She saw the governor glad-handing a well-known actress, a publishing tycoon cheek-bussing an opera star, the mayor exchanging grins and guffaws with a bestselling author.
"Your usual crowd?" Deborah murmured, smiling at Gage.
"A few acquaintances." He touched his glass to hers.
"Mmm. That's Tarrington, isn't it?" She nodded her head toward a young, earnest-looking man. "What do you think his chances are in the debates?"
"He has a lot to say," Gage commented. "Sometimes a bit tactlessly, but he has a point. Still, he'll have a hard time swaying the over-forty vote."
"Gage." Arlo Stuart stopped at their table, patting his hand on Gage's shoulder. "Good to see you."
"Glad you could make it."
"Wouldn't have missed it." A tall, tanned man with a wavy mane of snowy hair and clear green eyes, he gestured with his glass of Scotch. "You've done nice things in here. I haven't been in since you finished the renovations."
"We like it."
It took Deborah only a minute to realize they were talking about the hotel. And that the hotel belonged to Gage. She glanced up at the opulent crystal chandeliers. She should have known.
"I like knowing my competition has class." His gaze flicked to Deborah. "Speaking of class. Your face is very familiar. And I'm too old for you to consider that a line."
"Arlo Stuart, Deborah O'Roarke."
He took Deborah's hand, holding it in a hearty squeeze. "O'Roarke—O'Roarke." His eyes were both friendly and crafty. "You're the hot lawyer, aren't you? The D.A. who knocked that little creep Slagerman down a peg. The newspaper pictures aren't even close."
"Mr. Stuart."
"The mayor has good things to say about you. Very good things. We'll have to have a dance later so you can tell me all you know about our friend, Nemesis."
Her hand jerked in his, but she managed to keep her eyes level. "It would be a short conversation."
"Not according to our favorite journalist. Of course Wisner's an ass." He had yet to release her hand. "Where did you meet our up-and-coming D.A., Gage? I must be frequenting the wrong places."
"At your hotel," he said easily. "The mayor's fund-raiser."
Stuart gave a hearty laugh. "Well, that will teach me to run around drumming up votes for Fields, won't it? Don't forget that dance."
"I won't," she said, grateful to have her hand, sore fingers and all, back in her lap.
When he walked away, Deborah wiggled her fingers. "Is he always so… exuberant?"
"Yes." Gage picked up her hand and kissed it. "Anything broken?"
"I don't think so." Content to have her hand in his, she glanced around the room. Lush palms, a musical fountain, mirrored ceilings. "This is your hotel?"
"Yeah. Do you like it?"
"It's okay." She gave a little shrug when he grinned. "Shouldn't you be socializing?"
"I am." He touched his lips to hers.
"If you keep looking at me like that—
"Go on. Please."
She let out one long, unsteady breath. "I think I'll take a trip to the powder room."
Halfway across the ballroom, she was waylaid by the mayor. "I'd like a moment, Deborah."
"Of course."
With an arm around her waist, flashing a broad political smile, he steered her expertly through the crowd and through the high ballroom doors.
"I thought we could use a little privacy."
Glancing back, she noted that Jerry was moving their way. At a signal from the mayor, he stopped, sent Deborah an apologetic look and merged back with the crowd.
"It's quite an elaborate event," Deborah began, schooled enough to know the mayor preferred to launch a topic himself.
"I was surprised to see you here." He nudged her away from the doors toward an alcove that held potted plants and pay phones. "Then again, perhaps I shouldn't have been, since your and Guthrie's names have been linked so often lately."
"I'm seeing Gage," she said coolly. "If that's "what you mean.
On a personal level." She was already weary of playing politics. "Is that what you wanted to talk to me about, Mayor? My social life?'' "Only as it affects your professional one. I was disturbed and disappointed to learn that against my wishes you're remaining on this investigation."
"Your wishes?" she countered. "Or Mr. Guthrie's?"
