Sawyer, Meryl (35 page)

"It certainly would have helped if you'd insisted it was a
joke. If it had been Caroline, you and your parents would have jumped to her
defense."

"Yes, Father would have protected Caroline," Brent
admitted. "But I was too blown away to react. I'm not used to scandals...
or anything."

How true, Royce thought. Life had been smooth sailing for Brent.
Money and good looks meant untroubled waters. No one would expect his
girlfriend to be arrested. Without giving it a second thought she knew Mitch
would have stood by her.

"I know you're not guilty. You'd never steal or take
drugs."

"Who do you think did it?" She assured herself this
wasn't actually discussing the case, but maybe she could learn something that
Paul hadn't.

Brent shrugged, his one-shouldered shrug she'd once thought so
cute. Now it annoyed her as much as his habit of adding
you know
to his
sentences. "That Italian count Caroline's been dating is probably behind
all your problems."

"Why would he have a grudge against me?" Royce
remembered the count was really an actor from Texas, but didn't share the
confidential information with Brent.

"You know, there's something funny about the guy, but he
wouldn't have any reason to hurt you, would he?"

She wasn't surprised that Brent had detected something odd about
the count. Brent loved to play the good ole rich boy to the hilt. He put people
at ease by never emphasizing his wealth or his intelligence, but he had a very
incisive mind. He was a lot more intelligent—and shrewder—than most people
thought.

"Did you meet the count in Italy when you were living with
your cousins?"

Mitch and Paul had asked the same question. "No. The first
time I met him was when he came to dinner at your parents' with Caroline."
There had been something strange about that evening. Eleanor, easily impressed
by titles, fawned over the count, but Ward and Brent had been unusually silent.

Brent paused for the waiter to take their orders, then said,
"I wouldn't be surprised if Mitch was behind this." There was an edge
to Brent's voice that she'd never heard before, and a solemn look in his eyes
that said he actually believed Mitch had done it.

For a second her protective instincts flared—not that Mitch had
ever needed her protection—and she experienced an annoying surge of affection
for him. "Mitch, why? It doesn't make sense."

Brent ran his slim fingers over the demitasse spoon the waiter had
given him, his highly buffed nails catching the dim light. "He wanted to
make certain you didn't marry me. We've been rivals since Stanford, you
know."

"Did your father throw Mitch's success at you?" This was
a wild guess. She'd never heard Ward compare his son to Mitch. Brent had never
mentioned it either.

After an uncomfortable pause Brent admitted, "Yes. Father
calls him a hillbilly, but he never loses an opportunity to remind me how
successful Mitch is."

This certainly sounded more like Brent's problem than Mitch's, but
she refrained from saying so. She wanted to persuade Brent not to take the
stand.

"Of course, Mitch always wanted to be a part of our crowd,
but even when he became successful, he still had that crude edge."

Royce conceded Mitch could be abrasive, but she doubted he aspired
to the Farenholt circle with their limited interests and bored arrogance.
Actually, Mitch was the most solitary man she'd ever known. He guarded his
privacy like Fort Knox and seemed content to spend his free time by himself.

Brent was entirely different. He spent most of his evenings
socializing with friends. When they'd been together, they'd spent very few
evenings by themselves. Looking back, she realized Brent needed a court around
him. Mitch didn't need anyone.

Brent gazed at her speculatively. "I bet Mitch is spending a
lot of time alone with you, isn't he? No one else knows where you are. No one
is allowed to see you."

She took care not to react to his insinuation about Mitch, even
though it disturbed her that he'd hit the mark. Yes, Brent was a whole lot
sharper than he appeared. "We're trying to counter my negative image with
the media. That's why I'm keeping out of sight."

"Don't tell me he hasn't hit on you." There it was
again, that disturbing edge to his voice that Brent tried to temper with the
full force of his smile.

Instinct told her not to give a hint of credence to this
accusation. "I rarely see Mitch. He's usually away on a case. I work with
the defense team. He won't join us until closer to the trial." She was
surprised how easily the lie came. The next one came even easier. "I live
like a Gypsy, moving from safe house to safe house."

She looked directly into his eyes. This time the words came from
her heart. "It's terribly lonely, so lonely sometimes, I just want to
cry."

Brent took the bait. He eased his arm around her just as the
waiter arrived with their cappuccinos. Neither of them moved to pick up the
mugs topped by a cloud of cream and a swizzle stick of cinnamon bark. He pulled
her closer and she let her head rest against his shoulder with an anguished sigh
that would have made Sarah Bernhardt proud.

"You know, I've never stopped loving you," Brent
whispered. "I want to help you."

"Then why are you testifying against me?"

He looked genuinely shocked. "I'm just verifying the diamonds
were in your purse, that's all."

Could he really be this naive? Maybe. He was an odd amalgam of
intelligence and... and what? Indifference, she suspected. When Brent chose to
analyze a situation, no one could best him—but most of the time he was too busy
or too bored to bother. Obviously he didn't care enough about her to realize
what testifying against her would do.

She pulled away from him. "Don't you know the psychological
impact your testimony will have? Abigail Carnivali will persuade the jury that
I used you for your money. They'll feel sorry for you, not me."

Brent put his arm around her again and it was all she could do not
to slap his handsome face. "Darling, I'm an attorney, remember? Good old
Carnivorous can only make me state the facts, I was closest to you. I did see
the diamonds."

His words extinguished the flicker of hope, but she gave it one
last try. "Can't someone else testify? Does it have to be you?" If
Mitch had taught her one thing, it was that the actual facts counted less than
the jury's perception of those facts. Her fiance testifying against her would
be a serious liability.

