“Anything else?” he asked, referring to her concern about Johnny. “Anything at all, I mean it.”
She stared down at the list in her hand, smiling, and then her expression took on a sadness. It was a soft, erotic shade of beauty he hadn’t seen in her before—or in any woman. It was like a glimpse into a secret garden. All he had offered was his time, a helping hand, but she was responding, almost involuntarily it seemed, to his simple gesture. Was she always sad when someone did something kind for her? Was she so unused to it?
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes . . . fine. I just never expected—” She wet her lips, as though confused, even shaken.
Watching her struggle for control, Blake felt a tightening in his body, a quickening in his mind. Somewhere in his awareness a veil parted. In that revealing glimpse he had discovered the key to Cat D’Angelo’s secret nature. He had seen the depth of her vulnerability. A kind word, a gentle touch, and her defenses would thaw and bleed like spring snow. She would cry softly and open her heart to the man who could touch that sadness within her. She would give him anything, whatever he wanted. She would bond with him emotionally, fuse with him physically like tears fuse when they touch, like fire consumes.
When Blake spoke, the words were tempered, husky. “What was it you didn’t expect, Cat? Help from a guy like me?”
“No . . . it wasn’t that.”
The hesitation in her voice told Blake it was that. Precious secrets were contained in her soft, sad expression; in the notebook clutched in her hand. And in her unwillingness to look up at him. She was beautiful and complicated and angry, but she was also wounded. The man who knew that would have incredible power over her. The power to hurt, he realized, the power to heal . . .
The last word pierced Blake softly. It resonated in his mind and jolted him with an emotion he didn’t recognize. His jaw tightened, oddly hot and tender. For an instant, just a fraction of a heartbeat, he was out of control. He wanted to touch her, a crazy impulse, but he could almost feel the pain of it.
“Cat—”
She glanced up, startled, perhaps by the low force in his voice. Her eyes were suddenly wary, and she stiffened in the chair.
The desire to touch her was swift and sharp. And yet Blake could see that this was not the vulnerable woman of seconds before. He locked off the impulse with a massive flex of will, walling it up somewhere in the reaches of his consciousness. Blood surged, warm in his veins, and he felt the pulsing heat of it, the power. It was control that Blake Wheeler understood. It was controlling power.
“What is it?” she asked.
He shook the question off. “A thought about the Seahawk’s last game. I’ll save it for Johnny.”
Her reaction had jolted Blake into an awareness. Acting on his desires with a woman like Cat D’Angelo would be like playing with a lighted stick of dynamite. For all her hidden sadness, she wasn’t the kind of woman who aroused gentleness in men. She carried too much pride in her eyes, too much fire and fight. She aroused carnal instincts and hot flashes of desire. Like red wine, she heated the blood and loosened the inhibitions. She was the danger zone. Beyond that, she was too busy protecting her wounds to know what she needed from a man, and most men wouldn’t have a clue how to give it to her if she did.
But Blake knew. He knew just how to touch her, just how to reach her tender heart and move her to tears . . .
The notebook slipped from her hand, and that’s when he realized that she was still watching him, staring up at him with all the bewilderment of a cornered animal. The soft, startled sound in her throat told him he’d been stalking her visually, hunting her down with his eyes.
“What is it?” she asked.
From somewhere he found the presence of mind to defuse the situation. “Nothing—sorry. It’s that thing you’re doing with your hands. Does it mean something?”
They both stared at her right hand, at the sprung thumb and coiled forefinger. The sound she made was husky, surprised, like laughter. “I didn’t know I was doing it,” she said.
“Doing what?”
Her thumb flicked automatically. “I shoot marbles.”
The door banged open behind them, and the secretary entered in a rush. “Mr. Wheeler, excuse me. There’s a young man—”
She never got to finish her introduction. Johnny Drescher pushed past her, bringing with him a gust of turbulence to the already charged atmosphere. He had on torn jeans, a red bandanna around his head, and a stormy expression on his face. He looked wild, a teenager from hell, but Cat had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.
Four
“JOHNNY—” CAT WAS OUT of her chair instantly. “Is something wrong?”
