Sawyer, Meryl (25 page)

Should he? No way. Hell, he was tempted, but he had a point to
make. So he lingered, kissing her. It was a hot, yearning kiss calculated to
let her become accustomed to his arms around her, his tongue caressing hers,
his hardness pressed against the notch of her thighs.

Somehow he wedged his hand between them and touched her breast.
Even through the sweater he could feel the erect nipple. It had been five long
years—dammit—but he remembered exactly what her breasts were like. Soft, full.
Taut nipples flushed with desire. There was nothing he'd like better than to
lower his lips and sculpt those nipples with his tongue, but he couldn't allow
himself to be sidetracked.

He used sheer willpower to pull away. "You hate me, don't
you, Royce?"

She stared at the toes of her running shoes. "Why are you doing
this?"

"You hate me, but you want me. There are some things between
people that just can't be explained, right? Right. That's how it must be with
Caroline and Brent. He's been close to her for years. So he talked to her even
when he knew he loved you and was going to marry you. No big deal."

"I wish I could believe that."

So did Mitch—for her sake—but he didn't say a word. Instead, he
just walked away. Who knew what that cocky little shit was thinking? But he'd
be damned if he'd let Brent destroy her self-confidence. When he reached the
bottom of the stairs, he turned. She stood transfixed, watching him.

"Think about us, Royce. Can you explain it?"

Paul found it surprisingly easy to obtain an interview with Eleanor
Farenholt. His disguise as a reporter for
Town and Country
doing advance
work for an upcoming layout worked perfectly. He sat in the living room of the
Farenholts' Nob Hill mansion, watching the bay sparkling in the distance.
Bright sunlight reflected off the Louis XIV furniture in a blaze of gilt.

So far, Paul had managed to balance the dainty tea cup and saucer
and keep up a steady stream of inane conversation. Boy, he hated prissy rooms
like this. Pretentious museum-like rooms that left him cold. Pretending to love
the furnishings and find them "smashing" for an upcoming issue wasn't
easy, but he decided that he'd finally gained Eleanor's trust enough to broach
the subject of Royce Winston.

"Nasty bit of business with those jewels taken at the auction,
wasn't it?" he asked, keeping his intonation eastern and his attitude
officious.

"Terrible," Eleanor agreed, "most
embarrassing."

"Wasn't your son"—he paused as if he couldn't quite
bring himself to insult the lady by saying her son was engaged to a criminal—"friendly
with the suspect?"

"Royce Winston chased my son. She was after his money."

Paul pretended to sip his tea. Eleanor Farenholt was a classic
beauty: fine features, a model's cheekbones, and bright blue eyes. She wasn't the
cold woman he'd expected; actually, she was quite pleasant. But then, she
wanted to impress him.

"I had hoped my son would marry Caroline Rambeau,"
Eleanor informed him. "You remember her, don't you?
T and C
featured
her at Tiffany's last year."

"Of course." Paul smiled, hoping he sounded convincing.
"I was thinking of inquiring about her home for this same piece we're
doing with you, but I wasn't quite certain it was up to snuff."

"Caroline's home would be perfect," Eleanor assured him.

"Well, I hadn't contacted her from New York," he hedged,
giving Eleanor the opportunity to help him.

"I'll call her for you. Caroline's just like a daughter, you
know. My husband and I love her as much as if she were our own child."
Eleanor laughed, a giggle that sounded odd for such a mature woman. "Ward
might just love Caroline more than Brent. He expects so much from his
son."

"It's harder to be a man," Paul sympathized.
"Expectations are a lot higher."

An hour later he was on his way to see Caroline Rambeau. He wasn't
sure he'd learned anything helpful from his discussion with Eleanor, or that
he'd get much from Caroline, but he liked to have a feel for his cases.
Sometimes his sixth sense kicked in to help him solve a crime.

Caroline Rambeau's home was within walking distance of the
Farenholts', causing Paul to speculate on just how close —geographically and
emotionally—they all were. There was a certain inbred feeling in the upper
echelons of society, a type of protectiveness, an insular attitude toward those
with less that Paul had noted from his earliest days on the police force. But
the Farenholts' relationship with Caroline seemed to go beyond anything he'd
previously encountered.

Caroline answered the door herself, clad in a silk jumpsuit. She
was even more beautiful in person than she was on the videotape he'd seen. She
bore a startling resemblance to Eleanor Farenholt. But then she smiled and
invited him in. Paul instantly knew the engaging smile and the cheerful
attitude weren't a facade. Beauty, money, and a winning personality. A dynamite
combination.

"Eleanor tells me you're doing an article on San Francisco's
homes with views."

Paul wrinkled his nose, doing his best imitation of New York
smugness. "Not just any view—only the spectacular ones"—he looked
around the room approvingly—"with appropriate furniture to showcase the
scenery."

Now, here was a classically beautiful room, he thought. None of
that ornate gilt crap that Eleanor loved. Caroline's home was decorated in soft
shades of white that complemented the warm wood tones of the antiques.

"I see," Caroline responded, but she didn't sound nearly
as enthusiastic as Eleanor had. Paul had the feeling that she wasn't as
snobbish as the older woman.

"Did you work with the decorator?" Paul asked to fill
the uncomfortable silence.

"My mother worked with Gaston Norville—years ago."

"Well"—Paul smiled brightly—"good taste always
survives the test of time."

"What do you need from me?" Caroline asked.

"I'm just doing background. The legal department will send
releases for you to sign before we can photograph your home." Paul
hesitated, mentally rolling the dice. "I might have to delay this article
a bit. There's been so much negative publicity about those stolen jewels. You
were right there, weren't you?"

