The Cutting Edge (13 page)

They were so caught up in their celebrating that they were almost late getting back to work, and Tessa sailed through the rest of the day on a cloud. Brett hadn't called her to make plans for the night, but somehow she hadn't expected him to. Their relationship had progressed to the point that she felt he knew she wouldn't have any other plans, just as she knew that she'd see him that night. She didn't even feel a twinge of regret when she turned down invitations from two men she liked very much. They simply weren't Brett.

After work, she rushed home and took a pack of beef tips out of the freezer section of the refrigerator, putting it in the sink to thaw. She didn't know what sort of work Brett was doing, but she'd seen the strain of it in his face when he'd shown up yesterday afternoon. He was tired; if he wanted dinner, they'd eat there. And if he had to work, she had to have dinner anyway, she thought philosophically, though she felt lonely at the mere thought of not seeing him that night.

She stopped in the middle of the kitchen floor, her
eyes dreamy, her pulse speeding up. Until she'd met him, she hadn't known she could be so sensual, but all she had to do was look at him to feel her body heating. She wanted him with an intensity that was alarming, because her life had become focused on him to the exclusion of all else. His lovemaking made her go out of her mind with feverish desire. She couldn't control it, didn't even want to control it. She just wanted to lie with him every night for the rest of her life. She wanted to have his children, fight with him, love with him, ride beside him on his ranch, flirt with him until his beautiful navy eyes smoldered with desire and he reached out for her in compulsive need. She couldn't wait to tell Aunt Silver—

Silver! Groaning, Tessa remembered that an airmail letter from Silver had been in her mailbox, but she'd been in such a hurry to get the beef tips out of the freezer that she'd just thrown everything on the couch and gone straight to the kitchen. After retracing her steps to the living room, she sorted through her mail, picking out the letter from Silver and tearing it open.

Smiling, she read the long, newsy letter. The mountains were full of blooms, and the summer crowds had already begun pushing into Gatlinburg. The doll shop was doing so well that Silver had hired extra help, and she'd been approached by a man who wanted to buy the old farm in Sevierville, if Tessa was interested in selling her half.

Silver didn't mention Brett until the last paragraph, but Tessa laughed out loud when she read it. She'd known Silver's instinct would zoom in on him like steel to a magnet. “Bring this Brett Rutland to see me,” Sil
ver instructed in her letter. “Your handwriting shook when you wrote his name!”

The doorbell rang, and still chuckling, Tessa laid the letter aside. Her heart had already begun racing when she opened the door, expecting Brett. But it wasn't Brett who stood there. She didn't know the man and woman who faced her. “Teresa Conway?” the woman asked.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

The woman opened the flap of her purse, exhibiting a badge. “I'm Detective Madison, from the L.A.P.D. This is Detective Warnick. We have a warrant for your arrest.”

* * *

I
T WAS LATE
that night when Tessa let herself back into her apartment, and she groped her way through the dark to the couch, not even thinking to turn on any lights. She sat down, Silver's discarded letter crinkling under her, and she automatically removed the sheets of paper. Fine tremors shook her entire body, and she couldn't stop them. She'd been shaking for hours, ever since the nightmare had begun. This wasn't happening to her; it couldn't be happening. She hadn't believed Detective Madison, at first. She'd actually laughed, wanting to know who was behind the joke. Detective Warnick had read her her rights, gently but inexorably insisted that she get her purse and come with them, and still Tessa hadn't believed it was anything serious. It wasn't until she was escorted outside and put in the back seat of what was obviously an unmarked police car that she'd been struck with the realization that this was no joke, and it was then that she'd begun shaking.

She'd been arrested for embezzling. She'd under
stood that much of what they'd told her. They'd told her a lot, but though she'd tried very hard to concentrate, most of it hadn't made any sense. She was too frightened, too stunned to take it in. The police station had been a buzz of activity, with people coming and going and not paying any attention to her, but she'd been taken through the process of being booked with a casual sort of professionalism that chilled her. She'd been fingerprinted, and her picture taken, and both questioned and advised. Someone had given her a tissue to wipe the black ink from her fingertips, and she'd devoted herself to that task. It had been of paramount importance to clean the stain from her hands.