The boy shook his head and adjusted his worn leather jacket aggressively, checking out the office as he did so. “Let’s get this over with,” was all he said.
“You’re going to testily?” Both Cat and Blake spoke at once, and the chorus of their voices sounded too eager, Cat realized. She waited for Johnny’s reaction.
“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” the boy said, studying Blake with undisguised distrust. “What do you want from me, anyway?”
Blake walked to his desk and sat down. He motioned for Cat and Johnny to do the same, at which point Johnny shuffled to the back wall instead and remained standing. Cat looked from the man to the rebellious boy with the uneasy sense of having to choose sides. After a moment she joined Johnny.
Blake acknowledged them both with a nod, as though he regularly interviewed hostile teenagers flanked by their designated counselor-bodyguards.
“How are you, Johnny?” he said, smiling.
Cat remained silent, admiring Blake’s style as he attempted to engage the boy in small talk about action movies. His tone was easy and conspiratorial, man-to-man stuff. Nearly irresistible to the rest of the human race, she supposed, but it wasn’t washing with Johnny. The teenager was having none of the buddy-buddy approach, at least not that day.
Cat wasn’t surprised when Blake threw in the towel and moved on to the point of the interview, pressing Johnny to tell him everything he knew about the Sinclair assault case. She was surprised when Johnny complied. Blake jotted notes on a pad as Johnny recounted what he’d seen.
“Where did the fight take place?” Blake asked finally.
Johnny adjusted his jacket nervously, opening and closing the elaborate zipper. “It wasn’t a fight. The old man was trying to bum some money from Sinclair was all.”
“But you did see who started it?”
“I told you, it wasn’t a fight,” Johnny said. “The old man was drunk or something. He couldn’t have fought his way out of a wet paper bag. Sinclair went after him, attacked him for no reason.”
Cat glanced from Johnny to Blake. The teenager was visibly uneasy, and giving off signals of increasing agitation, but Blake hadn’t seemed to notice.
Thoughtful, Blake leaned back in his chair and studied the boy. “You’re sure. The other man didn’t provoke him, call him names . . . ?”
Johnny shook his head.
“Did the old man have a weapon?”
Another headshake, more emphatic this time.
“Give it a minute, Johnny, think about it. You didn’t see him pull a knife and demand money from Skip?”
“No!”
Cat stifled the urge to intervene. Blake was going at it all wrong. Even the tone of his voice implied that he was questioning the truth of Johnny’s story. She didn’t understand why he was taking a confrontational approach, especially since she’d warned him that Johnny would be difficult.
With some effort she remained silent through the next several questions, and finally Blake ended his interrogation.
“If you have any doubts about what you saw,” he told the boy, “or about your testimony, now’s the time to tell me.”
When the teenager didn’t answer, Blake dropped a bomb. “Perjury carries a stiff penalty, Johnny.”
The boy jerked savagely
at the zipper of his jacket.
Cat’s throat tightened with concern. She felt almost guilty putting Johnny through this. It was enough that he’d been harassed and threatened by Skip and his friends; he didn’t need abuse from the DA too. Blake didn’t seem to remember that Johnny had come voluntarily—to help the prosecution’s case, or perhaps to fulfill an obligation to himself. She didn’t know what the boy’s motives were, but she doubted he had anything personal to gain, and perhaps a lot to lose.
Blake went quiet, considering his notes. When he looked up, his eyes were locked on Johnny. “What have you got against Skip Sinclair, Johnny?” he said abruptly. “What did he do to you?”
Cat’s heartbeat went staccato. She watched breathlessly as Johnny’s hands coiled into fists, and the scowl on his face turned explosive. She threw out a hand to stop the boy as he stepped forward. “What are you getting at, Wheeler?” she asked, steel underscoring the lowered tone of her voice.
“The truth,” Blake said, “I want the truth, that’s all.”
Johnny moaned out an expletive under his breath.
A flash of outrage propelled Cat toward Blake’s desk. “He’s telling the truth, can’t you see that?” Don’t you believe anyone? her mind cried. You sure as hell didn’t believe me ten years ago when I tried to tell you I wasn’t guilty!