"Caroline claims she wasn't close enough to see, and my
parents think it's undignified to testify. Father insists I do it."

What was the point of staying? She slipped across the worn leather
seat.

Brent caught her arm. "Look, if it's so important to you, I
won't testify. They'll have to persuade my father to do it." His
expression said this was about as likely as getting a search warrant for the
Vatican. "Of course, Mother's health is too fragile for her to take the
stand."

Royce suppressed a derisive snort. Eleanor had the constitution of
a water buffalo. But Brent would never admit that. He always made excuses for
his mother, she thought, reviewing their time together. Once she'd seen this as
an admirable trait, but she realized it was a weakness, a crutch.

She waited while Brent paid the bill. He kept his hand on the back
of her waist as he escorted her to the door.

"You're lonely, Royce. Let me come home with you."

She was thankful he was slightly behind her so he couldn't see her
expression. If he came home with her, he'd want to make love to her. Oh, Mitch,
how could she make love to anyone else again? "You can't. No one is to
know where I am."

"That's so Durant can keep you to himself."

"No." She turned to face him, determined to dispel his
suspicions, determined to keep this jerk on her side. "Paul Talbott
insisted. The media is ruining my chance for a fair trial."

"You're right," he conceded. "Tobias Ingeblatt has
done a number on me too. You know, he's always following me, angling for a
story that isn't there."

Make the most of this, cautioned her inner voice. "You can
call me. I'm home—by myself—every evening. Even if I move, the portable phone
has the same number." Somehow she mustered a tear—undoubtedly Sarah
Bernhardt was now turning over in her grave. "I'd be less lonely if I
could talk to you." There! Now he wouldn't think she was involved with
Mitch.

"Maybe we can meet again," Brent suggested.

"We'll see," she said as they stepped outside. By habit
Royce scanned the street for anyone who might be following her. Nothing.
"Good-bye."

He smiled at her, the intimate smile she'd seen so many times, and
she knew he was going to kiss her. She didn't want him to, but didn't move
away. What was the harm? A kiss would bind him to her, making him believe she
still loved him, but she didn't care. Keeping him off the stand was more
important than one kiss.

Mitch sped along the freeway into the city. In the distance the
sun dipped below the Pacific. He'd been gone ten days, but it felt like ten
years. Jesus, he needed to slow down, but he'd scheduled these cases months ago.
Before Royce.

Aw, hell, what are you going to do about her? Damned if he knew.
He hadn't called her once because he didn't know what to say. What the hell
could he say: You're the only person in my life who hasn't disappointed me? You
were better than my wildest dreams?

Christ, no. That sounded as if all he cared about was great sex.
It couldn't get any better than what they'd had, but sex didn't begin to
explain how he felt. He'd waited five years, five long, lonely years, to get a second
chance with Royce. It hadn't been easy. He'd pressed harder than he liked to
get her into bed. But once he had, he knew she wanted him just as much as he'd
wanted her.

Trouble was, he didn't know how to express what he felt. Mitch
laughed out loud. He was returning from L.A., where he'd been the penalty phase
attorney for a man found guilty of murder. He'd persuaded a judge to sentence
the man to life instead of the electric chair. The words had come easily —the
usual dysfunctional-family/failure-of-the-system argument—but he couldn't think
of a damn thing to say to Royce.

What could he say after that macho bit?
I
want to get you out of my
system.
"That won't get you far with Royce," he said out
loud. "You have to say something to let her know what you feel goes beyond
sex."

He thought about the two women who'd betrayed him. He'd almost
forgotten the incident at Stanford, but almost twenty-five years later he still
recalled the murderous look on his mother's face.

"Royce is different," he told himself, his voice echoing
in the sports car. "You disappointed her. It's up to you to win her back.

"Okay, but how? How do you turn lust into love, into trust,
into caring?"

Women are sentimental, he thought. That's why cards and flowers
and all that crap sold so well. What would Brent have done? The morning after
that wuss would have sent long-stemmed roses and a syrupy card. Well, hell, it
was too late for that, but he had to make some move, a small gesture to change
the balance of their relationship.

He drove to a newsstand that had a florist's cart stationed beside
it. Mitch parked in the red, thinking a bouquet of wildflowers would be
perfect. Roses were too formal, but a mixture of fragrant, colorful blossoms
would say what he couldn't, what he didn't want to say just yet.

He handed the man the money for the flowers and spotted the
newspaper rack. Suddenly, his mouth was as dry as the Sahara and he couldn't
hear the sound of the traffic on the street—even with his good ear.

Somehow he managed to pay for the paper. He got in his car, shot
out from the curb, and rounded the corner on two wheels. He threw the bouquet
out the window and it landed blossoms down in the muddy gutter.

Royce threatened Oliver, waving a wooden spoon at the cat.
"Get away from the prosciutto."

The cat retreated to the window box, but she had no doubt he'd
jump up on the counter the first chance he got. She was too nervous about
seeing Mitch to worry about that fatso. Last night after returning home from
seeing Brent she'd carefully evaluated her feelings. She was only deceiving
herself by not admitting Mitch meant more to her than one night of hot sex.

Being with Brent again had demonstrated how selfish he was. Until
she'd bullied him into not testifying against her, he'd been willing to do it
to avoid a confrontation with his father. What had she been thinking when she'd
persuaded herself that she was in love with him? She'd been desperate —plain
and simple. And with her biological clock grinding to a halt, she'd assessed
the situation. Brent had been a charming and caring—not to mention rich—man in
a city where heterosexual men were about as easy to find as the Holy Grail.