"I respected and agreed with his viewpoint." There was a flash of anger in his eyes he rarely showed outside of the privacy of his own offices. "Frankly, I'm displeased with your performance on this matter. Your excellent record in the courtroom does not override your reckless mistakes outside of it."
"Reckless? Believe me, Mayor Fields, I haven't begun to be reckless. I'm following my superior's orders in pursuing this matter. I began it, and I intend to finish it. Since we're supposed to be on the same side, I'd think you'd be pleased with the dedication of the D.A.'s office in this case, not only with our persistence in tracking down and prosecuting the men trafficking drugs, but in finding Montega, a known cop killer, and bringing him to justice."
"Don't tell me whose side I'm on." Clearly on the edge of losing control, he wagged a finger in her face. "I've worked for this city since before you could tie your own shoes. You don't want to make an enemy of me, young lady. I run Urbana, and I intend to keep right on running it. Young, overeager prosecutors are a dime a dozen."
"Are you threatening to have me fired?"
"I'm warning you." With an obvious effort of will, he brought himself under control. "You either work with the system, or you work against it."
"I know that." Her fingers tightened on her evening bag. "I admire you, Deborah," he said more calmly. "But while you have enthusiasm, you lack experience, and a case like this requires more experienced hands and minds."
She stood her ground. "Mitchell gave me two weeks."
"I'm aware of that. Make sure you play by the book for the time you have left." Though his eyes were still hot, he laid an avuncular hand on her arm. "Enjoy yourself this evening. The menu's excellent."
When he left her, she stood there for a moment, quietly shaking with rage. Grappling for control, she strode toward the ladies' room. Inside, she stormed through two arching ficus trees and into the adjoining room with its rose-colored chairs and mint-green counters. Still seething, she tossed her bag onto the counter and plopped down into a chair in front of one of the oval lighted mirrors.
So the mayor was displeased, she thought. He was disappointed. He was disturbed. She grabbed a lipstick out of her purse and concentrated on painting her lips. What he was, she thought, was spitting mad because she had bucked him.
Did he think there was only one way to do things, only one route to take? What the hell was wrong with taking a few detours, as long as they led to the same destination? Especially if they got you there quicker.
She tossed the lipstick back into her purse and reached for her compact. In the glass, she met her own eyes.
What was she thinking? Only twenty-four hours before, she had been sure there was only one way, only one route. And though she wouldn't have appreciated the mayor's tactics, she would have applauded his sentiments.
And now? She dropped her chin on her hand. And now she just wasn't sure. Wasn't she, even at this moment, veering outside of the system that she believed in? Wasn't she allowing her feelings, her personal feelings for Gage, to interfere with her professional ethics?
Or did it all come down to a matter of right and wrong, with her not knowing which was which? How could she continue, how could she function as a lawyer, if she couldn't see clearly what was right?
Maybe it was time to examine the facts, along with her own conscience, and ask herself if it wouldn't be better for everyone if she did withdraw.
As she sat studying her own face and her own values, the lights went out.
Chapter 9
Deborah clutched her evening bag and set one hand on the counter to orient herself. Big, fancy hotel like this, she thought, and it blows a fuse. Though she t
ried to see the humor of it as she stood, her heart was pounding. She swore when her hip bumped the chair as she groped through the dark.
Though it was foolish, she was afraid, and felt both trapped and smothered by the dark.
The door creaked open. There was a shaft of light, then blackness.
"Hey, pretty lady."
She froze, holding her breath.
"I got a message for you." The voice was high and piping with a giggle at the end of each sentence. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you. Montega wants you all for himself, and he'd get real mad if I messed you up any first."
Her skin iced over. He couldn't see her, Deborah reminded herself as she fought the paralyzing fear. That evened the odds. "Who are you?"
"Me?" Another giggle. "You've been looking for me, but I'm hard to find. That's why they call me Mouse. I can get in and out of anyplace."
He was moving toward her soundlessly. Deborah could only guess at the direction of his voice. "You must be very clever." After she spoke, she too moved, shifting a careful foot to the left.
