The Cutting Edge (17 page)

Brett sipped the coffee. That was exactly the response he'd expected. “I don't want her in prison,” he said coolly.

If there was anything Joshua was, it was shrewd. He looked at Brett for a long, hard minute before he snorted. “But you do want her in your bed, don't you?”

“Exactly.”

“I never thought I'd see the day,” Joshua muttered. “I think I need some coffee, too.” As the older man crossed the room, Brett poured another cup of coffee and set it on the bar. Joshua sat down on one of the stools and picked up the coffee. “I'm not inclined to let her off with a slap on the wrist. How much is missing? Fifty thousand?”

“Fifty-four.”

“What did she take it for? Jewelry? A fancy vacation?”

Brett shrugged. He hadn't seen any evidence that she'd spent the money on anything. She dressed well, but not fifty-four thousand dollars worth. “You'll be paid back.”

“She still has the money?”

“I don't know. If she doesn't have it, I'll pay you back.”

The gray brows drew together. “Brett, that's an expensive woman you're playing with.”

“I'm not playing,” Brett said laconically.

“Well, I'll be damned.” For the first time, a faintly helpless note entered Joshua's voice. He was genuinely fond of Brett, a man made in his own mold, someone who let nothing interfere with getting the job done…or at least, nothing until this woman. “She must be something.”

“She's special. The L.A. office is practically in revolt against me for arresting her. Evan's been dragging around like a whipped hound.” Brett pushed his fingers through his tawny hair. “And I'm worse than all of them put together,” he admitted raggedly.

“Tell me something. Why should I agree to drop charges against her? Why shouldn't she pay for breaking the law?”

“She has paid.” Brett's fingers tightened on the cup of coffee as he remembered her white face. It had been a week since he'd seen her, and he was aching to touch her, to whisper to her that everything was going to be all right, that he'd take care of her.

“You're going to marry her? What if she doesn't want to marry you? I don't imagine you're her favorite person, right now,” Joshua pointed out.

Brett knew that, but he hadn't let himself think about it. He'd handle that when the time came, after she was no longer in danger of losing her freedom. When he had the charges against her dropped, when she was safe, then he'd deal with her anger. He still had his own anger to work out, and it would probably be a stormy
few days before they got everything settled between them, but he wasn't going to let her slip away from him.

“She'll marry me,” he said grimly. Then he looked at Joshua, his navy eyes piercing. He might be cutting his own throat by telling Joshua what he was about to say, but he wasn't going to lie to the man. He'd always been aboveboard in his dealings with Joshua, and he wasn't going to change now. “No matter what your decision, I want you to know that I'll be quitting soon. I'm going back to the ranch…and I want to take Tessa with me.”

“That's not a smart thing to tell me,” Joshua snapped.

“It was honest,” Brett snapped back. He'd never toadied to Joshua, which was one of the reasons Joshua prized him. No matter how black the situation or unpleasant the news, he'd always gotten the truth from Brett.

“This woman…Tessa…is she the reason you're quitting?”

“She's only half of it. I've been getting restless, wanting to go back to the ranch. Ranching is what I do best, what I'm most content doing.”

“You're damned good at what you're doing now.”

“I'm damned good at ranching, too.”

Joshua rubbed his jaw, eyeing Brett. He was shrewd enough to realize that the only thing he could do now was make a deal with Brett, which was exactly what Brett had intended all along. He could either deal, or lose Brett entirely. “Why should I drop those charges, when I'll be losing you either way?”

Brett's eyes gleamed. “Negotiate,” he said.

Joshua burst out laughing. “Negotiate, hell! You've been herding me to the exact point you've wanted me
at from the minute you walked into this office. I can either cooperate with you, or you're quitting completely, whereas if I drop charges against your woman, your…special consultation services…will be available to me—how often?”

“We can work something out,” Brett said smoothly.

Sighing, Joshua held out his hand. “Deal,” he said, and Brett shook his hand, while relief unknotted the coil of tension in his belly.