“He’s not on trial here!” she said, gesturing toward Johnny. “You’re harassing your own witness. “Why?”
Cat stopped herself. She was shaking from head to toe, and unsure in her fury what she’d actually said and what she’d thought. By the look on Wheeler’s face, she knew she’d crossed the line. In the next jumble of seconds she realized that she’d not only lost her objectivity, she’d personalized the situation. It was Johnny’s truthfulness at issue here, not hers.
“I believe him whether you do or not,” she said flatly.
“You’ll vouch for the veracity of his story?”
Cat glanced at Johnny’s bent and sullen posture, and for the first time since she’d met him, it occurred to her that he might be fabricating. What if he was out to settle some old score with Skip Sinclair? She drew in a deep breath of air and brought her head up a notch. “Of course, I’ll vouch for him,” she said, returning to Johnny’s side.
Blake tapped out a slow, steady beat on the notepad with his pencil. “Good,” he said, “I’ll take that under consideration.”
The anger Cat had barely quelled flared again. This man was impossible! “You do that,” she said.
A tense silence ensued. Even Johnny fidgeted uneasily and looked from Cat to Blake as though he might be called upon to referee the two warring adults.
Cat crossed her arms, her index finger working like a metronome against the silk material of her blouse. Blake’s pencil beat out counterpoint. The tension stretched and snapped as the office door flew open and a stunning blonde woman entered. She waltzed straight for Blake’s desk, seemingly oblivious of his visitors.
“Did you forget our lunch date?” she asked with a silvery laugh. “You, me, and daddy at the Plaza?” She slid onto his desk, all seductive eyelashes and smiles, and tapped her watch crystal. “You’re late, sweet stuff.”
Blake turned an interesting shade of crimson,
Johnny mumbled something under his breath, and Cat gaped in disbelief.
“Bad timing, Linda,” Blake said, “I’ve got—”
“Timing, schmiming.” She tweaked his tie. “You work too hard. Mr. Wheeler. You’ve got to loosen up!” Upon which, over Blake’s protests, she proceeded to try to undo his tie altogether.
Cat watched the performance in astonished silence. Now we know how he came by the casual look, she thought. Of the many impulses that sparked her brain in the next seconds, the one that compelled her to action was the mushrooming belief that Blake Wheeler was totally lacking in professionalism. He’d torpedoed the meeting with her client. Beyond that, a district attorney had no business cavorting with blondes in front of impressionable teenagers. The fact that Johnny had undoubtedly seen far worse didn’t dampen Cat’s indignation at all. Blake Wheeler ought to be disciplined, she decided, mentally clicking off the possibilities. Disbarment? Impeachment? Dismemberment?
She cleared her throat. Loudly.
The marauding female released Blake’s tie and glanced over her shoulder. She seemed genuinely disconcerted. “Blake! Why didn’t you tell me you had visitors?”
“Don’t let us interrupt,” Cat said with all the icy contempt she could summon. “We were just leaving.” She grabbed Johnny by the arm and hustled him toward the door.
Blake rose, straightening his tie. “Cat—”
“Catherine,” she muttered.
“Get lost, Romeo,” Johnny fired at Blake over his shoulder.
Cat was reaching for the doorknob when a hand closed on her shoulder. “We’re not finished,” Blake said.
It took Cat a moment to register that he’d actually left his desk—and the blonde—to intercept her. Somehow she hadn’t imagined him caring enough to expend the effort.
“Linda’s my ex-wife,” he explained. “She didn’t realize”
Linda? Ex-wife? A bubble of memory burst in Cat’s head. Linda Delahunt and Blake had been high school sweethearts, the prom king and queen, the couple most likely. Linda’s beauty and wit was widely admired and envied, Cat notably among the latter group despite her tender years.
“I don’t care who she is, Mr. Wheeler,” Cat said abruptly, facing him. Her throat stung with an emotion that went far deeper than anger. “Your conduct was unprofessional and unbecoming in a public servant. You’ve embarrassed me, my client, and yourself. Don’t ever let this happen again.”
