Sawyer, Meryl (49 page)

Wally hesitated, then said quietly, "No, he wouldn't. There
isn't anything to forgive. Mitch was right. Your father's friend wasn't behind
the wheel."

Alarm rippled up her spine. No! It couldn't be. She gripped the
seat of the chair with both hands. "You're not telling me Papa—"

"No. I was driving that night, and I'd had too much to drink.
With mandatory sentencing for repeat offenders I would have been sent to
prison. Your father insisted on saying he was driving. We thought we could get
away with it. Bruce had been thrown from the car and it was in flames, which
was bound to destroy the evidence. It did. The police had very little to go on,
but it was enough to interest Durant."

Her hands seemed molded to the chair, almost lifeless now like the
rest of her body. Why hadn't Wally told her the truth before now?

"I would never have let Terry be tried for my crime,"
Wally said, his eyes misted over. "Your father was more than a brother. He
was a father and a friend all in one. After the arraignment we agreed that I'd
go to the police—with Terry —the following afternoon. But he killed himself. I
would have turned myself in except the note Terry left me begged me—for your
sake—not to go to the police. He didn't want you to be alone in the
world."

It sounded just like Papa, she decided. He'd always been fiercely
protective of those he loved—especially Wally. Papa had always done what he
could to protect Wally because he knew how cruel the world was to him.

Prison—for a homosexual—would be hell on earth. No doubt Papa had
done it to help her as well. Without Wally she would have been alone. Her
mother's cousins in Italy were a world away.

"I haven't had a drink since that night," Wally said,
"and I made myself a promise that I'd look after you just as your father
would have. That's why I was driven to discover the truth about Mitch. That's
why I'm concerned that he'll hurt you."

He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. "I only did
what your father asked. I wouldn't have told you now except that I can see you
love Mitch. He was arrogant and ambitious, but he was right. Please, forgive me
for not having told you sooner."

"Jenny," Mitch called softly, and her tail thumped
against the wall of the enclosure as they stood in the recovery section of the
animal clinic. Royce squeezed his hand. "I knew you had the heart to make
it," he told the retriever.

"How soon can she come home with us?" Royce asked as she
extended one hand to pat Jenny and the dog gave it an affectionate lick. The
room seemed sterile, cold. Jenny would be far happier at home, where Royce
could take care of her.

"The vet says it'll be a few more days." Mitch gazed at
Royce, who was still petting Jenny. "Home with us," she'd said. Were
there any sweeter words than those? For once things had worked out. Jenny and
Royce were still his.

There was one last hurdle, though. Until the killer was
apprehended Royce wouldn't be safe. The killer might not be stalking her, but
who knew? The whole case was so damn crazy, unpredictable. He wasn't taking any
chances with the woman he loved.

Mitch was uncomfortably aware that the seventy-two-hour rule had
kicked in. Once that amount of time had passed without finding the perp,
chances became slimmer and slimmer that the murderer would be caught.

The attendant told them their time was up, and Mitch guided Royce
toward the exit. Behind them Jenny whined mournfully.

"I can see why the vet didn't want us to visit Jenny,"
Royce said. "Dogs aren't people, you can't explain that you're not
deserting her. Jenny can't understand why you're not taking her home."

"Bye, Jenny," Mitch called, the retriever's mournful
eyes haunting him. It was amazing how much she reminded him of Harley. It was
her soulful eyes, windows to her loyal heart.

Royce was quiet as he drove to the restaurant and the waiter
showed them to a table screened by lush ferns. Flickering candlelight revealed
an intimate banquette upholstered in soft peach colored fabric and a table set
with gleaming sterling and crystal.

Mitch had noticed that Royce hadn't been herself all day. She'd
been surprisingly melancholy, considering her uncle had been on that plane. And
she was unusually affectionate. She never lost the opportunity to touch him or
kiss him. Hey, he wasn't complaining. He loved it.

For the last five years he'd tried to imagine what it would be
like if Royce were in love with him. He'd thought she'd be more aloof.
Uninhibited in bed, but distant during the day. Wrong. Royce was a snuggler,
and he had to admit he liked her this way.

Mitch ordered a bottle of Cristal. Just as the wine steward popped
the cork, Mitch's beeper went off. "It's Paul. Hold the champagne until I
call him."

When he returned to the table, he knew he had a shit-eating grin
on his face, but he was so damn happy that he couldn't help it. Royce responded
with the first uninhibited smile he'd seen all day. He lifted his champagne
glass to hers. "To victory."

Her matchless green eyes were wide with surprise. "You
mean—"

"That was Paul. He called to say Abigail Carnivali went on
TV—during prime time, of course—and said they're dropping the charges against
you."

She closed her eyes, leaving a fringe of golden lashes that cast
shadows across her cheeks. "Thank God." She opened her eyes, her
expression earnest. "Is it over? Really over?"

Damn. He longed to say yes, but he had to be honest. "Your
legal problems are over, but we can't forget there's a killer out there. Paul's
sources say the police are about to make an arrest."

"Who?"

"Paul will call us the minute he finds out." He picked
up his champagne glass and waited until Royce picked up hers.
"Victory."

They sat quietly sipping champagne. He'd expected Royce to be more
excited, but she seemed unusually introspective. She kept gazing at him, her
expression difficult to read. "Mitch, about what happened to Harley—did
you—"

"Aw, hell. I'm sorry I told you about him. I don't want to
dredge up the past tonight." He wanted to tell Royce everything about
himself so she'd understand him the way no one had ever understood him, but not
tonight. The past was too damn depressing to talk about on a night when he
wanted to plan their future. "I promised you a romantic evening,
remember?"

