“Sinclair? The boy who assaulted the transient?”
“Yeah, that was Skip.”
So that’s how it was. “Skip, yes, that’s right.” She kept her voice conversational. “I hear he’s a varsity letterman at Bayside High. Clean-cut kid, nice family, no priors.”
Johnny glared at her suspiciously.
Cat was going partly on what she knew about the case from Gwen and partly on pure bluff. She just hoped Johnny wasn’t a fan of old detective movies, because the strategy she had in mind was one of Sam Spade’s favorites.
“Skip says it didn’t happen the way you tell it, Johnny. Or that’s what I heard anyway.” Her voice took on an edge. “He says the old man was drunk and tried to rob him. Skip says he was the victim, and the old man should go to jail—”
“Skip’s a stinkin’ liar.”
“That’s what he says about you.”
Johnny sprang from the chair. “He’s a liar! That old man wasn’t trying to rob anybody! Skip broke his jaw for the hell of it. He was laughing and bragging about it!” Johnny spun away and punched the air violently.
Galvanized, Cat stood. “Don’t let him get away with it, Johnny.” She spoke softly to his rigid back. “Johnny—”
He half-turned. “What?”
“You’re the only chance the old man’s got.”
She could see the warring emotions in his features. He was afraid of Skip Sinclair, but he probably despised him too—for beating up a defenseless old man. Bullies like Sinclair had many enemies, but very few with the courage to take a stand against them.
Cat pressed on, her heart thudding. “Nobody saw it happen but you, Johnny. If you don’t testify, they’ll prosecute the old man, and Skip will get off. They’ll believe Skip, dammit. They’ll believe his version of what happened, and he knows it! Don’t let him get away with that.”
Johnny pivoted and started for the door.
Cat’s heart sank. “Tomorrow at ten, the courthouse!” she called after him. She rushed out of her office just as he reached the center’s front door. “I’ll be there too,” she promised him as he yanked the door open.
He disappeared from sight, and she slumped against the doorframe, exhausted and wondering what she’d done wrong. She had been so sure she could reach him.
She was still in her doorway when Gwen came out of her office a few minutes later.
“Rough session?” Gwen asked.
“Dismal.” Cat gave her a brief rundown.
Gwen’s sympathetic smile held traces of irony. “Hang in there, kid,” she advised. “Remember what you were like at his age?” She walked to the coat tree by the front door, whisked off Cat’s cable-knit sweater, and held it up. “Sounds to me like you did all you could under the circumstances. Now why don’t you go on home. You don’t have anything else this afternoon, and you’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“If Johnny shows up for the meeting.”
Gwen tossed her the sweater. “If Johnny doesn’t show up, you and Mr. Wheeler can talk strategy. Between the two of you—mature professionals that you both are—I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to rein in one recalcitrant teenager.” She winked, then couldn’t suppress a smile. “In the meantime,” she added, “do something fun. Take your mind off this mess for a while.”
Cat was sure nothing had been invented that could take her mind off the current mess. She also saw no immediate reason to meet with Blake Wheeler if Johnny wasn’t going to be there. And several reasons not to! But she slipped on her sweater like a mature professional. It was only as she breezed past Gwen and reached the front door that she turned and made a face at her friend’s back. So much for maturity.
The green cat’s-eye shooter bounced along the hard-packed dirt, its trajectory the only remaining marble in the chalked circle.
“Yeoww! She’s a deadeye!”
As the shooter hit its mark and knocked the marble over the line, Cat settled back on her haunches, grabbed her knees, and smiled. She hadn’t lost her stuff. Her rival players, two West End boys who looked to be about nine and five, respectively, jerked their heads toward her. The five-year-old’s eyes were wide with astonishment.
The older boy, Biff, regarded her suspiciously. “How’d you get so good?” he asked.
Cat snapped her thumb off her index finger. “Got the touch,” she said, unable to resist ragging him a little.
“She’s got the touch, Biff,” the young boy whispered.
“Hmmmph,” was Biff’s succinct comment. With that, he began gathering up his marbles to leave. He knew when he was outmatched, and he wasn’t going to hang around and gawk at his competitor. Dropping the last marble into his black felt drawstring bag, he cuffed the younger boy, who finally dragged his worshipful gaze from Cat and followed his haughty mentor off down the sidewalk.
