Sawyer, Meryl (3 page)

If only his parents accepted her, everything would be
perfect—except for Mitch, of course. How could she conduct a brilliant
interview, an interview that would annihilate the competition and win her the
show, when she hated Mitch so much, she could hardly speak to him in a civil
tone?

"Watch out for Mitch," Brent warned. "He'll do
anything to get even with me."

"Why?" She'd assumed the Farenholts disliked Mitch
because of his unconventional courtroom tactics, the antithesis of the staid
firm headed by Ward Farenholt.

Mitch had successfully defended Zou Zou Maloof who'd been accused
of murdering her husband for his insurance. He'd convinced the jury to acquit
her using the "Halcion defense," claiming his client had been
paranoid from prolonged use of sleeping pills and hadn't known the knife she'd
plunged into her husband's heart was
actually
going to kill him.

"Durant has a hair-trigger temper. He can be violent for no
reason." Brent looked at his father, who was dancing nearby with Caroline;
obviously the family felt duty bound to entertain the former girlfriend.
"He broke my jaw when we were at Stanford, you know."

"Really? Why didn't you tell me?" She ventured a glance
at Mitch, who was standing by the table talking with Mrs. Dillingham. There was
more than a hint of aggressiveness to him. His stance, legs slightly apart,
suggested the readiness of a fighter, creating a compelling quality some women
found exciting.

"I didn't mention the fight because I was ashamed."
Brent shrugged, his cute one-shouldered shrug that had become so familiar.
"I wanted to get back at Mitch for being at the top of our class, so I
called him a redneck and a cracker. I'd been first in my class at Yale and
thought Stanford law would be a piece of cake, but there's always someone smarter,
richer—"

"Prettier," she finished for him. "That's what I
like about you, Brent, you're unfailingly honest." He smiled at her and
she couldn't help feeling he had the sincerest smile. When Mitch smiled she
always wondered what he was really thinking.

Brent glanced over at his father. Ward Farenholt was laughing at
something Caroline had said. "My father gave me hell for not being top gun
at Stanford."

She nodded sympathetically, her eyes on Ward as he twirled
Caroline Rambeau around the floor, still laughing, which was rare. Hidebound by
generations of wealth and tradition, Ward set rigid standards for his only
child. Brent had committed the ultimate violation of those standards by not
marrying Caroline.

Mitch's beeper went off just as dessert—some pastry with a fancy
French name he couldn't pronounce—had been served.

"Damn," he cussed under his breath. All he needed
tonight was someone hearing the Miranda and howling for an attorney. He tilted
the face of the beeper to the candlelight and caught the number with a sigh of
relief. Not someone in jail, but Jason.

Mitch excused himself and everyone smiled at him—except Royce
Winston. She didn't even spare him a glance. What did he expect? The five years
she'd lived in Italy hadn't changed anything. She was still ready to drive a
stake through his heart.

Royce couldn't possibly love Brent, could she? For chrissake, she
had to be smarter than that, but the Farenholt money might have done the trick.
After all, she'd been quick to tell him about her engagement ring. Okay, so who
could blame her? Five minutes at the altar and she'd make more money than he
could earn in a lifetime of court appearances.

Screw it. Let her spend the rest of her damn life with that
pussy-whipped mama's boy and his snobby family. Mitch hustled upstairs in
search of a telephone, his mind still on Royce. He'd thought about her once or
twice in the five years since he'd last seen her.

Oooo-kay, a helluva lot more than that. She'd returned this year
from living with relatives in Italy, better known than ever thanks to her
column in the
San Francisco Examiner.
She'd left right after her
father's funeral, but continued to write her column from abroad.

Obviously, she'd needed to get away from the city and its painful
memories. To get away from him. He'd tried to convince himself that she was
never coming back. Suddenly, she was home again—where she belonged.

But Mitch hadn't counted on her becoming engaged to Brent. He owed
the cocky little prick, and he hadn't forgotten it.
Trust me, I never will.
One
day, one day soon, he'd pay Brent back.

There was only one man on earth he hated more than that son of a
bitch. Damn straight. It was almost a toss-up, but he did hate his own father
more than he hated Brent Farenholt. Too bad there was no way in hell he could
ever find the bastard. Royce's rusty machete idea would be perfect for his old
man.

Mitch found a small study upstairs and dialed Jason's number.

"He's run away," Jason's mother informed him, an
hysterical pitch to her voice.

Mitch had expected something like this. In the two years he'd worked
with Jason through the Big Brothers program, he'd seen the kid's life change
completely. He'd lived with no rules, the son of a single parent struggling to
make ends meet. Then his mother remarried a trucker who thought the iron fist
was the only way to deal with teenagers. The strait-jacket of rules was driving
Jason over the edge.

How well Mitch remembered that feeling of being trapped by rules,
rules, and more rules. Jason didn't know running away would only get him into
worse trouble. But Mitch knew.

"What upset Jason?" Mitch listened while she described
Jason's latest fight with his stepfather.

"Oh, thank God, here he is." He heard a muffled noise as
her hand covered the receiver but didn't block the sound of her voice.
"You're in trouble. You're gonna to get it."

"Wait," Mitch yelled to get her attention. "Put
Jason on."

"Yeah?" Jason said, and Mitch could almost see the
belligerent thrust of his jaw. "She didn't have to bother you. I was jus'
kickin' it with my posse."

Kicking it was this year's version of chill out. Mitch still
called it hanging out. Posse—his friends. Not quite
Boyz N the Hood
but
close. Too close. "I'll pick you up tomorrow at noon. We'll talk about
this."