On that ringing note of moral indignation she took her young client in hand and left. As she and Johnny strode toward the bank of elevators on the fourth floor, Cat tasted triumph. It was sudden and fleeting, but it was sweet. The ex-jailbird had just told His Highness, the DA, where to get off!
Unfortunately, her exhilaration descended with the elevator. By the time she and Johnny reached the ground floor, she was tasting something else, a bittersweet premonition of despair. She wasn’t sorry she’d upbraided Blake Wheeler. He’d had it coming. But everything she’d hoped to accomplish through the meeting may have been jeopardized—the sense of solidarity with Johnny, the mature, businesslike relationship with Wheeler. It was entirely possible that she’d blown her one opportunity to prove that she could handle herself like a professional.
The old elevator creaked and groaned, taking an inordinate amount of time to settle in at the street level. Cat pushed the DOOR OPEN button repeatedly, but the contraption wouldn’t be hurried. Hazarding a glance at Johnny, she caught him studying her with open curiosity. An odd energy lit his normally sullen expression. If Cat had known the boy better, she would have recognized it as admiration, with a little awe mixed in. For the first time in a long while Johnny Drescher was impressed. Since Cat didn’t know him, she put an altogether different connotation on it. She assumed he thought that she was one crazy lady. Well, maybe she was.
Johnny looked away from her and shuffled his feet. “Tough stuff,” he said.
“I beg your pardon.”
“You—” He grinned down at his sneakers. “You’re pretty tough stuff.”
Cat registered the praise with a quiet smile and a quickening pulse. High praise indeed, she realized.
As the door finally opened, Johnny came out of his slump and looked up at her, laughter gurgling in his throat. “You really fried his shorts!”
Cat almost didn’t make it out of the elevator. Her eyes bugged with surprised mirth as she mouthed the words, “Excuse me?”
Johnny seemed to find that hilarious. He clapped a hand to his mouth, stifling the honking sound of his own laughter, and the sight of him was more than enough to unhinge Cat. She lost it, lost it totally. The tension and anxiety she’d been holding in burbled up in a fizzy geyser of hysteria. “I did, didn’t I?” She tried to whispe
r and squeaked instead. “I fried his shorts.”
They attracted quite a crowd while making their exit from the courthouse, Johnny hee-hawing like a demented barnyard animal and Cat clutching her stomach and shushing him.
“Johnny, behave,” she said, knowing full well that she was as much to blame for their lunacy as he was. By the time they reached her car, Cat finally had a grip on herself.
“They’re going to arrest us for disturbing the peace,” she warned, half-serious as she looked up and down the street.
“Bummer,” he said, “we’re both ex-cons.”
The energy in Johnny’s eyes riveted Cat’s attention. And this time she saw it clearly for what it was. Admiration, perhaps even an offering of friendship, lurked in his hazel irises. Her shoulders rose with a sigh. How odd that the damage she’d done with Blake Wheeler may have cemented her relationship with Johnny. Life had its trade-offs.
She motioned toward her car. “Can I drop you somewhere?”
He thought about it, then shook his head. “Naw, I’d rather walk.”
A question came to mind as she watched him work at his jacket zipper. She was almost afraid to ask it as silence settled in around them. “How do you feel about testifying now, Johnny?”
He considered the idea from under skeptical eyebrows, and then he grinned and faked a right cross to an imaginary opponent. “Let me at ’em.”
Cat’s relief left her slightly light-headed. Her sense of predestination about the meeting had been on target after all. It had gone exactly as it was supposed to. “Good, Johnny, good,” she said, grabbing both of his hands in her enthusiasm. When he turned red and stuttery, she gave him a quick squeeze and let go. “I’ll see you tomorrow then? We’ll talk some more?”
He nodded and loped off down the street. Watching his awkward, coltish movements, Cat laughed and felt her heart fill with something as sad as it was happy. Who loves ya, kid? she thought, remembering the question her father whispered to her each night before she went to bed. A mist veiled her eyes. She had loved Vince D’Angelo beyond reason. He’d been the stable element in her impetuous youth, and the peacekeeper in her relationship with her mother. “You and your mom are just too much alike, Cat,” he’d told her often, and somehow that simple reassurance had comforted her after a run-in with her mother.
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