Sawyer, Meryl (34 page)

Val heaved a sigh, her eyes intense, filled with pain. "Friday,
Mother called to tell me"—she looked away—"my brother has an
inoperable brain tumor. It's just a matter of time... but he's going to
die."

Paul stared bleakly at her. Val had been through too much already.
Not this too. He gathered her in his arms and held her snugly. "Oh, Val,
I'm so sorry."

Tears trembled on her lashes and finally broke free, leaving a
moist path down her cheeks. "I don't want him to die. What am I going to
do?"

"David will want his family around him in his final days,
won't he?"

"Yes, of course, but how can I face him? My ex-husband,
Trevor, will be there. And Mother. They all lied and deceived me. I'm still so
angry. I don't know what I might say or do."

He handed her his handkerchief and let her wipe away her tears.
"Val, nothing is more final than death. When David's coffin is lowered
into the ground, you'll never be able to turn back the clock. He'll be
gone—forever. How will you feel then?

The next day when Royce arrived at Mitch's office to work with the
defense team while Mitch was in L.A. on another case, Paul was waiting for her.
"Did you find out anything new?"

"You were right about the Italian count that Caroline is
dating," Paul answered.

Royce thought what a nice man he seemed to be, but it still struck
her as unusual that he would have hired Val without being totally certain she
wasn't the one behind this.

"The count is really an actor from Texas. He filmed a few
spaghetti Westerns in Italy. That's where he picked up his accent. I've gone
over him with white gloves. He looks clean."

Royce thought about Mitch. He'd reinvented himself. Why not the
Italian count? It was his entree into society. He might even marry an heiress.
"Does Caroline know?"

"No, and it's not my place to tell her."

"Any luck finding Ward Farenholt's mistress?"

"None. Ward is sticking close to home these days. Caroline
and the count are over a lot, but that's it."

"Brent's there too?"

"No. He's spending time with Talia."

Royce didn't let the stab of betrayal she felt show. What could it
possibly matter? Anyway, her mind was on Mitch— not Brent. Last night she'd
checked the phone a dozen times, certain it was out of order. It wasn't. Mitch
just didn't bother to call. Obviously, he'd gotten her out of his system.

She told herself it didn't matter. She wasn't in love with Mitch.
They'd simply reached a point where their physical attraction had to be
resolved. Now it was. Come on, Royce, concentrate on what's important. You want
your life back, don't you?

"I haven't been able to discover who murdered the informant
either," Paul admitted with a shake of his head. "I want you to be
careful. I'm not sure what's going on with this case. My gut instinct says you
could be in danger."

"All right," Royce promised, but she doubted she was in
danger. Why would anyone want to kill her? Torturing her like a turtle on its
back in the desert sun had to be more satisfying than a bullet, which would
mercifully end her life in a second.

By the end of the week Royce's emotions were fluctuating
dangerously between anger and hurt. Mitch hadn't called once. The defense team
was working her hard now, conducting a mock trial for a focus group of
participants paid to pretend they were real jurors evaluating her case.

This was supposed to give the defense team a chance to try out
their arguments and prepare Royce, but facing twelve sets of accusing eyes was
wearing on her. When evening came she was alone with too much time to think.
She honestly didn't know what she'd do when she saw Mitch.

A sharp spasm of guilt hit her. Hadn't she learned anything from
her father's experience with Mitch? Remember, Mitch is a man whose ambition
overrides anything else. Don't fall for him. It'll only compound your problems.

A knock at the door startled Royce. It couldn't be Mitch; he
wasn't due back for a few days. She cautiously peered out the window. Even if
she didn't share Paul's opinion that the informant's killer might target her
next, she was cautious. But it wasn't a killer at the door; it was Wally.

She greeted him with an affectionate hug. "I've been worried
about you. Why didn't you call?"

"Sorry," he said, with a half-smile that lit up the
green eyes that were so like her own. "I had to go underground to get the
scoop on the chicken farm. No phone."

She smiled. Now, this was the Wally she remembered. A master of
disguises, he often went underground to get a story. But he looked tired, worried.
Was he still concerned about Shaun? Or was she causing him to lose sleep?

He put both hands on her shoulders and peered into her eyes.
"How's it going?"

"Preparing for the trial is grueling." Although she
usually shared her problems with Wally how could she possibly explain to him
that she'd made love to the man who'd persecuted his brother, causing him to
commit suicide?

A gnawing emptiness, almost an emotional paralysis, enveloped her.
Isolated, she couldn't share her feelings with anyone. Her despair must have
shown in her face.

"Let's get you out of here," Wally said. "Put on a
wig and let's go down to Fisherman's Wharf and have dinner. You love to watch
the sea lions."

Wally was right. They sat on the pier, sharing a jumbo basket of
fresh crab legs and watching the horde of sea lions basking in the last rays of
a waning sun. Royce felt much better than she had all week.

She told herself that it didn't matter if Mitch called. Making
love to him had been inevitable, but she had to get on with life, with the
upcoming trial. She couldn't afford to mope over him like some teenager with
more hormones than common sense.

"How's Mitch?" Wally asked casually. Too casually.

"He's away on a case." Did he suspect?

"While I was in Alabama, I did a little checking on
him."

"You didn't! I thought we agreed to drop it." What would
happen if Mitch found out? Dear God, she didn't need anything else to go wrong.

