Sawyer, Meryl (37 page)

David Thompson's house on Lafayette Square was like many others in
the affluent neighborhood. It was a three-story townhouse with a garden in the
rear. Like the rest of San Francisco parking was at a premium, and Paul had to
double-park behind a Porsche in David's driveway.

Inside Val's parents greeted them, and then scuttled away.
Obviously they didn't want to be around when Val talked to her brother. Paul
wondered if he should be there either. Wasn't this too personal? But Val's
courageous smile never left her face, nor did she relax her grip on his arm.

Upstairs, they met Trevor, Val's former husband. The boy next
door, Paul thought, noting his sandy-blond hair and square-cut jaw. He sure as
hell didn't look like a guy who'd deceive his wife—for years. And he didn't
look gay, but who could tell? Living in San Francisco had shown Paul the
absurdity of stereotypes.

"Val," Trevor said, his voice breaking. "David's so
ill... I don't know what I'm going to do."

Val didn't answer; Paul knew she couldn't. Even though Trevor was
too distraught to notice, she was still angry with him.

"Don't upset David," Trevor insisted. "He's weak
from all the tests."

Val nodded and walked into the bedroom. She stopped at the door
and Paul felt her tense. Propped up in the four-poster bed was a man who so
closely resembled Val that he had to be her twin. Auburn hair, intriguing hazel
eyes, softly sculpted lips.

"Y-you came," David said, his voice slightly slurred by the
brain tumor that would soon claim his life. "I—I didn't think you
would." His eyes misted over. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you
never spoke to... me again."

Paul nudged Val forward. He had no idea what she was thinking,
what she might say. She sat on the edge of the bed and Paul positioned himself
behind her, waiting for her to introduce him, as she had to the others, as her
"friend."

Val took her brother's hand. The skin was a livid purple from an
IV shunt. "The other night I was thinking about the time we went to that
dude ranch in Montana, remember?"

David smiled, a slow, tentative smile that was exactly like Val's
when she was unsure of herself. "You fell off the horse onto a cactus, and
I had to pull two dozen quills out of your jeans."

Val laughed, or tried to, but the sound was low, bordering on a
sob. "Yep. You saved my butt—more than once. We had plenty of good times,
didn't we? A lifetime of happy memories."

David brushed back a tear with his forearm. Paul felt like an
intruder and started to move away, but Val caught his hand and gave it a
desperate squeeze.

"Val, I want to explain about Trevor."

"Don't. It doesn't matter anymore. We have now what we had
when we were kids—each other. Mother and Father never cared. They never wanted
children, you know. But we loved each other. Everything I did, I did to please
you. You were everything to me. A father. A brother. A friend."

David didn't try to stop the tear that dribbled down his cheek.
"And you were everything to me. That's why it was so hard... impossible
for me to tell you that Trevor and I had fallen in love. I couldn't bring
myself to hurt you. In the end I hurt you even more, didn't I?"

"It doesn't matter," Val said, although Paul knew it
mattered very much. As a child Val had given up on her parents' love, but she'd
never expected to lose David's. "I understand what happened."

"Forgive me. I'm being punished now. Can you imagine what
it's like knowing you're going to die? I'd thought, I'd hoped, that time would
heal your wounds and we could somehow be close again. I'd counted on you
finding someone special." For a moment his gaze met Paul's and Paul saw
the suffering in the eyes that were a mirror image of those of the woman he'd
always love. "I'd counted on your children, Val. My nieces and nephews. On
baptisms and birthday parties and school plays. Piano recitals."

"Oh, David," Val said, the threat of tears in her voice.
"Don't think of what you'll miss; think of what we had. Sunsets at the
cabin on the Russian River, the rose trees we planted in your garden out back,
the way we'd sit in the window seat, talking and watching the fog creep across
the bay, the sound of thunder rumbling over Golden Gate Bridge that sent us
under the covers, hugging each other until the storm passed."

David offered her the suggestion of a smile. "I doubt two
siblings have ever been closer."

"Never," Val assured him. "I love you, darling.
I'll always love you."

"I love you too." His sharp intake of breath sounded
unusually loud in the quiet room. "I don't have long, you know. I'm
already paralyzed on one side. Soon I won't be able to talk. I don't know what
I'll do then."

Val leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Don't worry.
I'll be here."

"Promise me you won't leave me. Promise me you'll hold me the
way you did when we were afraid of the thunder. I'm afraid, so terribly afraid
of dying."

"I won't leave you, I swear. And when it's over, when you're
with the angels looking down on us, I'll take care of

Trevor."

"Oh, Val, could you? He's not strong, you know. This will be
horrible for him. Mother and Father won't be any help. I need you to do this
for me... in spite of what I've done and how I hurt you."

Val threw her arms around David and cradled him, rocking gently.
"Don't worry about me. Losing Trevor wasn't so hard. Some part of me
always knew it wasn't real love. It was losing you that nearly killed me. But
things worked out for the best."

She turned to Paul. "I found the love of my life. And I promise
you, David, as surely as the sun sets over the bay and your rose trees bloom
each spring, we'll name our first son after you."

She gently laid her brother against the bank of pillows.
Obviously, he was very weak now, his eyes half closed, but Paul thought he
looked more at peace than he had when they'd arrived. Val pulled his hand to
her breast.

Royce could barely concentrate on the videotape of her
interrogation that the defense team reviewed at the end of each session. A
secretary had whispered Royce was to report to Mitch's office as soon as she
finished. What did he want after almost two weeks of ignoring her? Surely, if
he was going to drop the case, he would have done it by now.