The little guy turned back once, grinning broadly as Cat winked. Cat laughed softly and let herself fall back on a strip of cool grass in the shade of a huge maple tree. The whole neighborhood would soon know about the strange lady who was house-sitting the Kirkpatricks’ place. At least the fiercely competitive game of “potsie” had taken her mind off the session with Blake Wheeler tomorrow. Now if she could just keep her mind off—
Cat hadn’t even completed the thought before his features materialized: the lion-gold hair and dark brows, the deep tan defined by jutting facial bones. “Matinee-idol handsome,” one telejournalist had gushed.
He’s not that handsome, Cat thought, but her stomach tightened as his smile danced in her mind—faintly amused, sexy as sin. Small wonder she’d once fixed her adolescent dreams on the golden boy of Cameron Bay. One-sided as that infatuation had been, she reminded herself sharply.
Her stomach was churning by the time she rolled to her side and locked her attention on the first thing she saw: the Kirkpatricks’ wood-shake cottage with its dormered windows and snow-white shutters. The retired couple’s cozy cottage and small fenced yard were nearly lost in a riotous profusion of crimson rhododendrons and lavender lilacs. The bucolic charm of it soothed Cat momentarily, but the meeting with Wheeler popped into her head again as she rose to go in for dinner. Maybe the encounter kept haunting her because she hadn’t psyched herself up for it.
“Good morning, Mr. Wheeler,” she said, smiling brightly at her reflection in the mirrored clock in the entry hall. Not mature enough, she decided, trying it again as she entered the kitchen and headed for the refrigerator.
“How are you this morning, Mr. Wheeler?” With a brisk nod she opened the refrigerator door and perused the contents. “You already know my client, of course—Johnny Drescher.”
She loaded up with vegetables from the crisper for a quick salad and walked to the sink to rinse them. “I’m sure we’re going to make great headway, the three of us. We’re all interested in seeing justice done, so with that in mind—and in the spirit of cooperation—let’s proceed.”
Laying it on a bit thick, she decided, but she was determined to make an impression. There would be no angry outbursts, no failures of nerve. She was going to prove to all of them—to herself, to Gwen, and especially to Wheeler—that she could handle anything he had to dish out. Anytime, anywhere.
Moments later, standing at the sink and absently munching on a carrot stick, she said a little prayer that Johnny would show up. For both their sakes, but mostly for Johnny’s. She would be there to provide support for him, and to see that he wasn’t compromised in any way. As an eyewitness to the crime, he didn’t need a lawyer, but he did need an advocate, someone to look out for his interests during the long ordeal of the trial. Whisking a gleaming knife from its sharpener-holder, she began chopping vegetables with quick, decisive strokes. No one would railroad her client the way she’d been railroaded. Her hand slowed as she thought about the escalating sequence of disasters that had preceded her trial, quite possibly the worst of which was a meeting with Wheeler much like the one scheduled for tomorrow.
What would his office be like now that he was
the district attorney? she wondered. She remembered a smallish room, a glass-top desk, and slatted light filtering through half-closed venetian blinds. It was hot in that room, close and sultry with the summer sun beating against the window . . . and he was angry . . . soft eyes, beautiful dove-gray eyes, the low rush of his breath.
Her breathing faltered, and the knife nearly slipped from her grasp. She remembered too well, too much.
She knew she should be dealing with it, here and now, before she faced him again tomorrow. She had to come to terms with what had happened at that meeting. With what he’d done. And what she’d done. Since that day she must have asked herself a thousand times why she’d behaved like such a shameless little idiot.
A sharp rap at the door startled her out of her reverie. She dropped the knife, her heart jolting wildly. By the time she had herself under control, she was already in the living room, scrutinizing the silent door. Had she imagined the knock? Had whoever it was gone? The only person she could imagine paying an impromptu visit was Gwen. Or Johnny, perhaps.
Suddenly she felt foolish staring at a doorknob. She slapped damp palms against her jeans and got on with acting like a mature adult.