"I was just passing through Gilroy Junction and saw the
recruiting office. Know what? The officer who signed up Mitch was still there
and he remembered him." Wally paused and tossed a piece of crab to a sea
lion who kept barking at them. "The officer knew Mitch had been accused of
stealing a carton of milk."

"He must have been hungry. Maybe he was a homeless
runaway." Royce tried to imagine Mitch as a boy forced to steal to
survive. No wonder he's so tough, so cynical. Who knew what private hell he'd
emerged from?

"You're right. Mitch was homeless. The officer felt sorry for
him because he'd been sleeping in the alley behind Pizza Hut. He thought Mitch
would be better off in the Navy, so he ignored the bogus birth certificate and
called someone who'd vouch for Mitch. A nun named Sister Mary Agnes at St.
Ignatius Academy in Waycross Springs verified the facts on the phony
certificate."

A wave of shame washed over Royce. How can you feel sorry for
yourself? Why, she was surrounded by people trying to help her. Not Mitch. Back
then he'd been totally alone, sleeping in the cold, eating anchovies people had
picked off their pizzas, forced to steal milk to survive.

A living hell. But he'd survived—and triumphed. That knowledge
gave her courage. Somehow she'd get through this.

"For some reason the nun lied," Wally insisted. "Why
would she do such a thing? I'm going back South next week. I'll see if I can
find out the truth."

"Please don't. This has nothing to do with my case. Don't
make Mitch angry."

"There's something strange about this case, something even a
pro like Paul Talbott can't uncover. There's a missing link somewhere, and I'll
be damned if I let you go to jail if there's something I can do to prevent
it."

Later that night Royce's portable telephone rang. It couldn't be
Val or Talia. They'd called as they usually did earlier in the evening.

"Hello?" Was it Mitch?

"Royce?" The deep voice sent a shock wave of raw anger
through her. Brent. The disloyal jerk. "Talia gave me your number. I hope
you don't mind."

Royce forced herself to be calm. Once she would have told him what
a bastard she thought he was—just the way she'd attacked Mitch at her father's
funeral—but too much was at stake to alienate Brent. This was her chance to
persuade him not to testify against her.

"I'm sorry about all that's happened, Royce. I want to talk
to you."

"I'm listening," she said, her tone not betraying her
anger.

"I think we should meet somewhere."

Mitch would go ballistic if he found out she was even talking to
the star witness for the prosecution. Meeting Brent would be pure insanity.

"Please, Royce, it's important. I need to talk to you."

She almost said no, but a wrenching pain, an amalgam of
hopelessness and a deep anger borne of frustration, kept her quiet. Everyone
ordered her around, taking charge of the case that was just another case to
them, but one that would decide her future. This was her chance to do something
to help herself by persuading Brent not to testify.

An hour later she rushed into a North Beach coffeehouse. They'd
agreed no one would recognize either of them in the dark café. She hadn't worn
a wig, but she was wearing huge tortoiseshell glasses that disguised her face.
Brent was waiting at a booth in the dimly lit rear section. He rose when he saw
her approaching.

Designer clothes had been intended for bodies like Brent's. Lanky.
Lean. An inbred air of understated elegance. Mitch was a shade too tall, a bit
too muscular, but he was infinitely more masculine. And he was mentally and
emotionally tougher than Brent.

For a second she wondered what Mitch would have been like had he
grown up in a life of wealth and privilege. He'd never have been as easygoing
as Brent, as comfortable with himself and the world. No. There was a
subterranean undercurrent to Mitch's personality that would have shaped him
into a dynamic man no matter what the circumstances of his birth.

Still, she couldn't help asking herself just what had happened to
Mitch. Why had he run away from home? How had he lost the hearing in one ear?
Who was the nun who loved him so much she'd broken her vows and lied for him,
verifying a phony birth certificate? There had to have been a good reason for a
nun to take a risk like that.

"You look terrific," Brent said as she slipped into the
booth, taking care to keep her back to the room so she wouldn't be recognized.

She removed the glasses and asked herself what she'd seen in
Brent. True, he was outrageously handsome and charming. But something was
missing, she realized. Or maybe this ordeal had simply changed her so much that
she was no longer the same person. Brent was probably
exactly
what he'd
always been—an endearing boy who had grown older, but never quite grown up. He
simply didn't have Mitch's depth and power.

Had she ever really been in love with this man? Of course not.
She'd wanted a home. A family. Losing both parents had taken its toll on her
emotionally, leaving her more vulnerable than she'd realized until now.

Could she trust Brent? No. He'd proven how unreliable he could be
the night she'd been arrested. Could she trust anyone? Not really. Bewildered, she
prayed nightly—not for revenge, but for deliverance.

Somehow she had to save herself. She had to focus on that and
nothing else. What did it matter if she had once deceived herself into thinking
she loved Brent? Did it even matter that she was slowly—against her
will—falling hopelessly in love with Mitch?

No, Royce. Nothing is more important than saving yourself.

"Royce," Brent began, and she could hear the nervousness
in his voice that she'd only noticed before when Ward was angry with him.
"I'm really sorry about this mess, you know. Are you all right?"

She managed a nod. All right? How could she be all right when
faced with a trial that could cost her the best years of her life? Calm down.
Now isn't the time to lose your temper. "You wanted to talk to me?"

Brent tried the smile that could melt the ice cap, but it didn't
work. She gazed at him, barely able to keep from telling him what she really
thought of him.

"I'm ashamed of myself, you know," Brent confessed.
"I should have come to your rescue the second they found those diamonds in
your purse."