Finally, the thought had been born that she should call Brett. He'd get her out of this nightmare. At the thought of him, she'd become calm. There was nothing that Brett couldn't handle. He'd sort out this mistake, because that was obviously all it was. But what if he weren't at his hotel? What if he were waiting at her apartment, growing more and more furious because she wasn't there? What if he thought she'd gone out with some other man—which she had, in a way. She almost giggled, thinking of the way Detective Warnick had held her arm as they walked out to the car.

But she'd called his hotel anyway, only to be told that Mr. Rutland had given instructions that no calls were to be put through to him. Tessa tried to explain that it was an emergency, but the hotel operator couldn't be budged. In desperation, she asked for Evan Brady's room. He could take a message to Brett, if Brett was tied up with work.

Evan had answered on the second ring, and in a
stumbling rush, Tessa explained who she was and that she needed to talk to Brett. There had been a long pause, then Evan had said evenly, “He knows.”

Tessa's fingers had been shaking so much that she'd almost dropped the telephone. “Wh—what?” she stammered. “How…no, that doesn't matter. When will he be here?”

“I…ah…don't think he will.”

That didn't make sense. Tessa closed her eyes, fighting down the nausea that had been threatening for some time. “What do you mean? You don't understand what I'm talking about—”

“Yes, I understand.” The disembodied voice in her ear became a little rougher. “Miss Conway…Tessa…Brett is the one who filed the charges against you.”

Had he said anything after that? She didn't know. She'd simply taken the phone from her ear and sat there with the receiver clutched in her hand so tightly that her fingers had turned white, until Detective Warnick had gently removed the instrument from her grasp and offered, probably against all regulations, to call someone else for her. She'd refused, her mind blank, her emotions numb. Who else was there to call? What did it matter, anyway?

She hadn't seen the faintly concerned glances that passed between Detectives Madison and Warnick. She hadn't seen anything unusual in the Styrofoam cup of very strong, black coffee that was pressed into her grasp. She hadn't drunk it, but had held it, grateful for the warmth it brought to her chilled hands.

She'd been told that the court would appoint an attorney for her, if she couldn't afford one, and she'd frowned
in a puzzled manner. “I can afford a lawyer,” she said mildly, and gone back to examining the odd swirls of color on top of the black coffee.

She'd been allowed to sign her own bond, and she'd done so, but though she was then free to go, it hadn't seemed very important to her, and she'd continued to sit there in the hard, uncomfortable chair. When Detective Madison's shift had ended at eleven, she'd shepherded Tessa out to her own car, and that was how Tessa had gotten home.

She couldn't think. Unformed words swirled in her mind, but she couldn't grasp them long enough to make anything coherent of them. At last, moving slowly and jerkily, she curled up in a ball on the couch, as if to protect herself from the pain that awaited her if she ever allowed herself to notice it. It was there, hovering just on the edge of her consciousness, like a savage animal crouched in readiness to spring on her and claw her to shreds. If she just didn't let herself look at it, if she didn't admit its presence to herself, she'd be safe. She'd be safe. Telling herself that, she sank into the comforting blackness of sleep.

It was daylight when she woke, and she surged to her feet, her mind thick with sleep but recognizing instinctively that it was late. She had to hurry, or she'd be late to work. Tearing off her wrinkled clothing as she stumbled to the bathroom, not even questioning why she'd been sleeping on the couch, she was actually under the shower before she remembered what had happened the night before. Her lips trembled as she sagged against the wall of the shower. Late for work? The guard probably had express orders not to let her inside the building! If
there was anything she could count on, it was that she no longer had a job.