The rosy-pink glare of the setting sun blinded her for a moment as the door swung wide. Even when her vision cleared she couldn’t discern anyone in the pearlescent haze of light. Then she realized she was looking for someone tall, someone as tall as Blake Wheeler—
“Hi.”
The voice came from below her eye level. It was soft and shy, and Catherine immediately looked down. The cornflower-blue eyes staring up at her belonged to her favorite competitor at marbles. Watch out, all five-year-old girls, she thought. This one’s going to be a lady-killer in about ten years. “Hi,” she said, “you’re Biff’s friend. What’s your name?”
He pursed his lips and lifted both shoulders. “Name’s Bumper. Sure wish I could shoot marbles like you.”
“Oh . . . you do?” She crouched to smile at him. She never could resist a shy man. “You can. You just need someone to show you how. Would you like me to?”
“Okay.”
He was so adorably serious her heart twisted. She touched his nose and laughed to soften the graininess in her throat. “It’s kind of late tonight. How about this weekend?”
He took a step backward, nodding vigorously. After a couple more steps he suddenly stopped. “What’s your name, lady?”
“Catherine.”
“Caff . . . Caffrun?”
A smile broke on her face and her heart tilted oddly. “You can call me Cat.”
Blake Wheeler stood at the window of his fourth-floor courthouse office and watched the Mustang glide to the curb and stop. The crimson car was made wine red by the purple cast of his tinted windows. The dark-haired woman who slid out from behind the steering wheel and smoothed her clothes was more exotic than he remembered. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes before ten exactly. Why didn’t it surprise him that she was right on time?
She walked around the car to the sidewalk, breezed up the first tier of steps, and stopped at the glossy marble monument that dominated the building’s facade. She seemed to be checking out her appearance in its planed surface, and that possibility made him smile.
You’re perfect, he told her silently. From the shiny coil of your immaculate French knot to the smooth calf pumps on your feet, you’re perfect. His eyes did another quick pass up her body, and an impulse sparked in his groin as he thought about unleashing her tight knot of hair. A man would have to be in a coma or dead not to want to free all that wild, dark abundance.
Recalling the tempestuous sixteen-year-old girl in his office so many years ago, Blake compared her precocious sexuality to this woman’s. It was no contest. The sixteen-year-old had thrown him some curves, but this woman galvanized him. The girl had flaunted her sensuality. The woman was trying her damnedest to hide hers. But she wasn’t succeeding, not by any stretch. Her attempts accentuated every riveting detail, from the prim navy skirt that revealed a show girl’s sleek legs to her smoky-black eyes and the intriguing width of her mouth. The more she consciously restrained her natural eroticism, the more she unconsciously excited the imagination. Catherine D’Angelo presented a virtual feast for the male imagination, and at the moment, his was going wild.
Watching her walk toward the entrance, he felt the hair on his arms prick as though he’d entered an electrical field. Some women were a stimulant to the senses; she was a current of static electricity. She made muscles jump everywhere you’d expect a man’s muscles to jump and some places you wouldn’t, like his heart. “There’s a new experience for you, Wheeler,” he thought aloud, irony in his lowered voice. “Your heart. It still works.”
He allowed himself one last look before he got back down to business. And in that last penetrating glance, he saw her curl her thumb into her right index finger and make a snapping gesture, almost as though she were flicking away some unwanted bit of debris.
Now what was that all about? he wondered.
“I’ll let Mr. Wheeler know you’re here, Ms. D’Angelo.” Blake Wheeler’s secretary was a pleasant-looking woman in her forties with tortoiseshell glasses and an industrious air.
At least he had the sense to hire someone efficient, Cat observed, nodding politely. As the secretary buzzed Wheeler, Cat glanced into the adjoining waiting room to see if Johnny had arrived. There was no sign of him, but she did not let it ruffle her composure. She had made up her mind that even if the teenager didn’t show up, the meeting with Wheeler was going to go fine. Just fine. She’d been coaching herself all morning, building her confidence to a fare-thee-well.
