Sawyer, Meryl (39 page)

Since their talk three weeks ago they'd settled into a comfortable
routine. During the day they both worked at the office, he on his cases and she
on the upcoming trial. They seldom saw each other until evening, when he'd
return home to find Royce busy in the kitchen with Oliver perched on the
counter, set to steal anything, and Jenny at her heels.

Some men might have been threatened by the sudden domesticity of
their relationship, particularly after years of living alone, but Mitch wasn't.
Okay, Royce got on his nerves at times. She insisted on organizing his drawers,
claiming she couldn't find anything. And she kept getting those damn Oreo
cookie crumbs in his computer keyboard as she worked on the homeless files. A
tragedy, sure, but nothing compared to not letting him eat pizza every night.
Still, living with her was like making love to her—better than he'd imagined.

She shifted positions, her body still touching his, and her hand
brushed his cock, coming to rest on the flat plane of his stomach. He ignored
the upsurge in his groin.

Royce never initiated sex. Hell, she loved it and probably
expected it just the way she got it—twice a night. But she expected him to
initiate it, and she responded much more passionately if he was rough with her.

Well, could he blame her? She had to justify their relationship
with the memory of her father. Long dead, but never, no never, forgotten.

If Mitch forced her to make love, she could tell herself it wasn't
her idea. At least by deceiving herself she was able to keep up a front. Every
night Brent called and she chatted with him, saying how lonely she was.

She used the same routine when her friends called each night and
with Wally, who was still down South. Of course, during all these calls, Mitch
wasn't far away. It was a hoot to know Brent was talking to Royce, believing
she was alone, when Mitch was actually in bed beside her.

He ran his hand over her golden hair where it fell alluringly
across her bare shoulder. What in hell was he going to do? No wonder he
couldn't get any sleep. Her trial was a month away and he had no idea how he was
going to defend her. Night after night he'd make love to her, then fall into a
blissful sleep only to awaken later sheathed in sweat, tortured by the image of
Royce in jail.

He realized Royce expected one of his miraculous defenses. But
this time he couldn't conceive of an argument that would convince a jury to
acquit her—not with her getting caught red-handed. Twice.

Jee-sus! A diabolical mind was behind this. His money was on Ward
Farenholt, but so far Paul hadn't been able to implicate him.

Mitch gazed down at Royce, her face soft and sweet in the dim
light of the moon. Trusting. He imagined the look she'd have for him if the
jury returned a guilty verdict.

Unbidden, the past intruded on the present. He was a grown man, holding
Royce, but in his mind's eye he saw a haunting vision from his youth. He was a
young boy again, calling to his mother as she worked in the garden.

His mother rose to her knees, the three-pronged trowel in her hand
as she turned to him. The smile on her face was like Royce's, soft and sweet.
Trusting.

Until she saw him.

On Saturday morning Mitch was in the shower when Wally called
Royce.

"I found that school where the nun worked," he said
after a brief greeting.

"Oh," she responded cautiously, hearing the shower turn
off. She headed downstairs, the portable phone to her ear. "What did she
say?"

"She isn't there. The school's gone too. It's a strip mall
now."

In the kitchen out of Mitch's hearing range, she stopped. "A
dead end."

"Not at all. I know where Mitch got the name on his phony
birth certificate. That Catholic school was on the corner of Mitchell and
Durant streets."

"No." The word came out somewhere between a moan and a
whisper. A cold knot formed in her chest, her heart refusing to accept what
he'd just told her. She'd imagined Mitch's mother lovingly choosing Mitchell
from a list of names she'd considered for months, but it hadn't been that way
at all.

Mitch wasn't even his real name. She could understand him changing
his last name, but why hadn't he used his real first name? Wouldn't that have
been the logical thing to do? "His given name must have had terrible
memories."

The words were hardly out of her mouth when Mitch walked into the
kitchen, still damp from the shower. A tuft of wet hair kicked upward like a
rooster's comb, and a towel hung from his hips, barely covering his strong
thighs. She flashed him a smile that she hoped didn't look too guilty and
mouthed, "Wally."

"It's more likely he changed his name because he had a police
record," Wally informed her. "That would have kept him out of the
Navy."

"H-mm." She watched Mitch brush Jenny, the way he did
each Saturday morning. Just like the Italian count Mitch had become a new
person. Why? What had he done?

Mitch cocked his head, favoring his good ear as his private line
rang upstairs in the office. He walked out of the kitchen and Royce relaxed.

"I've got a line on the nun, though." Wally sounded so
clear, he could have been in the room with her. "She must be retired by
now. There's only one retirement convent down here. It's in Bascom Springs, not
far from Woodville."

"Woodville. Mitch is supporting someone in a clinic
there," Royce blurted out, then cursed herself. He might return any
second. Things were going so well between them that she couldn't afford for him
to find out what Wally was doing.

"They're seven miles apart. I can visit them both in a
day.','

"Please, don't-—" Royce halted midsentence. Mitch walked
into the kitchen.

"Don't worry. I'm a pro, remember? Mitch isn't going to find
out a thing."

Mitch studied her like a wolf picking up a scent

"Come home, Uncle Wally. I need you."

"I'll be back soon," Wally assured her. "My reports
are being used by UPI. I can't leave now, honey."

For the first time she questioned Wally's motives. Was another
Pulitzer more important than she was? What if she didn't have Mitch? She'd be
all alone. She barely heard Wally's parting remarks.

"What didn't you want Wally to do?" Mitch asked as she
hung up.

"To stay there." The lie sounded as fiat as week old
beer. "The trial's so close. I—I need—" The look on Mitch's face told
her that he suspected something.

