Sawyer, Meryl

by A Kiss in the Dark

  His face was thoroughly masculine with an arresting expression that made it hard to look away. Its angular planes were tempered by two curious scars, small dents like oversized razor nicks. Whatever had caused the scar on the rise of his cheekbone below his eye had narrowly missed blinding him.

  The second scar, it, too, bone deep, had etched a hole the size of a nailhead near his hairline. No one could see the third scar, identical to the others, that she knew was hidden by his thick hair.

  Mitch had a certain way of holding his head, tilting it ever so slightly to one side as if he were listening intently, anxious to catch every word. Once she'd thought this particular mannerism was endearing. Now it annoyed her. She knew him for what he truly was. An ambitious jerk who'd hounded an innocent man to death.

  "We must be in hell," he said, more than a hint of a jeer in his tone.

  "What do you mean?" Good work, Royce. You sound indifferent.

  "You bastard," he mimicked her voice. "I'll see you in hell before I ever have anything to do with you again."

  She recalled her heated words. And a lot more. "You're right, we are in hell."

  "If memory serves"—now Mitch was smiling, gliding across the dance floor, holding her too securely for comfort —"when I last saw you, you promised... now, how did you put it?"

  "To hack off your balls with a rusty machete."

  "Right. So ladylike."

  True, it had hardly been a refined statement. She'd gone nuts when Mitch appeared at her father's funeral. The rusty machete popped into her mind as the best way to kill Mitch —a slow, painful death—the best way to avenge her father.

  Mitch leaned closer, his turbulent blue eyes just inches from hers. Boy oh boy she'd love to kill him. But it wouldn't bring back her father. Nothing would. She caught Arnold Dillingham looking at them and managed to come up with a wisp of a smile.

  "About my balls"—Mitch's grin bordered on a smirk— "if you touch my zipper, you'll have to come home with me."

  "You know, you're a real bastard."

  "You're not the first to bring it to my attention. And you haven't changed, either, except I hear you're engaged." He glanced at her bare left hand. "Love your engagement ring."

  "I'll have it next week. A pear-shaped diamond the size of a doorknob. Nine carats."

  That stopped him. But she wished she hadn't mentioned the huge diamond Brent had insisted on. The size of the stone wasn't important; Brent was the catch. She still couldn't get used to the idea he'd chosen her when he could have had his pick of all the eligible women in San Francisco.

  "How are you getting along with the Farenholts?"

  "Fine," she fibbed, "they're delightful."

  Mitch stared at her and she felt a taste of what it must be like to be on the witness stand, being cross-examined by him. "Doesn't it piss you off—big time—to have people you don't like reject you because you're not good enough for their son?"

  She reined in her temper, reminding herself that Mitch specialized in tricking people into revealing things. "What makes you think they don't like me?"

  He grinned—his big-bad-wolf grin—making her wish she hadn't taken the bait. "Lots of things. Let's start with your dress."

  "What's wrong with it?" Royce looked down; she hadn't anticipated dancing in the strapless sheath. Her raised arms pulled her breasts upward, dangerously close to exposing the dusky rims of her nipples. She tried dropping her arms, but Mitch wouldn't let her.

  His eyes, unusually blue, unusually intense, roamed slowly over her half-exposed breasts. "I can see what you had for lunch."

  She would have whacked him except the Dillinghams were dancing too close, smiling approvingly at them.

  "Caroline Rambeau, Brent's old girlfriend, would never be caught dead in that dress."

  "Of course not. She couldn't possibly hold it up."

  Mitch chuckled, a deep, masculine laugh she'd chosen to forget. She cursed herself for having made him laugh.

  The Dillinghams stopped beside them. "What's so funny?"

  Think of something quick, Royce told herself. A joke came to mind, but she wasn't truly comfortable with it, considering the plight of the homeless in the bay area. But she told it anyway, determined not to let Arnold Dillingham know what really amused Mitch.

  "Since Mitch wants to help the homeless, I was telling him about a woman he should date. Instead of carrying a placard saying will work for food, hers reads: WILL WORK FOR SEX.

