Sawyer, Meryl (36 page)

She'd given up on the kind of love her parents had enjoyed. She'd been
willing to settle for less. Now she knew it was a mistake.

What about the surge of emotion that swelled within her every time
she thought of Mitch? Was it love, or the lingering afterglow of a night of
lust? She'd made up her mind to find out, but she was nervous about seeing him
again. What if he had gotten her out of his system? What if she'd been just
another roll in the sack?

"I thought you might be hungry," she rehearsed out loud,
anticipating seeing Mitch for the first time in over a week. "This is
Mama's carbonara recipe."

What would he say? "You're out of my system. Get out of my
kitchen."

Not likely, she thought. All right, he hadn't called, but her
sixth sense—which was usually accurate—told her he cared for her more than he
was likely to admit. After he'd made love to her the first time, he'd become
increasingly gentle. Almost loving. And when they'd finally fallen asleep, his
leg was possessively curled across hers as if he didn't want to chance her
getting away.

"Then why didn't he call?" she asked Jenny. But the
retriever's answer was a happy swish of her tail and a hopeful look at the
pasta drying on the rack. Royce tossed her a piece. "That's all. Do you
want to become a porker like Oliver?"

Before Jenny could swallow the pasta, Royce heard Mitch coming in
the back door. She reached for the wooden spoon and sucked in a calming breath.
Mitch strode into the kitchen, a suitcase in each hand and a newspaper tucked
under one arm. The look on his face could have frozen lava.

"What in hell are you doing here?"

"I thought you—"

"Get out." He dropped both suitcases. Jenny shied away,
but Mitch gave her a reassuring pat.

But there wouldn't be any such welcome for her, Royce thought,
miserable that she'd so drastically misjudged the situation. Not only had he
gotten her out of his system, he seemed to hate her now.

He whipped out the paper still tucked under his arm and held it up
for her to see. The front page was covered with a picture of her kissing Brent
and the headline: fatal attraction?

A suffocating sensation gripped her throat, stealing her voice.
Oh, no. How had Ingeblatt discovered them? She'd been so careful. He must have
followed Brent. "I can explain."

"Don't bother. Just get out."

His tone was shockingly vicious; words stalled in her throat. He
threw the paper on the counter and she took a closer look. The grainy texture
indicated it had been shot from a distance with a telephoto lens. She turned to
explain Tobias Ingeblatt must have followed Brent, but Mitch had left. She
chased him and caught him on the stairs.

"Listen to me. I convinced Brent not to testify against me.

His very stance spelled danger and he wasn't going to be appeased
easily. "You use that body any chance you get, don't you?"

The revulsion in his voice made her want to run and hide. Even
Jenny was cowering beside Mitch. "He kissed me only once."

"You expect me to believe that?" He laughed, a bitter,
derisive chuckle. "I know what a hot number you are."

She wanted to whack him, she honestly did, but another deeper part
of her was profoundly hurt. Yes, she'd known Mitch would be furious about
Brent, but she hadn't anticipated the depth of his anger. And it truly
frightened her. There was a side to this man she didn't know.

"Mitch, I hadn't heard from you," she said, following
him into his bedroom. "I would have told you—"

"Liar." His voice boomed and Jenny retreated to a
corner, tail between her legs. "Paul could have found me. You wanted to
see Brent."

"You're right," she conceded. "I wanted—"

He took one step toward her. Then another. He glared at her with
burning, reproachful eyes. His look was so galvanizing, it sent a tremor
through her. She didn't notice his hands on her shoulders until he pushed her
down onto the bed, falling on top of her. For a second she thought he was going
to strangle her. Hate glittered in his eyes, silently damning her.

Anchored between his torso and the bed, she struggled against his
superior strength, determined to get away, but escaping his brutal hold was
impossible. She twisted madly in an effort to free herself, fear building
inside her. She read his intent and the flare of desire in his eyes just as the
swelling hardness pressing against her thigh registered.