"I'm good. I'm the best. Ain't nobody better than old Mouse. Montega wanted me to tell you he's real sorry you didn't get to talk more before. He wants you to know he's keeping an eye on you. All the time. And on your family."
For an instant her blood stopped flowing. Her thoughts of outmaneuvering him, of slipping past him to the door vanished. "My family?"
"He knows people in Denver, too. Real slick people." He was closer now, so close she could smell him. But she didn't move away. "If you cooperate, he'll make sure your sister and the rest stay safe and snug, in their beds tonight. Get the picture?"
She reached into her bag, felt the cool metal in her hand. "Yes, I get the picture." Pulling it out, she aimed in the direction of his voice I and fired.
Screaming, he crashed into the chairs. Deborah sprinted around him, ramming her shoulder against one wall, then another until she located the door. Mouse was weeping and cursing as she tugged and found the door jammed.
"Oh, God. Oh, God." Panicked, she continued to pull.
"Deborah!" She heard her name shouted. "Get away from the door. Step back from the door."
She took one stumbling step backward and heard the heavy thud. Another, and the door crashed open. She ran into the light and Gage's arms.
"You're all right?" His hands were running over her, checking for hurts.
"Yes. Yes." She buried her face in his shoulder, ignoring the gathering crowd. "He's inside." When he started to push away, Deborah held on tighter. "No, please."
His face grim, Gage nodded to a pair of security guards. "Come and sit down."
"No, I'm okay." Though her breath was still shuddering, she drew away to look at his face. She saw murder there and tightened her hold on him. "Really. He didn't even touch me. He was trying to frighten me, Gage. He didn't hurt me."
His voice was low as he studied her pale face. "Is that supposed to make me want to kill him less?"
With a burly guard on each arm, the weeping Mouse stumbled out, his hands covering his face. Deborah noted he was wearing a waiter's uniform.
Alarmed by the look in Gage's eyes, she pulled his attention back to her. "He's in a lot worse shape than I am. I used this." With an unsteady hand, Deborah held up a can of Mace. "I've been carrying it with me since that night in the alley."
Gage wasn't sure if he should laugh or swear. Instead, he pulled her against him and kissed her. "It looks as though I can't let you out of my sight."
"Deborah." Jerry elbowed through the onlookers. "Are you all right?"
"I am now. The police?"
"I called them myself." Jerry glanced up at Gage. "You should get her out of here."
"I'm fine," Deborah insisted, glad the full-length dress concealed her knocking knees. "I'll have to go down to the police station and make a statement. But I need to make a phone call first."
"I'll call whomever you like." Jerry gave her hand a quick squeeze.
"Thanks, but I need to do this." Behind him, she spotted the mayor. "You could do me a favor and hold Fields off my back for a while."
"Done." He looked at Gage again. "Take care of her."
"I intend to." Keeping Deborah tight at his side, Gage led her away from the crowd. He moved quickly across the lobby and toward a bank of elevators.
"Where are we going?"
"I keep an office here, you can make the call from there." Inside the elevator, he turned her to him again and held tight. "What happened?"
"Well, I didn't get to powder my nose." She turned her face into his collar, breathing deeply. "First, Fields waylaid me and read me the riot act. He's not pleased with my performance." When the elevator doors opened, she loosened her hold so they could walk into the hallway. "When we parted ways, I was seeing red. I sat down in the powder room to repair my makeup and my composure." She was calming, and grateful the shaking had stopped. "Very elegant, by the way."
He shot her a look as he slid a key into a lock. "I'm glad you approve."
"I liked it a lot." She stepped into the parlor of a suite and crossed the thick oatmeal-colored carpet. "Until the lights went out. I was just orienting myself when the door opened, and he came in. The elusive Mouse," she said as her stomach began to churn again. "He had a message for me from Montega."
The name, just the name, had Gage's muscles tensing. "Sit down. I'll get you a brandy."
"The phone?"
"Right there. Go ahead."