  Arnold hooted. "That's what I like about you, Royce. You can inject humor into any topic, even a serious one."

  Royce didn't think it was the least bit funny. In fact, it was disgusting. Just what did Arnold expect on the show, a tasteless comedienne? She wanted to be serious for a change and get away from the fluff pieces she'd been writing.

  But Arnold probably did want someone outrageous. After all, he'd made his fortune with TV stations that played nonstop infomercials that touted ways to become rich, successful, beautiful—or dice an onion in thirty seconds—with a money back guarantee.

  Had he lived, what would her father have said? You're a born writer. Someday you'll be famous. Well, maybe. Someday. But right now all the newspaper wanted from her was humor. They'd rejected all her serious articles. At least Arnold was giving her a chance.

  "Arnie's agreed that during my appearance on the show, your questions will be limited to the homeless," Mitch informed her as the dance ended. "No questions about my practice, my private life... my past."

  Watching Brent approach, set to rescue her, she recalled Mitch usually avoided the press. "You know what I think?"

  "Royce, I'm always afraid to hear what you think."

  "I think you have something to hide." She left him standing alone and went to Brent.

  "What were you doing with Durant?" Brent pulled her into his arms as the band began to play another waltz.

  She told him about the revised plan for the show. He gave her a reassuring smile; once again she realized how startlingly handsome he was. But unaware of it. Just being with him made her happy. Despite being rich and outrageously good looking Brent was down to earth and so affectionate. He had many of the qualities she had admired in her father.

  If only his parents accepted her, everything would be perfect—except for Mitch, of course. How could she conduct a brilliant interview, an interview that would annihilate the competition and win her the show, when she hated Mitch so much, she could hardly speak to him in a civil tone?

  "Watch out for Mitch," Brent warned. "He'll do anything to get even with me."

  "Why?" She'd assumed the Farenholts disliked Mitch because of his unconventional courtroom tactics, the antithesis of the staid firm headed by Ward Farenholt.

  Mitch had successfully defended Zou Zou Maloof who'd been accused of murdering her husband for his insurance. He'd convinced the jury to acquit her using the "Halcion defense," claiming his client had been paranoid from prolonged use of sleeping pills and hadn't known the knife she'd plunged into her husband's heart was actually going to kill him.

  "Durant has a hair-trigger temper. He can be violent for no reason." Brent looked at his father, who was dancing nearby with Caroline; obviously the family felt duty bound to entertain the former girlfriend. "He broke my jaw when we were at Stanford, you know."

  "Really? Why didn't you tell me?" She ventured a glance at Mitch, who was standing by the table talking with Mrs. Dillingham. There was more than a hint of aggressiveness to him. His stance, legs slightly apart, suggested the readiness of a fighter, creating a compelling quality some women found exciting.

  "I didn't mention the fight because I was ashamed." Brent shrugged, his cute one-shouldered shrug that had become so familiar. "I wanted to get back at Mitch for being at the top of our class, so I called him a redneck and a cracker. I'd been first in my class at Yale and thought Stanford law would be a piece of cake, but there's always someone smarter, richer—"

  "Prettier," she finished for him. "That's what I like about you, B
rent, you're unfailingly honest." He smiled at her and she couldn't help feeling he had the sincerest smile. When Mitch smiled she always wondered what he was really thinking.

  Brent glanced over at his father. Ward Farenholt was laughing at something Caroline had said. "My father gave me hell for not being top gun at Stanford."

  She nodded sympathetically, her eyes on Ward as he twirled Caroline Rambeau around the floor, still laughing, which was rare. Hidebound by generations of wealth and tradition, Ward set rigid standards for his only child. Brent had committed the ultimate violation of those standards by not marrying Caroline.

  "Do you know what happens when you try to pet a junkyard dog?" Brent asked. "He goes for your throat because he's been trained to attack. Remember that when you deal with Mitchell Durant."

  Mitch's beeper went off just as dessert—some pastry with a fancy French name he couldn't pronounce—had been served.

  "Damn," he cussed under his breath. All he needed tonight was someone hearing the Miranda and howling for an attorney. He tilted the face of the beeper to the candlelight and caught the number with a sigh of relief. Not someone in jail, but Jason.