"Yes," Caroline admitted, "but I don't see—"

"We want our readers concentrating on the story, not
wondering how that odious Winston woman infiltrated one of the best
families—"

"She didn't infiltrate. Brent brought her to meet his
family." Caroline sounded angry, almost as if he'd accused a close
friend—not a rival. "I like Royce. I thought she was good for Brent. He
lets Ward bully him too much."

"Were you surprised she stole the jewels?"

Caroline looked him directly in the eye. "Royce didn't take the
jewels. She isn't that kind of person."

"Well," Paul said, taken aback by Caroline's attitude.
"Who do you think did?"

"Watch the video monitor," Brian Jensen told Royce as
they sat before the video camera in the jury-preparation room of Mitch's
office. "See how you're waving your arms? It makes you look agitated,
nervous."

"I'm half Italian. I can't talk without my hands."

"Oh, yes, you can." Brian was Mitch's in-house expert on
juries. "You'll do better next time."

Next time Royce groaned inwardly. They'd been at this for hours,
but she knew days of preparation stretched ahead of her before she'd be ready
to face a jury.

"Try to sound as sincere and unrehearsed as possible,"
Brian instructed. "A jury likes to think they're hearing everything for
the first time."

"Even though everyone from the arresting officer to the star
witness for the prosecution has been prepped for hours," put in the young
associate who'd been doing the questioning, pretending she was Abigail Carnivali.

The two laughed, but Royce couldn't even force a grin. To them it
was a game. They'd seen it all before, and they'd see it again. For her,
though, it was dead serious. If she were found guilty she'd spend the next ten
years of her life behind bars without possibility of parole, the mandatory
sentence for the drug charges.

"Get more cameras in here tomorrow," Brian said.
"We need more angles."

"What for?" Royce asked. "I can see perfectly well
what I'm doing wrong."

Brian averted his eyes and the associate busied herself shuffling
papers. Something was up.

"One of you tell me what's happening." Why was she
shouting? Because she had lost control of her life and was being bounced around
like a tennis ball. She hated it. Any second she was going to... to what? There
was nothing she could do, and that was doubly frustrating.

"A local TV station has petitioned the court to allow cameras
to cover your trial," Brian told her. "Mitch will fight it, of
course."

But she wondered if that was true. Part of his payoff for taking
her case without a fee was publicity. She'd been with him all weekend and he
hadn't mentioned the petition. He hadn't told her Abigail Carnivali was going
to ask for a higher bail than she could possibly raise either. What was wrong
with him? She had every right to know these things.

By the time the phone rang late that night, she was more than
ready for Mitch. She rushed across his office, faithful Jenny dogging every
step. Royce yanked the receiver out of its cradle.

"You know, you're a real bastard, Mitch. You never told me
there's a petition to televise my trial. I don't want to be on TV, you
understand? This is not some media circus. This is my life."

There was dead silence at his end but that didn't stop her. "Mitch,
listen to me. No television."

"You don't have any choice. It's up to the judge." There
was a weariness, a note of resignation, in his voice that brought her up short.
"I'm totally against cameras in courtrooms, but it's the judge's
decision."

"Why didn't you tell me about the petition?" she asked,
backing down a little. He sounded exhausted.

"I got the fax this morning. I was in court all day."

"Oh," was all she could say, but she felt bitchy for
losing her temper. A silent scream of frustration ripped through her.

"Judge Ramirez is aiming for the appeals court bench. No
matter what I say, she's going to allow cameras."

She remembered Superior Court Judge Gloria Ramirez from the
preliminary hearing when it had taken the judge less than three minutes to
decide the state had enough evidence to try her. Uncle Wally had covered
numerous trials and assured Royce that Judge Ramirez was one of the best— but
ambitious. "It's not fair to televise my trial."

"The judicial system tries to be fair, but it doesn't always
succeed. Cameras make everyone nervous. The whole proceeding will be stilted,
but what can we do about it? Prepare for it. And thank God the state's nearly
bankrupt. They don't have the money to prep their witnesses the way we
do."

The fight went out of her as surely as if she'd been knocked to
the mat—out cold. What could she say? The judge had the final decision. For a
moment she wished Mitch were beside her so she could look into his eyes. Oh, go
on, Royce, be honest with yourself. You want Mitch to hold you.

Mitch had a kiss that could make her forget anything— even the
fact that Brent had called Caroline every day when he was supposed to be in
love with her. And Mitch could make her think and question her deepest
feelings. After he'd so passionately kissed her, then left, she'd spent a
sleepless night. Thinking.

But no answer came to the question of how to explain her reaction
to Mitch except an upsurge of guilt when she thought about her father. Where had
Mitch's compassion been then? Still, she couldn't help admitting how hard Mitch
was trying to help her when no one else could. She felt confused, torn between
past and present, between loyalty and desire.

She realized Mitch had kissed her to make a point. He'd agreed to
behave professionally, and so far he had. Just talking with him each night gave
her a sense of confidence and optimism she desperately needed. She wanted to
keep their relationship at this level, friendly yet professional.

"How's your trial going?" she asked.

"It went to the jury this morning. This is the roughest time.
Waiting. Trying to guess the verdict."

She took a deep breath and held it, knowing Mitch was preparing
her for her own ordeal. "I'm going to ask for a postponement of your
trial."

"Why?" A jolt of panic rocketed through her.
"What's wrong?"

"Things aren't going the way I expected. Paul hasn't found
any evidence—no matter how flimsy—that anyone framed you. I can't sidetrack a
jury without something, anything." He paused and she heard him sip a
drink. "Don't worry. Defense attorneys have three rules: delay, fight,
appeal. This is stage one of the game plan—delay.