"I need to get out. I feel like Rabbit E. Lee trapped in a
cage. Can't we go to the park and picnic with Jenny? Please?" she pleaded,
unnervingly aware of the strange look on his face. "Unless you have to
work. Was that call—"

"Jason," he said, stepping closer and she realized she
was shaking. "He's back from camp." Mitch locked both arms around
her, his eyes brimming with tenderness and understanding. "Don't be
afraid."

She wasn't trembling with fear for herself. Heartfelt anguish
ripped through her. For God's sakes, why had he named himself for an
intersection? Tears dampened her lashes, making it hard to see the muscular
curve of his shoulder as he held her.

What a story! A tale of courage and eventual triumph. A story that
could win a Pulitzer. A fresh rush of tears blurred her vision even more.

Wally. He was absolutely fascinated with this story, and in his
own way he was every bit as ambitious as Mitch. Once she would have sworn his
word as a premier reporter would have guaranteed he'd never break his promise.

But now she was worried. So much had happened—all of it bad—that
she wondered. She had to stop Wally.

Mitch framed her head with his palms and looked into her eyes.
"Angel, it's going to be all right."

"Please, let's go to Golden Gate Park for a picnic. Let's
rent bikes and—" Oh, Lordy, why had she suggested that?

"It's okay, Royce. I know you pumped Jason for information
about me. So, I can't ride a bike." He shrugged and shot her a
who-gives-a-damn grin, but she thought she detected a flicker of pain—or
perhaps anger—in his eyes. A childhood lost; a past that couldn't be regained.
"Every kid in America isn't given a bike, you know."

"I look like an ass," Mitch cussed as he wobbled along a
trail on a bike, Royce running beside him, keeping him upright. Jenny scampered
with him, too, but she had the sense to give him a wide berth. He'd tipped and
almost fallen a dozen times or more. What the hell was he doing?

Making Royce happy. When she looked up at you with tear-filled
green eyes, you couldn't say no. She was more vulnerable now with the trial so
close. She needed him, not just physically, but emotionally as well. That
knowledge frightened him in a way that he hadn't been truly frightened since he
was a kid. What if he couldn't save her?

"Way to go," Royce cheered, and he realized he'd
traveled quite a distance without her guiding hand. "That's it!"

Jenny barreled ahead of him, her tail held high. Over the top of
the hill he sailed, going faster, then shot down the other side. Without
warning the bike teetered, but he obeyed Royce's earlier instructions and
concentrated on keeping his balance.

He hit the hairpin turn—out of control. Shazammm!! He skidded onto
the grass beside the trail and landed on his hip, the bike between his legs.

Jenny bounded up to him and licked his sweaty face. He groaned and
lay back on the grass. Royce trotted up, laughing.

"That'll teach you to go too fast. Can't you keep a normal
pace?"

"Nah, I love speed. Give me fast cars and faster women."

She dropped to the ground beside him. "If you rode slower, I
could rent a bike and ride with you. You're ready to ride on your own."

He lay on his back and stared up at the cloudless blue sky as if
he couldn't tolerate the thought of an afternoon riding bikes, but the hell of
it was, he was having an unexpectedly good time.

"Ride all the way back to the stand?" He stroked Jenny's
head, moaning. "Tell her to have mercy."

"Come on, crybaby."

"Meanie," he teased, giving her a thorough, intimate
appraisal. She looked so damn cute in those shorts. Even the bandanna tied
babushka style to disguise her and sunglasses the size of hubcaps added to her
appeal. Aw, hell. He liked her in anything. Or nothing. Preferably nothing.

Mitch leaned across the fragrant grass, warm and moist in the
summer sun, intent on kissing her, but he stopped when he looked into her eyes.
And saw the future. Other summer days—and summer nights. Cool winter evenings
by the fire. Colder winter nights making love in his bed.

Most of all he saw two images of Royce he knew he'd never forget
even if he lived long enough to go to hell. Royce in the morning. Waking
slowly, snuggling into his pillow, determined to go back to sleep. And Royce in
the evening when he opened the back door and found her in his kitchen.

He slumped back on the grass and gazed at the blazing ball in the
sky until he was forced to close his eyes. Why in hell had he fought for
mandatory drug sentences? If they weren't in effect, he'd stand a chance of
getting her off with a suspended sentence, a steep fine, and a whopping number
of community-service hours. But as things stood, he was scared pissless she'd
get the max.

Jenny licked his nose and Royce said, "We can quit if you
want."

It took him a second to muster a playful tone. "I'm no
quitter. Let's get you a bike. After the picnic we'll race."

They rented a bike for Royce, then rode through the park. The
trails were skateboarders' turf. They whipped up and down the hills, nearly
colliding with yuppie cyclists on Italian bikes that were as expensive as cars.

Around the windmill, like a garland of bright flowers, were the
homeboys in their gang colors. In the park's neutral zone by the teahouse were
groups of preteens, their boom-boxes blasting rap or salsa.

The benches along the walks were off-limits to anyone under
seventy-five. Clusters of stoop-shouldered men sat there playing cards. Nearby
sat the gossiping old women, swathed in black despite the heat.

But the grass—the rolling meadows of blue-green grass— was for the
dogs. And lovers. On the far side of the park Royce and Mitch found a shady
patch of grass in a deserted area. Jenny charged into the brush after a
squirrel.

"Did you have a dog when you were a kid?" Royce asked as
she offered him a sandwich she'd made at home.

"Yeah," Mitch said, hoping she wasn't going to ask a lot
of personal questions. "I had a dog... once." Naturally there was no
stopping Royce.