She smiled, a warm, loving smile and kissed his cheek.
"Candlelight and champagne is a big improvement over the elevator in the
police station."

"I love you, Royce," he said, his voice husky.
"I've never felt this way about anyone."

"You know I love you too."

"No reservations about your father?" Aw, hell, why'd he
asked that?

She didn't hesitate. "None. As a matter of fact, this morning
Wally told me you were right. My father's friend wasn't driving." She took
a deep breath. "Wally was."

"Wally?" For an instant Mitch was dumbfounded.
"That possibility never occurred to me. The police thought he'd run down
from his house when he heard the crash." He studied her a moment. "He
just told you? Now? After all this time?"

"Yes. My father didn't want Wally to tell me."

Mitch listened to the rest of her explanation, asking himself for
the hundredth time if there was any way Wally could be involved in the aborted
attempt to frame Royce. It seemed odd that he'd waited years to tell Royce the
truth. Then again, maybe Wally couldn't risk losing her love. Mitch understood
that perfectly.

"No matter who was driving, I prosecuted out of blind
ambition. I wanted to make a name for myself. Of all the lessons I learned in
the school of hard knocks—and some of them were killers—this was the worst. It
cost me five years without the woman I love."

"Let's put the past where it belongs—behind us." She
raised her glass. "To us. To the future—our future."

"To us." Mitch clinked his glass against hers, then took
a sip. "I have to go into the office for a minute tomorrow morning.
Afterward, let's go pick out a ring."

She almost gasped at his matter-of-fact declaration accompanied by
his comment about business. Never mind, she chided herself. Interpersonal
relationships weren't Mitch's forte. How could they be, considering the past?

"I don't remember you asking me to marry you."

He pulled her close, sliding her across the banquette and into his
arms. "Royce, I love you. I want you to marry me."

His expression was more serious than she'd ever seen it, but there
was a tenderness there as well that made him look vulnerable for the first time
since she'd met him. A glimpse of a little boy looking for love, she thought,
recalling the tragedy of his youth. She forced a joking tone into her voice,
half afraid that if she didn't she'd cry. "That's better."

They both chuckled, not the uncomfortable laughter that they once
would have shared, but the natural laughter of lovers. For a moment they sat,
arms entwined, bodies pressed together, silently acknowledging their love.

"You realize this house has only one bedroom," Royce
informed him after they'd eaten dinner and returned home.

Mitch tossed his shirt on the closet floor, more interested in
watching Royce undress than anything else, but her disapproving glance reminded
him to put his dirty clothes in the hamper instead of dumping them on the
closet floor the way he usually did. Aw, hell, marriage was going to take some
adjusting. Still, it was fun teasing Royce with his bad habits and letting her
reform him.

"You're right. This place is too small. Maybe we should move
to Marin where our kids can have a big yard."

Royce raised her arms, giving him a helluva provocative view of
the length of her sexy body, as she slithered into a black silk nightgown he'd
never seen before.

"Marin." Royce's lip curled, as if she'd spotted a
disgusting bug. "I suppose you'll want a BMW—basic Marin wheels. No way.
I'm a city girl."

He couldn't help smiling—-not just at the adorable picture she
made in that nightgown, but at her emphatic opinions. Now, this was Royce, the
woman he remembered. He was going to have a lot of fun baiting her. He loved
playing the devil's advocate just to hear another of Royce's offbeat ideas.

Royce slowly twirled around, the black silk sculpting every
luscious curve. "What do you think?"

"Sexy." He ran his hands up the slender curve of her
hips to her full breasts, the nipples barely visible through the lace inset
bodice. "Don't plan on being in it long."

She shoved his hands aside. "It took me hours to find this
negligee with that Nazi, Gerte watching." Her eyes were smoldering, seductive.
"Besides, I'm in charge tonight."

"Again, tonight?" He almost laughed—she was so damn
cute—but her hands were in his shorts, homing in on his cock. She gently
stroked him, her head resting against his chest.

"I like having you make love to me," Mitch said.

She gazed up at him, her expression serious. "Remember what
you said about me wanting you to force yourself on me? You claimed I used it as
an excuse so I wouldn't feel guilty about my father."

"Didn't you?"

"No. I liked the excitement of not knowing how far you'd
go-"

Her tone told him this wasn't a prelude to making love, this was a
serious discussion. "You're the only woman I've ever pushed like that,
Royce. I wouldn't have done it if all your signals hadn't said you wanted me.
Rape is an inexcusable crime. You can't imagine how much I hated myself that
night you screamed for Jenny."

"You frightened me," Royce admitted.

"I wanted you to kiss me and say you loved me, not Brent, but
I was so angry that I came on too strong."

"I understand," she murmured, then kissed the sensitive
curve of his neck.

She didn't understand, but, aw, hell, he couldn't bring himself to
tell her he'd come alarmingly close to forcing her. He'd told himself he would
have stopped—that he was just teaching her a lesson—but the fact was Royce had
found it necessary to scream.

For years now he'd looked in the mirror, not seeing what others
saw. Instead he saw his father—a brutal man who'd sadistically raped a young
girl.

Mitch had told himself that he was absolutely nothing like his
father and he'd believed it—even though he avoided looking in mirrors. But that
night with Royce proved the same aberrant genes that determined his physical
appearance might also affect him psychologically.

He'd spent most of his life assuring himself that he only looked
like his father. But now he wondered. What would Royce say when he told her
about his father? Would she wonder too?