"Two minutes," Mitch's secretary warned when Royce came
into his office. "He's scheduled a conference call at four—sharp."

Royce walked in, crossing the carpeted office that was as large as
a football field and stopping in front of his desk. The highly polished walnut
stretched out like the deck of an aircraft carrier. Only one pile of papers was
on top, along with a telephone and a computer modem, but she knew the drawers
must be a mess, the way they were at home.

Mitch didn't look up until she'd been standing there a full minute
gazing down at his dark head, noticing how the hair was a shade too long,
dusting his collar in back. Had she'd actually made love to this man?

Was that what made him so possessive, so irrational? If she hadn't
known better she would have thought he was insanely jealous. The depth of his
fury went beyond any normal reaction.

She'd achieved her goal. Brent wouldn't testify. But had she
created an insurmountable chasm between herself and Mitch, a chasm that would
be impossible to cross? What could she do?

Mitch stood and tossed his pen aside. "I suppose you expect
me to represent you at the trial?"

"Yes." The word came out like a croak. So, this
interview was going to be about the trial—not their personal relationship.
Well, what had she expected? An apology? A declaration of undying love?

He rounded the desk and sat with one leg hitched up on the
polished wood, his eyes scouring her body. "Let's get a few things
straight." He touched her cheek, running his knuckles up the gentle curve.

She held herself completely still, not knowing what to expect, but
knowing how she reacted—her entire future— depended on getting him to forgive
her for kissing Brent. She managed to ask, "What things?"

His hand was on her shoulder now, warm, firm, thoroughly
disturbing. She didn't like the look in his intense eyes. She'd seen it before
and knew exactly what he was doing. He was the master of sexual intimidation.
Despite all that had happened, and all that was at stake, he somehow knew she
still wanted him, that she still lay awake at night dreaming about him, that
she'd blocked out the memory of her father for him.

"You're taking my case seriously, aren't you, Mitch?"
she asked, striving to keep this conversation on a professional level.

"Sure—if we can come to terms."

"What terms?"

"I've got what you want. And you've got what I want,
right?" His hand cupped her chin, the thumb resting on the full curve of
her lower lip. His strong fingers tilted her head upward, so she had no choice
but to look directly into his eyes.

He was staring at her lips. When his gaze met hers, his eyes were
so intense, so compelling that she was powerless to do anything but stare back.

He grinned, playing on the charge of sexual tension between them.
Before she could speak, his mouth overpowered hers. There was absolutely no
artistry to the kiss. It was hot, hard, wholly carnal.

It suffocated her cry of protest as the heat of passion seared
through her defenses with alarming speed. His tongue probed at the soft interior
of her mouth while his hands delved into her hair, holding her head in place
for his assertive kiss.

After the lonely days—and even more lonely nights— without him,
she savored the kiss, allowing a tiny flame of response, unwanted and
thoroughly aggravating, to ignite. Mitch must have sensed her acquiescence, for
he lifted his head, his lips achingly close to hers.

"Move all your things into my place—tonight—before I get
home. You can get domestic if you like and make dinner. But plan on serving it
in bed."

The intercom on his desk buzzed and he turned away from her, not
bothering to see if she agreed—just expecting it.

The ruckus at the door interrupted Mitch's conference call, and he
looked up. Royce was storming in, his secretary trying to keep her out. What
was going on? He thought everything was settled, but the mutinous expression on
Royce's face reminded him of the way she'd attacked him at her father's
funeral.

He motioned to his secretary to let Royce stay and hoped she'd
cool down by the time he finished his call. She hustled around behind his desk,
her long hair fluttering against her cheek. She jammed her thumb down on the
button, disconnecting him.

"You've just pissed off four of the most important attorneys
in the state." He tried for a joking tone. What the hell was the matter?

"Tell me you understand why I went to see Brent."

Christ! He didn't want to discuss this. That photo of Royce
kissing Brent had surprised him. Okay, okay, he'd been blown away. Against his
better judgment he'd forgiven her. "Yeah, I understand," he stated in
a smart-ass tone that clearly said he was clueless and always would be.

"Don't joke, Mitch. Explain why you were so angry about
it."

He sensed there was a lot at stake here. Don't screw up by being a
wiseguy. "We agreed that I was in charge of the case, right? But the first
chance you got, you went off half cocked. You're damn lucky it turned out so
good. Ingeblatt's photo could have ruined all the work we've done to improve
the public's image of you."

"I had to take the chance. I had to keep Brent off the stand.
You were the one who told me how negatively the jury would view me if he
testified."

He studied her, recalling with aching clarity his own bout with
being helpless, feeling trapped. Of course, that had been years ago, but
sometimes it felt like yesterday.

"I don't blame you for doing it," he said, not because
he'd totally forgiven her, but because he realized he had no choice. She was
asking for understanding, trying to make a connection. He had to give in even
though the thought of her kissing Brent made him want to put both hands around
her slim neck and squeeze.

"You're saying I did the right thing?"

"Yeah." He choked out the word.

She actually smiled, a satisfied, sincere smile. "You
understand that Brent calls me every night and I'm going to talk to him. Since
the Farenholts refuse to discuss the case with anyone, I might learn something
from Brent."

Now she was pressing her luck. Why did she need to talk to Brent?
Mitch knew only too well that the cocky little prick had a talent for charming
women.