It was then that the first tears came, and she cried helplessly as she automatically soaped and rinsed herself. How had this happened? It didn't make any sense. She'd never stolen anything. Didn't Brett know that? He had to know that! Unless someone had deliberately made it look as if she'd been embezzling—of course, what else could it be? She had to talk to Brett. If he thought she'd been stealing, there had to be some pretty strong evidence against her, but she'd make him believe her.

Rushing now, she turned off the shower and dried off, then wrapped the towel around her and stumbled to the phone, punching out the numbers for Carter Engineering. She was put through to Brett's office without any trouble, and her spirits took a crazy upward swing. But when Helen Weis answered the phone, and Tessa asked for Brett, Helen hesitated.

“I'm sorry,” Helen finally said. “Mr. Rutland isn't taking any calls.”

“Please,” Tessa begged. “This is Tessa Conway. I have to speak to him!”

“I'm sorry,” Helen repeated. “He expressly said that he wouldn't take any calls from you.”

Tessa was trembling again as she hung up the phone. What was she going to do now? What could she do? Brett wouldn't talk to her, and in the face of that she was lost.

Several minutes later, she took a deep breath and straightened her spine. No, she wasn't lost. She couldn't get through to Brett on the phone. She'd see him in per
son, at his hotel, this evening. She wasn't going to let him go on thinking that she was a thief. She wouldn't even let herself believe that he'd been the one to press charges against her until he told her so himself. In the meantime, she had to take steps to protect herself. She'd been in shock, but she wasn't helpless, and she wasn't going to let herself be railroaded into prison for something she hadn't done. Her first step was to hire a lawyer, and the best place to find one was the telephone book.

By mid-afternoon, she'd secured the legal services of Calvin R. Stine and had a long meeting with him. He'd turned out to be a sharp-eyed man in his early thirties, just beginning to establish himself as a trial lawyer. He'd taken down a lot of information, most of which had seemed irrelevant to Tessa, but she'd willingly answered all his questions. He'd also told her what to expect. Her case, being a felony, would be brought before a grand jury, who would consider the evidence and decide if the State of California had sufficient evidence against her to warrant a trial. If the grand jury decided that there was insufficient evidence, all charges against her would be dropped.

Tessa pinned her hopes on that. If she had to go on trial…somehow, she didn't think she could stand it.

When she finally left Mr. Stine's office, she felt so weak that she could barely walk, and with faint surprise she realized that she hadn't eaten since lunch the day before, when she and Billie had laughed and toasted each other. How brightly the sun had shone on her barely twenty-four hours before! But everything was gray now,
she thought, not noticing the gorgeous Southern Californian spring day.

She had to eat something, but it was getting close to the time when Brett would return to his hotel, and she didn't want to miss him. The best thing to do, she decided, was to go to his hotel and get something to eat in the coffee shop there.

She did exactly that, but when her club sandwich was set before her, she could only pick at it. Every bite she took expanded in her mouth as she chewed it, and it was as tasteless as sawdust. Doggedly she forced herself to swallow a little of it, then picked the lettuce off and ate it a shred at a time while she nursed her glass of mineral water and checked the time every few minutes. Would Brett leave work promptly at five o'clock? She hadn't known him long enough to know his personal habits, she realized with a sharp pang. She hadn't known him long enough for him to believe without question that she wasn't capable of embezzlement.

Finally, when the waitress began giving her suspicious looks, Tessa decided to try her luck. If he wasn't in his room yet, she'd simply wait in the lobby for a while, then try again. Fortunately, she didn't have to ask for his room number; he'd given it to her the week before, in case she'd wanted to get in touch with him.

Her knees were shaking so badly that she had to cling to the rail in the elevator as it rose through the building, and they were still shaking as she searched for his room. When she finally found it, she froze before the blank door. What if he wouldn't let her in? Taking several deep breaths, she rapped sharply on the panel.

Evidently he was expecting someone, for he opened
the door without checking. He went very still, staring down at her, and his rough-hewn face was contemptuous. “Somehow, I didn't expect you to force yourself in here,” he said coldly.

“I have to talk to you,” Tessa said in desperation, almost crying at the look on his face.