Sawyer, Meryl (7 page)

"There's a booth free," Mitch said. "Let's order a
pizza."

Paul followed Mitch to the booth, his stomach churning at the
thought of the Liquid Zoo's pizza. It was like eating melted cheese on an old
glove. But Mitch didn't care; he ate a combo pizza—hold the anchovies—seven
nights a week.

Paul watched Mitch as he ordered the pizza and another round of
drinks. Why was he so angry? That Winston broad had caught him off-guard, but
Mitch had looked damn good.

True, it would be a hassle again squelching rumors that he was
running for DA. Mitch had promised his former girlfriend, Abigail Carnivali,
he'd stay out of the DA's race so she could run. Good old
"Carnivorous" would be screaming for Mitch's blood. What had Mitch
seen in her? She was gorgeous, but a ball buster.

"I should have known Royce would pull something like this.
Even after all this time she's an ole coon dog nosing down a cold trail."

There was an element of ruthlessness about Mitch that he'd
tempered over the years, but never completely concealed. When he was angry, the
way he was now, a trace of his southern accent appeared, and he used southern
expressions.

"I didn't realize you knew Royce Winston."

Mitch stared across the dark bar for a moment at the fight being
shown on television. "I met her a little over five years ago. You were
away then, remember?"

"Can't forget being hauled in front of Internal
Affairs." Paul had quit the force, his name under a cloud, and had taken
off across the country on his Harley for almost a year. By the time he
returned, he'd lost his wife and kids. But he still had one friend.

"As usual, I'd let thirty-four out of thirty-six months lapse
and still didn't have all of my continuing-ed classes to keep up my license to
practice law," Mitch continued. "I'd racked up a few credits going to
a Giants game and listening to some bullshit from the team's lawyer on ethics
and sports contracts. I spent a week at Club Med, getting laid, improving my
tan, and listening to lectures on effectively using paralegals."

The waiter brought their drinks and the pizza with about as much
care as a trash collector dumping a can into his truck. Mitch grabbed a piece
and took a chunk out of it while Paul watched. What did Mitch see in this
place? Didn't he notice the pizza was burnt? Naw. Mitch didn't care what he
ate—as long as it was pizza.

"I was still short on the required credits for stress
management, so I enrolled in a weekend program at the Self-Awareness Institute
in Big Sur," Mitch said. "That was one of those touchy-feely Japanese
deals that were so popular before everyone realized we were committing economic
suicide kowtowing to Tokyo.

"The first session was held in a mango grove overlooking the
ocean. Swear to God, there were meditation pillows on the ground and incense
burners. I was looking around for a roster to sign before cutting out when in
walked a blond with a clipboard and name tag that read: ROYCE."

"I take it Royce Anne Winston was the leader."

"Yeah," Mitch said, staring into his glass. "I
didn't find out her last name until it was too late. The Institute used first
names only on our badges so we could 'connect' with each other."

Mitch took a deep breath, not smelling the stale beer or even the
overdone pizza he'd hardly eaten. Instead his mind took a detour; the aroma of
sandalwood from the incense burner filled his nostrils as he thought about the
first time he'd met Royce.

Five years earlier he'd sat on the meditation pillow, his eyes on
the blond wearing an oversize sweatshirt splattered with silver metallic paint
that couldn't begin to hide a bombshell figure like an old-time movie star's.

He wouldn't have described her as pretty. Her features were a
little strong to be conventionally feminine: wide green eyes, a sexy mouth,
blond hair styled in a wind tunnel. And cute freckles. She appeared to be
several years younger than he was—not yet thirty.

"All right." She clapped her hands for attention. No
ring. "I'm Royce, your spiritual guide. Let's begin right away. Everyone
find a meditation pillow and sit. Cross your legs like Indians. Put your hands
on your knees."

While the group settled on the pillows, Mitch studied Royce.
Smart, his sixth sense told him as she glanced around, sizing up the sleepy
group who'd never have been here except the legislature had decided to
"improve" the quality of attorneys by requiring these classes. What
bullshit.

"Close your eyes and take deep, deep, calming breaths of the
sandalwood incense. Clear your mind of everything," Royce instructed.
"Just let it go. Let it float away on the breeze."

"What a crock," he muttered to himself, his eyes on
Royce as she sat cross-legged on her pillow, her hands on her knees, her head
slightly bent. She tossed her wayward curls over her shoulder, an unconscious
gesture he found very provocative.

She was doing the deep-breathing crap, leading the horde of mostly
male attorneys gathered in the early morning sunlight. There was something
undeniably sexy about her. She had the type of girl-next-door looks that would
fool anyone's mother. But a father would take one look at Royce and haul you
behind the woodshed for a lecture on birth control.

She opened her eyes and looked directly at him. Bedroom eyes.
"Breathe deeply," she mouthed.

He unleashed the grin that had coaxed more than his share of women
out of their panties. She closed her eyes without sparing him a second glance.

"Slowly, ever so slowly, exhale," she instructed, her
tone low, hypnotic. Downright sexy.

"Let the air go through your nostrils, taking with it the
tension, the stress. Concentrate on what you're letting go of. Imagine that
burden floating away. Just let it go."

"They feed more interesting slop to the hogs," Mitch
whispered under his breath. She kept talking, but he wasn't listening. He
imagined Royce, her hair splayed across a pillow. Her thighs parted. Incense
filled his lungs; the possibilities of Royce in his bed filled his mind.

"Mitch. Earth to Mitch," Royce called to him.

Everyone's eyes were on him now. He'd lost track of what she'd
been saying. What had he missed? "Sorry. I zoned out for a moment. Too
much incense."

She smiled. Nice, even white teeth. "We're sharing what we
let go of. What did you let go of, Mitch?"

"I was thinking of something I'd like to get ahold of."

