alone." Papa was here with
her—in spirit.

Royce looked into the cameras. "Please help me."

Before Royce could deliver the second, well-rehearsed line, she
heard, "Royce is innocent. Royce is innocent. We want justice."

It took her a minute to locate the female voices that were
shouting their support for her. Talia and Val stood off to the side with
several other friends. Royce couldn't bank the tears that came to her eyes.

"I've been framed," she said, struggling to keep her
voice level and blessing her friends for coming out to help her.

The reporters waited, expecting more than two quick sound bites,
but she stepped back as planned and Wally took over.

"Great," Mitch whispered in her ear as he took one arm
and Paul took the other, leading her into the court.

The plan was to let Wally, the veteran reporter, known and
respected in the media, field questions. The evening news, if everything went
as expected, would feature Royce's simple statement designed to be remembered
in a world bombarded with media hype. Instead of being painted the conniving
bimbo, she'd become the victim, the underdog.

Out of the corner of her eye Royce saw Brent and his father go
into the building. She wondered if Mitch had seen them. Before she could ask,
Val and Talia broke through the crowd. Tears again welled up, threatening her
composure. How could she have suspected them?

"Mitch, I need to talk to my friends." For a moment she
didn't think he was going to let her go, but he stepped aside.

Talia hugged Royce, openly crying. "I've been so
worried."