  Mitch excused himself and everyone smiled at him—except Royce Winston. She didn't even spare him a glance. What did he expect? The five years she'd lived in Italy hadn't changed anything. She was still ready to drive a stake through his heart.

  Royce couldn't possibly love Brent, could she? For chrissake, she had to be smarter than that, but the Farenholt money might have done the trick. After all, she'd been quick to tell him about her engagement ring. Okay, so who could blame her? Five minutes at the altar and she'd make more money than he could earn in a lifetime of court appearances.

  Screw it. Let her spend the rest of her damn life with that pussy-whipped mama's boy and his snobby family. Mitch hustled upstairs in search of a telephone, his mind still on Royce. He'd thought about her once or twice in the five years since he'd last seen her.

  Oooo-kay, a helluva lot more than that. She'd returned this year from living with relatives in Italy, better known than ever thanks to her column in the San Francisco Examiner. She'd left right after her father's funeral, but continued to write her column from abroad.

  Obviously, she'd needed to get away from the city and its painful memories. To get away from him. He'd tried to convince himself that she was never coming back. Suddenly, she was home again—where she belonged.

  But Mitch hadn't counted on her becoming engaged to Brent. He owed the cocky little prick, and he hadn't forgotten it. Trust me, I never will. One day, one day soon, he'd pay Brent back.

  There was only one man on earth he hated more than that son of a bitch. Damn straight. It was almost a toss-up, but he did hate his own father more than he hated Brent Farenholt. Too bad there was no way in hell he could ever find the bastard. Royce's rusty machete idea would be perfect for his old man.

  Mitch found a small study upstairs and dialed Jason's number.

  "He's run away," Jason's mother informed him, an hysterical pitch to her voice.

  Mitch had expected something like this. In the two years he'd worked with Jason through the Big Brothers program, he'd seen the kid's life change completely. He'd lived with no rules, the son of a single parent struggling to make ends meet. Then his mother remarried a trucker who thought the iron fist was the only way to deal with teenagers. The strait-jacket of rules was driving Jason over the edge.

  How well Mitch remembered that feeling of being trapped by rules, rules, and more rules. Jason didn't know running away would only get him into worse trouble. But Mitch knew.

  "What upset Jason?" Mitch listened while she described Jason's latest fight with his stepfather.

  "Oh, thank God, here he is." He heard a muffled noise as her hand covered the receiver but didn't block the sound of her voice. "You're in trouble. You're gonna to get it."

  "Wait," Mitch yelled to get her attention. "Put Jason on."

  "Yeah?" Jason said, and Mitch could almost see the belligerent thrust of his jaw. "She didn't have to bother you. I was jus' kickin' it with my posse."

  Kicking it was this year's version of chill out. Mitch still called it hanging out. Posse—his friends. Not quite Boyz N the Hood but close. Too close. "I'll pick you up tomorrow at noon. We'll talk about this."

  "Forget it. The man says I ain't goin' nowhere."

  "Let me speak with your mother." Mitch waited, then Jason's mother came on the line. "Please explain to your husband how important it is for Jason to spend time with me and earn Big Brother points so he can go to camp this summer. The baby will be born about then, won't it? You'll need peace and quiet."

  She agreed almost too easily, Mitch thought, accustomed to persuading the toughest juries and reveling in the challenge. Mitch hung up and turned off the desk lamp. He peered out the window at the bay and the dancing lights of Sausalito in the distance. Dammit, it was harder than hell to save one kid from the streets. He had the sneaking suspicion Jason wasn't going to make it.

  The party was finally breaking up, Royce noticed, but Brent and his father were still at their table in an animated discussion with the Italian count who'd escorted Caroline. After the Dillinghams said good-night, lavishing Royce with compliments and good wishes on her trial run, Royce went to comb her hair, hoping when she returned Brent would be ready to leave.