Before she could say a word, Mitch's lips smothered hers, his
powerful body covering hers as if he wanted to keep her pinned to the mattress
forever. He shifted his weight, his erection a hard wedge against the juncture
of her thighs. Shock arced through her as she realized what he was going to do.

Usually when Mitch was rough, she found it exciting because she
sensed an inner restraint, a playfulness. Not this time. Tonight he seemed
balanced on some emotional cliff— one foot over the edge.

Surely he was overreacting to what she'd done. She didn't know
this man—not at all. She refused to let him make love to her. Not like this,
not in anger.

"Jenny!" she screamed.

The dog bounded across the room and leapt up on the bed,
responding to the distress in Royce's voice. Jenny hovered over them, whining.
Mitch raised his head, his expression still venomous.

"I had to go to Brent," Royce said, her voice as taut as
her emotions. "From the moment I opened my purse and found those diamonds,
my fate has been in someone else's hands. Despite everyone's hard work, this
case is lost, isn't it?"

Mitch didn't deny it.

"This was my chance—for once—to do something to help myself.
Do you think you could have persuaded Brent not to take the stand? Of course
not. But I did." She levered herself up on her elbows. "I didn't
sleep with him to convince him, but I might have been tempted had I thought
that was the only way to convince him. I have to do something to save
myself."

Why couldn't Mitch understand? He'd lived through hell.
"Haven't you ever done anything wrong because it would save you?"

Mitch rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. Jenny nuzzled him
several times, but he didn't respond. Finally, he said, "Get out."

Getting to see Ward Farenholt was surprisingly easy for Paul.
Ward's vanity got the better of him. He agreed to an interview with a reporter
from
The Lawyer.
The prestigious ABA magazine was sent each month to
members of the bar.

Paul had a professional makeup artist disguise him so he could pretend
to be a reporter without Ward's recognizing him. He'd never actually been
introduced to Ward, but Paul had been seen around enough to be concerned. Ward
didn't seem to recognize him as his secretary led Paul into the office that
looked like an antique showroom with a mahogany desk and an armoire that dated
back to the turn of the century. Just which century Paul couldn't say, but the
thing was old. And damned impressive.

Everything about the office was designed to impress. Antiques.
Original oils worth a fortune. Paul couldn't help comparing it to Mitch's
office. Mitch's office was three times as large as Ward's. Mitch had had
several walls removed to make one gigantic office, but it wasn't filled with
expensive furnishings. In fact it had an empty feeling to it, as if it weren't
quite finished.

Until Mitch walked in. Unquestionably, Mitch was so impressive
that he didn't need a backdrop of priceless antiques to impress his clients.

"My article is on multigeneration law firms," Paul
explained.

"I see." Ward didn't bother hiding his disappointment.
Obviously, he'd expected to be the focus of the article.

"Your father founded this firm, didn't he?"

"Yes, but I built it into the powerhouse it is today." His
tone stated plainly that he considered himself—and no one else—responsible for
the firm's success.

Paul asked a series of questions suggested by an attorney in
Mitch's office so that Ward would relax and assume the interview was
legitimate. Ward exuded an arrogance that bordered on outright disdain. Paul
knew, without a doubt, Ward Farenholt would never have spoken to him unless he
believed he was a reporter from
The Lawyer.

What type of woman would be attracted to such a man? Paul asked
himself. Black hair brushed with silver and a sportsman's tan acquired on the
Olympic Club's golf course. While Brent resembled his mother, with pretty-boy
appeal, Ward was intensely masculine. Totally domineering.

He was the kind of man who demanded a showpiece mistress. Young.
In awe of a powerful older man.

But Ward had carefully guarded the secret mistress with almost an
animal cunning that Paul thought had been bred out of the very wealthy.
Obviously, as much as he dominated his wife, she had the money. Ward was far too
clever to let a mistress break up his marriage.