Laughter rumbled through the group. One of the jerks from the
Public Defenders office fell off his pillow. Mitch realized the rest of the
guys found Royce every bit as sexy as he did.

She ignored his suggestive comment. "Mitch, breathe deeply
for me."

He felt like an ass, but he puffed for the hell of it. Okay,
because he wanted her attention.

"Now, Mitch," she said, a teasing note in her voice.
"Exhale and let go, let go of your obsession with billable hours."

The group howled, slapping their thighs. Too damn much incense.
Mitch didn't bother to tell her that he was with the DA's office and didn't
bill hours like most attorneys.

The meditation bit went on all morning. Afterward every attorney
had questions, swarming all around Royce. Mitch hung back and listened. After a
weekend of this she had to hear every line in the book. And she wasn't falling
for any of it.

Finally, the last guy was making his pitch. Mitch stood nearby,
pretending to admire the ocean view while the creep told Royce how oral sex
lifted a couple to a transcendental plane that couldn't be equaled.

"I never engage in oral sex," Royce snapped, losing
patience with all the bird-dogging. "That stuff's too fattening."

She walked away before the wiseass could respond. Chuckling to
himself, Mitch hurried after her, following her down the trail to the ocean.

"Royce, wait a second."

"Mitch, the Torquemada of torts. You should be at the
swimming pool getting aquatic therapy. " She still sounded angry.

"They'll never miss me. I'll sign the roster later."

"Go to class." She trotted down the path away from him.
Nice tush, he noted. Great legs. He trailed along behind her, trying to decide
what to say next. He loved a challenge.

She halted abruptly and he seized the opportunity to bump into
her. What a chest. Soft. Full. "Sorry," he said, putting his arm
around her. She was even cuter at close range. Even sexier.

"Look, Mitch"—she jerked away from him—"I hate
lawyers. I believe what my father says. There's no difference between a whore
and an attorney. They both screw you for money. And after working around here,
I'm convinced he's right."

"So why are you here?"

"I'm a writer. I need the money." She waved her hand.
"Go back to class. You're wasting your time."

She scampered down the trail before he could respond. But Mitch
went after her. Hell, nothing in this world had been handed to him. Ever.
Everything he wanted he'd gone after. And suffered to get.

"I'm a lawyer," he said when he found her sitting on a
boulder at the surf's edge, "to make money. But I'm really an
inventor."

"You are?" Suspicion fired her green eyes.

"Yeah. I have a drug at the FDA now just waiting for
approval. May take years, though. You know bureaucracy."

"Really? What kind of drug?"

He settled himself on the rock beside her, gazing at her with all
the sincerity he could muster. "Something no woman should be
without."

"A portable bullshit detector?"

He tried to look supremely insulted, gazing out at the parade of
foam-capped waves tumbling lazily onto the shore.

She went for it, touching his arm, saying, "Tell me about
your invention."

"It's a pill," he said, the picture of seriousness,
"a pill to take the calories out of sperm."

She blinked, disbelief firing her expressive eyes. "You creep."

"So, I'm not perfect. But I'm damn close."

She shoved at him, slamming both hands into his chest. But not
before he noticed her smile.

He caught her hands in his. "Give me a chance."

They gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, so close their lips
almost touched, their breathing swift. He detected a trace of perfume, an
alluring scent with a hint of spice. Heated radiated from her body, her soft
breasts barely touching his chest. The rolling crash of the waves on the rocks
suggested a more sensual rhythm.

"I'm not good company right now," she finally said.
"My mother recently died of cancer, and I'm having trouble accepting her
loss." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"Tell me what happened."

They spent the next two days together. Mostly she talked about her
mother and he listened, his hand in hers or his arm around her. He never let it
get any farther than that, sensing she'd had the rush too many times from legal
leeches.

He never discussed his job. Why bother? She hated attorneys. It
would take time to change her mind. Naturally, he steered the conversation away
from his family. Away from his past.

The sensitive male was a new role for him. Usually, he came on
strong with women. If they didn't like it, he cut out. But he knew Royce
wouldn't fall for locker-room macho.

She intrigued him, sharing with him many of her ideas about life,
most of which were thought provoking and decidedly offbeat. He had to admit he
found her fascinating.

On the last evening there was a farewell bash around the mud therapy
pools where Nolo Contendere Nachos and Subpoena Coladas were served. Mitch
waited for Royce, but she didn't come. He found her in the dark parking lot
loading her things into a rattletrap Toyota.

"You're not leaving without saying good-bye, are you?"
Obviously she was. Gripes, had he been wrong. He'd been positive he was getting
somewhere with her.

"My father needs me." She slammed the trunk shut and
moved to the driver's door. "I have to get back to San Francisco as
quickly as possible."

"Is he ill?"

"He's been... depressed since Mama died." It was too
dark to see her face clearly, but he heard the touching concern in her voice.

He thrust a cocktail napkin and a pen at her. "Give me your
number and I'll call you." He didn't ask if she wanted to see him, afraid
of what she might say.

She scribbled her number. "I won't be home for a month. I've
made enough money to take my father to Italy to visit Mama's people."

"A month?" Sounded like a life sentence. He'd been
patient all weekend, goddammit, counting on seeing her in San Francisco. To
hell with pussyfooting around. He hauled her into his arms a little more
roughly than he intended. "Don't forget me."

Before she could answer, he tilted her chin up and kissed her.
He'd meant it to be a sweet kiss, but, hell, what did he know about tenderness?
Nothing.

His mouth molded over hers, crushing its soft fullness. She
swayed, clutching his shoulders for support, emitting a shocked gasp that
parted her lips. His tongue thrust into the moist heat, seeking hers with
fierce urgency. Her lips moved hungrily against his, her arms now circling his
neck.