* * *

T
HE PHONE RANG
, and Tessa paused only fractionally before she turned off the television, which she'd been staring at without realizing what she was watching, and rose to answer the phone. Over the past several days she'd answered calls from Silver and Sammy, while Billie usually came over instead of calling, but still she couldn't stop the shiver that ran down her spine each time she heard a bell peal. Sammy hadn't had any luck, either in finding the account name or any other sort of information that would aid him in a computer search. They were at a dead end, and time was running short on her. The grand jury would meet next week.

The insistent ring reminded her of the phone, and she shook herself to dispel the cold mantle of dread that had settled on her shoulders. She lifted the receiver, expecting to hear Silver's voice again. It was almost ten o'clock in Tennessee, and Silver would be getting ready for bed, but she always called Tessa before turning in for the night.

“Hello.”

“Tessa. This is Brett.”

She jumped as if she'd been strung, and jerked the
receiver away from her ear. She hadn't needed him to tell her who he was. She'd never forget that voice, so low and raspy. Whimpering, gasping for breath, she slammed the receiver onto the cradle before she could hear anything else. Oh, God, oh, God, why had he called now? She'd had everything under control, she hadn't broken down once, but the simple sound of his voice had shattered her fragile defenses. A high, keening sound assaulted her ears as her knees stiffened, then gave way beneath her. Curling into a tight little ball on the floor, Tessa began to weep. The phone was ringing again, but there was no way she could have answered it, even if she had dared.

All the pain of betrayal, of love offered and scorned, burst out of her in great, tearing sobs that shook her entire body and felt as if they were rupturing her chest, shredding her throat. She would have screamed with the pain of it if she'd been able to draw enough breath, but all she could do was huddle on the floor.

She cried until she thought she couldn't cry any more, until her throat was raw and burning, the tissues swollen from strain, but still the tears ran down her face. At last she managed to stumble to her feet, and she made her way to the bathroom, bent over like someone old, her hand against the wall for support. There she splashed cold water on her face, gasping at the shock of it, but the sudden coldness gave her back a measure of control. She hung over the sink, shuddering with the effort she was making to stop crying, but at last she managed it and slowly straightened. Her reflection in the mirror made her gasp again; her face was red and splotchy, her eyes swollen almost together from
the violent siege of weeping that she'd endured. Staring at her face, at the haunted emptiness of her eyes, she wondered if she'd ever be able to forget about him, if she'd ever stop feeling the pain of knowing that he'd never loved her at all.

She drank some water, and almost choked as the liquid ran down her raw, abused throat. Why had he called? To gloat? Hadn't be beaten her down enough?

The telephone was ringing again. Desperately Tessa ran into the living room and unplugged it, but the sudden silence was almost as unnerving as the noise had been. She chewed her lip. Perhaps that had been Silver, or Sammy, but it didn't matter. She simply couldn't take the chance that Brett might be calling again. She couldn't bear it; she just couldn't take any more.

That night too was sleepless, and endless. The strain of it was in her face the next morning. The swelling had subsided, but she was colorless, and dark shadows lay under her eyes. The first thing she had to do was call Silver and reassure her that everything was all right, even though Tessa felt as if nothing would ever be right again. She plugged in the telephone and punched in the numbers, but when Silver answered the phone on the first ring, as if she'd been waiting anxiously, Tessa found that she couldn't say anything.

“Hello? Hello?” Silver said frantically.

With an effort, Tessa cleared her throat, wincing at the raw pain. “Aunt Silver,” she croaked.

“Tessa? Is that you? What's wrong?”

Once again Tessa tried to speak, but no sound came out. Swallowing again, she managed, “Sore throat.”

“Oh, my goodness, honey, I guess so! Have you been
to a doctor? There wasn't any answer last night, and I've been going out of my mind with worry. When did you get sick?”