"Is your son helping build the firm, the way you did?"
Paul asked, edging into the territory he wished to discuss.

"Yes." The single word sounded as if a mule team had
dragged it out of Ward's mouth. "His mother spoiled him, but he's on track
now."

"I guess that Winston woman distracted him."

For a moment Paul thought Ward wasn't going to take the bait, then
he spoke. "Royce Winston is a cheap slut. You watch, she's going to spend
the best years of her life in prison."

There was almost as much hatred in Ward's voice as there had been
in his wife's at the mention of Royce's name. Paul decided that it was entirely
possible either or both of them had framed Royce. But why? Why hadn't Ward
bullied Brent into giving up Royce? His sources confirmed Ward had no trouble
manipulating his son.

"Caroline Rambeau is a much more suitable wife for your son,
don't you think?"

"No." The word thundered through the room, catching Paul
off-guard—just the way Caroline's defending Royce had blindsided him. What was
going on here?

"My son," Ward continued, his tone now softer,
apparently realizing he'd come on too strong, "and Caroline have known
each other for years. If they loved each other, they'd be married by now."

"Jesus, I've never had a case like this," Paul
complained to Mitch. "I can't find a trace of Ward Farenholt's mistress.
I'll bet she knows all the Farenholt business. Mistresses usually do, you know.
Statistics prove that men tell their lovers more than their wives."

He waited for Mitch's response, but he kept looking out his office
window at the moon rising over the bay. In the week since Mitch had returned,
he'd been unusually silent and withdrawn. Even when Paul had told Mitch about
his interviews with the Farenholts and Caroline, he hadn't seemed interested.

No one needed to tell Paul that Mitch was having problems with
Royce. Tobias Ingeblatt's picture of her with Brent had rocked the legal
community. Abigail Carnivali had withdrawn Brent Farenholt's name from the
witness list. A small triumph, Paul thought, but one that had cost Mitch. For
reasons Paul never fully understood, Mitch hated Brent.

Seeing Royce in Brent's arms after all Mitch had done for her must
have pissed Mitch off—big time. Paul was certain they'd been having an affair,
but now... who knew? The team was still working on Royce's defense, but Mitch
hadn't even stepped into the suite where they were conducting the mock trial.

Mitch broke the silence, turning his back on the panoramic view.
"What do the polls say?"

"Interestingly enough, the latest poll is quite favorable to
Royce. At least Brent was honest enough to say that he called Royce and asked
to see her. The public loved that. The fatal-attraction syndrome."

Mitch shuffled through some papers on his desk, but Paul wasn't
fooled. He'd straightened those papers just moments ago.

"Look," Paul said, "I'm sorry I haven't been able
to find out who's behind this. I may never solve this case."

"You're kidding," Mitch said, looking up.

Paul gazed into his friend's turbulent eyes. So that's the
problem, Paul thought. Mitch doesn't have a way to save Royce either. He'd been
counting on Paul.

"I'll keep looking for Ward's mistress," Paul attempted
to assure Mitch. "I'm positive she's the key to this case."

Mitch didn't respond, and Paul glanced at his watch. Val was
waiting; she was upset enough without him being late. "Mitch, I've got to
run."

Paul hustled up the back stairs to his office to meet Val. Now he
understood why it was wrong for an attorney to represent someone he was
involved with. You became so emotionally entangled that it was difficult to
know how best to handle the case. If Royce was found guilty, Mitch would never
forgive himself.

"All set?" Paul asked Val as he came into his office.

She rose, adjusting her summer suit, a soft lemon-colored creation
that accentuated the copper highlights in her auburn hair. "I'm
ready."

Paul held the door for her, thinking it had been days since she'd learned
of her brother's terminal illness, agonizing days spent in an emotional
tug-of-war. When she'd finally decided to face her whole family again, she'd
insisted Paul accompany her. He was relieved she wanted him. Surely it was a
sign that she loved him—even though she'd never said the words.