Still, Cat wasn’t quite prepared for the secretary to bustle immediately to Blake’s door and open it. Perhaps she’d expected to be kept waiting. Mentally squaring her shoulders, she entered and paused as the door shut firmly behind her. Blake was standing by the window, his arms folded as though he’d been waiting there for some time.
For her? If it took her a second to get her bearings, she didn’t let the wobble show. Putting all hesitation out of her mind, she walked straight to him, her hand extended.
He didn’t unfold his arms immediately. Instead, he smiled at her in an offhand, intrigued sort of way, and in the process he created a disquieting intimacy with his eyes. His expression said, What’s with you, lady? What makes Cat D’Angelo run? It also said he would take his own sweet time finding out.
He’s done it again, she realized, glancing at her hand. She was hanging out in space like a complete idiot. All right, she thought, irritation flaring, be that way. Be a calculating bastard and see how far it gets you. With no preamble whatsoever she wrested one of his hands free and shook it vigorously. “Good morning,” she said, not caring in the least that it was his left hand she’d hijacked.
“Hi,” he said, adding in the next breath, “Good morning.”
If she’d surprised him, he only revealed it with the faint huskiness in his voice.
He moved deftly to bring their right hands together and to still her quickness with a slow, firm handshake. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he said. In the light his eyes were the same glinting silver she remembered. Hard steel. Dove soft. Whatever he wanted them to be.
She disengaged from him, but the warm imprint of his palm remained on her skin. Warm hands, cold heart, was that how it worked? Or did Blake Wheeler even own a heart? Allowing herself that one last mental knife thrust, she chose the wing chair that sat to the right of his desk and seated herself.
Blake watched her taut, precise movements as she crossed her show-girl’s legs and adjusted her skirt, and the one crazy thought that invaded his mind, the only thought was: How do I get you alone somewhere, lady? How do I get you alone?
It didn’t surprise him at all, that hot, quick impulse. He’d felt it coming from the moment he saw her step out of her car. Now the urge was playing itself out physically, running sweet and wild down his body like a riff of hard-rock guitar music. Th
e cascading beat aroused muscles clear to his groin.
“Johnny Drescher will be here soon,” she informed him, looking up as she finished with her skirt.
He didn’t doubt it. At the moment he couldn’t imagine any male not giving her whatever she wanted, Johnny Drescher included.
“I thought we’d . . . talk strategy,” she said.
“Sure. What sort of strategy?” He sat on the window ledge and folded his arms.
“Well, Johnny’s ambivalent about testifying, so first I’d like to put him at ease. Maybe we could talk about something other than the trial? I know your time is limited, but he takes a little warming up.”
Oh, lady, be careful feeding me lines like that, he thought, or I’m going to be dangerous. “I’ve got all the time you want,” he said, aware that his biceps had contracted beneath his hands. Hard time, crying time, anything your heart desires, Catherine, Cat . . . lady.
He almost chuckled as she pulled a notepad from her purse and flipped it open to a long list of numbered items. She didn’t seem to have a clue what she was doing to him with her long-stemmed legs and her wide, sensual mouth.
“He likes the Seattle Seahawks,” she said, consulting her list, “and Eddie Murphy movies. Did you happen to see Beverly Hills Cop?”
“The original or the sequel?”
“Uh . . . the original.”
He smiled. “Three times. I could discuss it scene by scene, blow by blow with Johnny, if you think that would help.”
She glanced up at him in surprise, as though she hadn’t expected his cooperation. “Yes, I think that would help.” A smile softened her mouth. “Three times? I never thought of you as going to movies.”
“I wasn’t aware you’d been thinking about me.”
She flushed slightly, and he rescued her with a quick shrug. He didn’t want her defensive today. No, he didn’t want that at all. “I love a good movie, Cat—Sorry, Catherine.”
Her color deepened. “It’s all right,” she said finally. “Cat, I mean.”
“Cat, then.” He liked the feel of her name in his mouth, and the way it resonated low in his throat. “I love a lot of things that might surprise you.” What Blake loved at the moment was the way her eyes searched him, as though she wasn’t quite sure who Blake Wheeler was. She was charming in her uncertainty. The office window’s purple aura lent her gaze a beguiling fragility.
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