Sawyer, Meryl (17 page)

Emboldened by his words, by his passion, she slipped her hand down
to the waistband of his trousers. Then dipped underneath. Here his skin was
hot, so much hotter to the touch. The tips of her fingers edged into the thatch
of curly hair, knowing what she wanted, what she needed. Her mind might be
groggy, still confused by lack of sleep, but her instincts were flawless.

She circled his shaft, squeezing, caressing the smooth tip. Mitch
groaned and muttered, "Aw, hell, do you know what you're doing?"

"Uh-huh." She traced her thumb down the ridge, then
cradled the full weight of his sex. "Why am I not surprised, Mitch? I knew
you'd have big balls."

"Damn right." His hand shot between her thighs as his
head bent to kiss an erect nipple. He sculpted the breast with an aggressive
tongue while his fingers eased between the soft folds, testing the taut nub,
then teasing it with expert precision.

Her stomach fluttered, then dropped in one long freefall. The
strokes of his tongue matched his finger. Impossible to resist. She parted her
thighs, her hand gliding up the hard length of his sex, squeezing, stroking.

"You're so hot, Royce. So damn wet." He muttered
something else but she didn't understand. He lifted his head and cocked it to
one side.

His good ear, she thought, suddenly wanting to kiss it.

He jerked upright. "Goddammit. Paul's back."

Dimly she realized he'd heard the van pull into the garage beneath
the bedroom. He had the covers over her and was out of the room before she
could utter another word.

Mitch stared out his office window the following morning, thinking
of what Paul had said to him last night. "A lawyer who screws his client
fucks himself." An old saying, but true, Mitch decided. He'd tried to
resist her, he honestly had, but she'd been so insistent. He heard the sharp
knock on his door, but kept looking at the carbon-colored clouds skulking on
the horizon as he told Paul to come in.

"I have a copy of the
Outrage,"
Paul said.
"Tobias Ingeblatt has another article about Royce. Helen Sykes was with
her in jail—"

"Aw, shit!" Mitch spun around. "What does it
say?"

"This Sykes woman claims Royce confessed she'd taken the jewels."

"Just what I expected." Mitch sank into his chair. Sure
enough, not only was Royce getting tried in the press, she was being convicted.
And he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

The gag order only covered the attorneys and witnesses. It gave
the press carte blanche to cull info leaked by questionable sources. The
classic nonstory. And the ultimate power because it allowed the press to make
up their own version of events.

"I've got background on that informant whose word was good
enough to get a search warrant for Royce's home," Paul said.

Gus Wolfe had called with the name late last night after Mitch had
left Royce. A consummate professional, Paul had tracked down the woman's record
within hours.

"Linda Allen is a new informant. This is the first time she's
ever given the police a name."

"Unfuckingbelievable! A judge issued a warrant on the word of
an untried informant? Next thing we know pathological liars will be getting
exempt status to 'confidentially' rat on people."

"I know this search warrant violates standards, but Linda was
working with the police on a Peruvian connection. They have total faith in her.
That's why the warrant was issued."

Mitch nodded; with all the heat on the Colombians the drug kings
were using Peru now. "I want to talk to this Linda Allen."

"She's undercover until this drug deal she's doing with the
feds comes down."

"How convenient. Find her, goddammit."

"I've already got men on it," Paul assured him, then
hesitated. "Do you have any idea how much this is costing?"

"You'll get paid. Send me the bills."

"I wasn't worried," Paul responded, and Mitch believed
him. Paul didn't give a damn about money; he loved his work. He'd have been the
best detective in the city if things hadn't gone wrong. "I mentioned money
because I have the prelims ready on the case. A check into all the suspects'
bank accounts doesn't show any unusual activity. It's going to cost a bundle to
get a forensic accountant to go over all their financial records."

"The money to buy the coke planted in Royce's home had to
have come from somewhere. The dealers don't take American Express. Get the
accountant on it."

"Right. I also have the results of the supermarket
poll."

Like many criminal attorneys Mitch used a polling service to
monitor public opinion. It helped him gauge which jurors might be sympathetic
to the defendant.

"Ninety-three percent of those polled think Royce is
guilty."

"Christ! That's higher than Zou-Zou Maloof, and she was
caught with the murder weapon in her hand. It's fight-back time."

"You plan to leak info to get around the gag order?"

"Damn right. That's exactly what Carnivorous is doing. I knew
all the gag order would do was keep her off television. But she can't be held
responsible for leaks or snitches like Helen Sykes selling their stories to the
press, can she?"

"No, and neither can you," Paul reminded him.

"As soon as Royce has rested I want her to take a drug test.
Then you find someone to leak the results to the media. I also want her to take
a lie detector test. Again, I can't be involved in this, so you'll need to find
a way to get the results to the press."

"No problem."

"I want Royce to take that laser lie-detector test."

"Jesus, Mitch. That's expensive."

"But totally accurate." Mitch grinned. "And
revolutionary. The media will lap it up with a flavor straw. Front page
news."

"You'll want another poll after the results are leaked,
right?"

Royce awoke, smiling; she'd been dreaming about going on a picnic
with her mother and father. A memory that translated into a sweet dream, but
the reality was quite different. Her parents were dead, her uncle had
disappeared, and—she gasped at the thought—she'd almost made love to Mitch. She
opened her eyes and saw the woman who'd introduced herself as Gerte last night.

"You are sleeping these thirty-six hours," Gerte
informed her.