Gage was fighting his own demons as he moved to the bar for the decanter and two snifters. She'd been alone, and however resourceful she was, she'd been vulnerable. When he'd heard the screaming… His fingers went white on the decanter. If it had been Montega instead of his messenger boy, she could have been dead. And he would have been too late.
Nothing that had happened to him before, nothing that could happen to him in the future would be more devastating than losing her.
She was sitting now, very straight, very tense, her face too pale, her eyes too dark. In one hand she held the receiver while the other vised around the cord. She was talking fast, to her brother-in-law, Gage realized after a moment.
They had threatened her family. He could see the possibility they would be harmed was more terrifying to her than any attempt on her own life.
"I need you to call me every day," she insisted. "You'll make sure Cilia has guards at the radio station. The children…" She covered her face with her hand. "God, Boyd." She listened a moment, nodding, trying to smile. "Yes, I know, I know. You didn't make captain for nothing. I'll be fine. Yes, and careful. I love you. All of you." She paused again, inhaling deeply. "Yes, I know. Bye."
She replaced the receiver. Saying nothing, Gage pushed the snifter into her hands. She cupped it a moment, staring down at the amber liquid. On another deep breath, she tipped the glass to her lips and drank deeply. She shuddered, drank again.
"Thanks."
"Your brother-in-law's a good cop. He won't let anything happen to them."
"He saved Cilia's life years ago. That's when they fell in love." Abruptly she looked up, her eyes wet and eloquent. "I hate this, Gage. They're my family, all I have left of family. The idea that something I've done, something I'm doing could—" She broke off, pulling herself back from the unthinkable. "When I lost my parents, I didn't think anything would ever be as bad. But this…" With a shake of her head, she looked down at the brandy again. "My mother was a cop."
He knew. He knew it all, but he only covered her hand with his and let her talk.
"She was a good one, or so I was told. I was only twelve when it happened. I didn't know her very well, not really. She wasn't cut out to be a mother."
She shrugged it off, but even in that casual, dismissive gesture, he saw the scars.
"And my father," she continued. "He was a lawyer. A public defender. He tried hard to keep it all together, the family—the illusion of family. But he and my mother just couldn't pull it off." She sipped the brandy again,
grateful for its numbing smoothness. "Two uniforms came to school that day, picked me up, took me back to the house. I guess I knew. I knew my mother was dead. They told me, as gently as possible, that it was both of them. Both of them. Some creep my father was defending managed to smuggle in a gun. When they were in the conference room, he cut loose."
"I'm sorry, Deborah. I know how hard it is to lose family."
She nodded, setting the empty snifter aside. "I guess that's why I was determined to be a lawyer, a prosecutor. Both of my parents dedicated their lives, and lost them defending the law. I didn't want it to have been for nothing. Do you understand?"
"Yes." He brought her hands to his lips. "For whatever reason you chose to be a lawyer, it was the right decision. You're a good one."
"Thanks."
"Deborah." He hesitated, wanting to phrase his thoughts carefully. "I respect both your integrity and your abilities."
"I feel a but coming on."
"I want to ask you again to back off from this. To leave the rest to me. You'll have your chance to do what you do best, and that's prosecute Montega and the rest of them."
She gave herself a moment, wanting, as he had, to make her thoughts clear. "Gage, tonight, after the mayor came down on me, I sat in the powder room. Once I got over being mad, I started to think, to examine my position, and my motives. I began to think maybe the mayor was right, maybe it would be better if I turned this over to someone with more experience and less personal involvement." Then she shook her head. "And I can't, especially now. They threatened my family. If I stepped back, I'd never be able to trust myself again, to believe in myself. I have to finish this." Before he could speak, she put her hands on his shoulders. "I don't agree with you. I don't know if I ever can, but I understand, in my heart, what you're doing and why you have to do it. That's all I'm asking from you."
How could he refuse? "Then I guess we have a stalemate, for now."
"I have to go down and make my statement." She rose, held out a hand. "Will you come with me?"
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