"Forget it. The man says I ain't goin' nowhere."

"Let me speak with your mother." Mitch waited, then
Jason's mother came on the line. "Please explain to your husband how
important it is for Jason to spend time with me and earn Big Brother points so
he can go to camp this summer. The baby will be born about then, won't it? You'll
need peace and quiet."

The party was finally breaking up, Royce noticed, but Brent and
his father were still at their table in an animated discussion with the Italian
count who'd escorted Caroline. After the Dillinghams said good-night, lavishing
Royce with compliments and good wishes on her trial run, Royce went to comb her
hair, hoping when she returned Brent would be ready to leave.

Halfway up the stairs she met Caroline with Eleanor Farenholt. The
two women had been created by the same fairy godmother. Each had the bone
structure of a cover girl with an aquiline nose and sculpted cheekbones beneath
eyes that could only be described as patrician blue. Naturally, with such
perfection both women felt they didn't need to show off their hair, so they
cinched their blond tresses into sleek models' chignons.

They were so exquisite that Royce had to remind herself she was
thankful for a thick head of wavy dark-blond hair that softened her square-cut
jaw and the clan of freckles gathered on the bridge of her nose. Her eyes,
though, were her best feature, clear and cool green. Intelligent green, her
father used to say.

"You really look terrific tonight," Caroline said.
"That dress was made for you."

She spoke with such honesty, looking Royce directly in the eye,
that Royce almost believed her, but knew she couldn't be sincere. No woman
could like a rival who'd cost her Brent Farenholt.

"Thanks," Royce smiled, noticing Eleanor hadn't seconded
Caroline's opinion. Instead she looked at Royce as if she were something she
wouldn't want to step on in the dark.

Royce hurried up the stairs, walking as lightly as possible on the
parquet floor that magnified every footfall. The first door she came to was
closed, but the next was open. The room was dark, but she went in, expecting a
bedroom with an attached bathroom. Squinting in the darkness she saw the
silhouette of a tall man outlined against the window.

"Can't stay away from me, can you, Royce?"

Why me? Why did she have to keep running into Mitch? And why was
he standing in the dark, anyway? He took two steps toward her. He had a
disturbingly sensual way of looking at her, or maybe it was just her imagination.

"You're madder than hell at yourself, aren't you?" he
asked.

"I can't imagine what you're talking about. I'm
speechless."

"For a change." He came another step closer. Then
another.

Some primitive instinct fired a warning as she remembered what
Brent had said about Mitch's explosive temper. His voice radiated antagonism.
And from what she could see of his face in the darkness, he looked positively
dangerous. What right did he have to be angry? It wasn't his father rotting six
feet under.

"You're damn pissed at yourself for not telling Arnold
Dillingham that I'm the biggest son of a bitch on earth."

Mitch was standing so close, she could smell a faint trace of his
after-shave, an elusive scent she recalled from the first time she'd kissed him
five years ago. The annoying patter of her heart infuriated her. It was an
involuntary feminine reaction she'd have to control, or maybe he just
intimidated her. There had always been something threatening about Mitch.

"I could kill you."

"You'll have to take a number, Royce."

"What good would come of it?
Nothing
can bring back
the dead."

"All night you've been itching to use that scorpion tongue of
yours, but you didn't because you know Arnie won't listen. And you're not about
to risk your career, are you?"

She automatically swung her arm up, intending to whack him. He
caught her wrist, gripping it firmly. The blood pounded in her temples,
bringing a wave of shame.

Why, he was right. And she hated him all the more for it. She'd
justified her silence by thinking nothing could bring back her father, but on
another level she had kept quiet because she wanted that television program.

"Now you know how it feels to be ambitious." He lowered
her arm to her side, but kept his hand clamped around her wrist. "When you
want success so much, you can taste it. When you're willing to make compromises
to get to the top."

"What you did was different."

"Not really. And if you're honest, you'll admit it."

"You're disgusting. Let me go."

Her mouth was open, the last words still suspended in the small
space between them, when he twisted her arm behind her back, bringing her
against the solid expanse of his chest. His free hand slipped under her chin
and held her jaw open. Her brain barely registered what was happening when his
lips met hers in a scorching kiss.

Why is he doing this? she asked herself frantically. His kiss was
hot and punishing, a primal act of male domination. And he wanted a whole lot
more than a kiss. He made that plain by the thrust of his hips against hers.

Infuriated, she tried to knee him in the groin, but he blocked her
by twisting his body to the side. Stop fighting him, she told herself. He's too
strong. Go limp and he'll quit. She sagged in his arms; if he hadn't been
holding her she would have been on the floor. But he kept kissing her with a
fierceness that went beyond passion.

The hot gliding of his tongue as it mated with hers brought a
ripple of excitement. And the memory of the first time he'd kissed her five
years ago. A kiss she'd never quite forgotten, even though she despised herself
for remembering. A kiss that unleashed a longing time and distance hadn't
altered.

She'd responded then, an instantaneous, instinctive response. And
heaven help her, it was happening all over again.

He released her hand, but she didn't realize it until she found
her arms around his neck, fingers twining through the soft strands of hair at
the base of his head. Past and present merged, driven by a rush of desire. His
hands were on her bottom now, boldly cupping it, bringing her up against the
firm heat of his lower body. She clutched him, welcoming each thrust of his
tongue, knowing in the back of her mind she'd hate herself later, but she
couldn't bank the insistent pulse of desire coursing through her as his
mind-reeling kiss deadened the heartbreak of the past.