Had it been that long? Royce was still drowsy, still shocked at
the memory of what had happened with Mitch. What was wrong with her?

"I have made soup. You will eat now."

Sitting at the table overlooking the peaceful garden between her
quarters and the main house, Royce ate, wondering if lack of sleep had induced
acute paranoia. The dream that had seemed so real last night haunted her now
even in the light of day. It was hard to believe someone was trying to kill
her. Still, her uncle was missing and she'd been framed. It wasn't too
farfetched to think she might be murdered, was it?

The nightmare had seemed so real. Even so, something had been
wrong, something about the house she'd lived in all her life hadn't, in the
dream, been quite right. What was it? She gazed down into the garden where a
frisky golden retriever romped with the largest tabby she'd ever seen and tried
to think what about her house wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

All she could remember clearly was darkness and an overwhelming,
mind-numbing sense of fear.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Gerte motioned for
her to go into the bedroom. She hid behind the door, listening. She wasn't
easily frightened, but so much had gone wrong lately. What next? She recognized
the familiar voice and rushed out.

"Uncle Wally," she cried, a sob stalled in her throat.
"You're all right. Thank God."

He bear-hugged her, and she squeezed tight. "Royce, I'm so
sorry I wasn't here. I had no idea." Tears shone in his eyes.

"Where were you? I was so worried."

Wally guided her over to the sofa. "I needed some time to
think, so I went up the coast and rented a cottage overlooking the ocean. I
didn't pick up a paper or watch TV."

"Shaun," she guessed. "You're not getting back
together." For years they'd had an on-again-off-again relationship. The
night of the accident that had killed her father's friend, they'd been going to
see Wally after one of his fights with Shaun.

"No, this time it's really over. Shaun and I are
finished." Sadness etched every line in his face. "That doesn't
matter right now. You're what's important."

She didn't know how to tell him she'd hired Mitch. If Wally had
been around, she never would have turned to Mitch, but she'd been desperate
when she'd seen the police ransacking her house.

"Mitch told me what he's—"

"You've seen Mitch already? Do you think I made a mistake
hiring him?"

"If I'd been here, I would have called him immediately."

"Even after what he did to Daddy? If it weren't for Mitch,
he'd still be alive." Guilt washed over her in suffocating waves. Hadn't
she betrayed her father's memory by almost making love to Mitch? She couldn't meet
Wally's steady gaze for fear he'd guess what she'd done.

"True. If Mitch hadn't insisted on prosecuting your father,
he might still be alive." He gave her a reassuring hug. "But there's
no denying Mitchell Durant is one of the finest legal minds—ever. He made his
name overnight as a defense attorney."

"I was in Italy then, but I read something about DNA."

"Right. Everyone assumed a DNA match was as good as a
fingerprint in identifying a criminal. But Mitch proved that some DNA matches
are blurry like smudged fingerprints. They match only on certain points and
aren't conclusive proof. He's got a kid on death row from a small town where
everyone's related. Mitch discovered the DNA match that convicted him could
have convicted half the town. The Supreme Court has agreed to review the
case."

"Now a lot of DNA matches are being challenged."

"Exactly." Wally smiled encouragingly. "I spent
several hours talking to him this morning about your defense while you were
sleeping. I'm impressed."

"It's going to cost a fortune, isn't it?"

Wally's eyes, the color of her own, were weary pools of
experience. None of it encouraging. "You'll have to sell your house and
car. I'll have to sell my home—"

"No. I can't let you. You'll need the money to retire."

"I'll have to get by on Social Security. Millions do."
He brushed back a tear she didn't know was dribbling down her cheek.
"You're more important to me than that house."

"But, Uncle Wally—"

"Hush. You have no idea what my life was like when I was growing
up. I didn't know I was a homosexual. I just knew I was different, and I was
miserable. Who was the only person who loved me? My brother. When he married
your mother, she was just as kind. That's more than I can say for my own
parents."

She knew it was true; her grandparents were dead now, but they'd
shunned Wally.

"It's a tragedy too many gays still face. Our families reject
us, but I had my brother. I miss him to this day. And I'm going to take care of
you just the way he took care of me. With him gone you're all I have left. I
couldn't bear losing you."

A sob caught in her throat at the love in his eyes and the
timeless wisdom in his voice. "If I'm convicted I'll be an old lady before
I get out. My career will be over. I'll be too old to have children." An
even worse thought occurred to her. "You might get sick and I couldn't be
with you. You might even die before I'm free again."

Wally put his arm around her, and she indulged her tears for a few
minutes, reminding herself things could be worse. Her paranoia was just
prolonged lack of sleep. No one had killed Wally. No one was going to kill her.

Wally stroked her hair, soothing her the way he had when she'd
been a child and had come to him with a cut or bruise, but now he talked to her
like an adult.

"I want you to do exactly what Mitch says."

She listened while Wally told her Mitch's plans. It sounded
complicated and frighteningly expensive. "How does the average person
afford a trial?"

His world-weary expression intensified. "They can't. They get
a public defender and pray. Think of it as getting cancer without health
insurance."

"No wonder they call him Mitchell 'I'll Defend You to Your
Last Dollar' Durant."

"Don't be hard on him. There are plenty of expenses we'll
have to pay even though Mitch is skipping his fee."

"He is?" Her shame resurfaced, even more intense now,
and along with it confusion. How could she accept Mitch's charity? Why was he
helping her? Did he feel guilty about her father?

"Don't worry," Wally said, attempting to reassure her.