“Last night.” Each word came a little easier, but her voice was totally alien to her, as hoarse as a frog's and only a little more intelligible. It would only worry Silver to tell her what had happened, so Tessa let her think that she'd come down with something that affected her throat. As a child she'd been prone to sore throats and bouts of laryngitis anyway, so Silver wouldn't think this was unusual.

“Well, take care of yourself, hear? I won't call you while you can't talk, honey, so you call me when you're better. And if you haven't been to a doctor, go to one today. Promise me, now.”

Tessa croaked a sound that Silver took for a promise. They hung up, and she promptly unplugged the telephone again. At this rate, she was going to wear the little plastic plug out within a month. If it really mattered, she thought, stricken by the realization that unless Sammy could work a miracle, she wouldn't be needing a telephone for a long time. She should probably have it taken out anyway, to save as much money as she could.

Forcing herself to move, she showered and washed her hair, lingering in the steamy warmth in an effort to soothe her throat until the hot water began to go. Too listless to fool with her hair, she simply towel-dried it and combed it out, to let it finish drying in a straight mass on her shoulders. When she was dressed she poured orange juice over ice and drank that for her breakfast, hoping that the cold would alleviate the
swelling in her throat, since the steam in the bathroom hadn't helped any.

It was late in the morning when someone rang her doorbell, then began pounding on the door. Tessa froze, tears stinging her eyes again. There was no way she was going to answer that door.

“Miss Conway! Are you in there? This is Calvin Stine. I need to talk to you immediately.”

Her brow knit. Why did he sound so urgent? What had happened? Did this have something to do with Brett calling the night before? She hurried to the door, fumbling with the lock and the safety chain until she could remove them and swing the door open. Calvin Stine stepped inside, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit, his dark brows lowered over his cool, piercing gray eyes.

She closed the door and faced him, her hands clasped together in front of her, her pale face anxious. Her eyes questioned him.

“Please get dressed, as swiftly as you can,” he instructed. “I've been trying to call you all morning, but your phone is evidently out of order. The assistant district attorney has called us to a meeting in his office in an hour and a half.”

She stood very still, feeling like a small, hunted animal. “Please hurry,” he said irritably. “The traffic is a mess this morning. It'll take us at least an hour to get there. By the way, have you reported your phone?”

Tessa shook her head, and moved slowly over to the telephone. Lifting the cord, she showed him that it was unplugged. If he'd been irritated before, he was downright aggravated now.

“That wasn't very smart, Miss Conway. It would've
saved me a trip over here if I could have talked to you on the phone.”

Silently she went into her bedroom and closed the door. She dressed mechanically in a white linen suit with a pencil-slim skirt and a short, smart jacket. Perhaps white wasn't the wisest choice, given her own pallor, but she didn't feel capable of the extra effort that changing would require. After slapping on her makeup, she viewed the garish effort in the mirror and seized a tissue to wipe most of it off. She was too pale to look like anything other than a painted clown if she wore the full routine. Her hair was still damp, and lack of time prevented her from doing anything to it, so she twisted it into a knot and pinned it on top of her head. Twenty minutes after she'd walked into the bedroom, she walked out again, her face expressionless, her purse tucked under her arm. No matter what was going on, she wasn't going to break down again. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction. At that point in her thoughts, “them” was everyone except Silver, Billie and Sammy, and that included her own lawyer.

He checked his watch. “That was certainly fast.” Then he looked critically at her pale, frozen face. “Don't be so frightened. This is just a meeting.”

She nodded slowly, and abruptly he realized that she hadn't spoken a word since he'd entered the apartment. He frowned again. “Miss Conway, are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, forcing out the strained, stifled word. “I'm perfectly all right.”

“Are you ill?”

“No.” She walked past him. “Shall I drive my car, too, to save you a trip back here?”

He winced at her harsh, barely audible voice. “No, we could be separated in the traffic. Have you taken anything for your throat?”

Why was he so concerned about her throat? She didn't bother to answer, and he followed her out of the apartment, locking the door behind him. He took her elbow, his fingers oddly gentle as he walked her to his car and opened the door for her.