  Halfway up the stairs she met Caroline with Eleanor Farenholt. The two women had been created by the same fairy godmother. Each had the bone structure of a cover girl with an aquiline nose and sculpted cheekbones beneath eyes that could only be described as patrician blue. Naturally, with such perfection both women felt they didn't need to show off their hair, so they cinched their blond tresses into sleek models' chignons.

  They were so exquisite that Royce had to remind herself she was thankful for a thick head of wavy dark-blond hair that softened her square-cut jaw and the clan of freckles gathered on the bridge of her nose. Her eyes, though, were her best feature, clear and cool green. Intelligent green, her father used to say.

  "You really look terrific tonight," Caroline said. "That dress was made for you."

  She spoke with such honesty, looking Royce directly in the eye, that Royce almost believed her, but knew she couldn't be sincere. No woman could like a rival who'd cost her Brent Farenholt.

  "Thanks," Royce smiled, noticing Eleanor hadn't seconded Caroline's opinion. Instead she looked at Royce as if she were something she wouldn't want to step on in the dark.

  Royce hurried up the stairs, walking as lightly as possible on the parquet floor that magnified every footfall. The first door she came to was closed, but the next was open. The room was dark, but she went in, expecting a bedroom with an attached bathroom. Squinting in the darkness she saw the silhouette of a tall man outlined against the window.

  "Can't stay away from me, can you, Royce?"

  Why me? Why did she have to keep running into Mitch? And why was he standing in the dark, anyway? He took two steps toward her. He had a disturbingly sensual way of looking at her, or maybe it was just her imagination.

  "You're madder than hell at yourself, aren't you?" he asked.

  "I can't imagine what you're talking about. I'm speechless."

  "For a change." He came another step closer. Then another.

  Some primitive instinct fired a warning as she remembered what Brent had said about Mitch's explosive temper. His voice radiated antagonism. And from what she could see of his face in the darkness, he looked positively dangerous. What right did he have to be angry? It wasn't his father rotting six feet under.

  "You're damn pissed at yourself for not telling Arnold Dillingham that I'm the biggest son of a bitch on earth."

  Mitch was standing so close, she could smell a faint trace of his after-shave, an elusive scent she recalled from the first time she'd kissed him five years ago. The annoying patter of her heart infuriated her. It was an involuntary feminine reaction she'd have to control, or maybe he just intimidated her. There
had always been something threatening about Mitch.

  "I could kill you."

  "You'll have to take a number, Royce."

  "What good would come of it? Nothing can bring back the dead."

  "All night you've been itching to use that scorpion tongue of yours, but you didn't because you know Arnie won't listen. And you're not about to risk your career, are you?"

  She automatically swung her arm up, intending to whack him. He caught her wrist, gripping it firmly. The blood pounded in her temples, bringing a wave of shame.

  Why, he was right. And she hated him all the more for it. She'd justified her silence by thinking nothing could bring back her father, but on another level she had kept quiet because she wanted that television program.

  "Now you know how it feels to be ambitious." He lowered her arm to her side, but kept his hand clamped around her wrist. "When you want success so much, you can taste it. When you're willing to make compromises to get to the top."

  "What you did was different."

  "Not really. And if you're honest, you'll admit it."

  "You're disgusting. Let me go."

  Her mouth was open, the last words still suspended in the small space between them, when he twisted her arm behind her back, bringing her against the solid expanse of his chest. His free hand slipped under her chin and held her jaw open. Her brain barely registered what was happening when his lips met hers in a scorching kiss.

  Why is he doing this? she asked herself frantically. His kiss was hot and punishing, a primal act of male domination. And he wanted a whole lot more than a kiss. He made that plain by the thrust of his hips against hers.

  Infuriated, she tried to knee him in the groin, but he blocked her by twisting his body to the side. Stop fighting him, she told herself. He's too strong. Go limp and he'll quit. She sagged in his arms; if he hadn't been holding her she would have been on the floor. But he kept kissing her with a fierceness that went beyond passion.

  The hot gliding of his tongue as it mated with hers brought a ripple of excitement. And the memory of the first time he'd kissed her five years ago. A kiss she'd never quite forgotten, even though she despised herself for remembering. A kiss that unleashed a longing time and distance hadn't altered.