"What do you see?" he asked as he hung up.
"My God, they listed every single thing I own. No wonder it took them so long. I never knew I had this much stuff."
"Typical in drug cases. They're looking for stolen goods that people gave you instead of money."
"You're right. Everything of value comes first. The earthquake money, which they've kept for evidence. The good luck piggy bank my father gave me when I was eight. It had thirty-one dollars and twenty-six cents in it. Jewelry..." She ran her finger down the short list.
Mitch sat beside her, deliberately not sitting too close. As always, Jenny moved to his side and put her head on his knee. He stroked her silky fur, his eyes on Royce. She was so absorbed by the list that she failed to notice him studying her.
"Hmmmmm." She stopped and checked the evidence list, then looked at him with those matchless green eyes. "I don't see my mother's gold charm bracelet. I wear it almost every day. I'm very sentimental about it."
Mitch seized the opportunity to scoot a bit closer as he reached across the Lucite table for the printout. "It's probably listed under another category."
But it wasn't. It took them over an hour to check the lists. By that time the pizza and salad had been delivered, and they were eating as they worked.
Mitch never thought he could be this close to Royce without touching her. Not that he wasn't tempted. But she seemed to be relaxing with him. Don't push your luck. "Where did you keep the bracelet?"
"I usually wore it, but it didn't go with that beaded cocktail dress. I must have taken it off in my bedroom. Maybe the bathroom. I'm not sure."
Mitch reached for the last piece of pizza. "Someone on one of the special teams might have tucked it in his pocket. They're usually above reproach, but it's happened. That's what got Paul into trouble."
"Really? Jewelry was missing?"
"No. Money. It was a drug bust. Paul was there with another homicide detective because they'd gotten a tip there was a body in the basement. They found several suitcases of money. Some of it disappeared. Paul was under suspicion because he'd been down there by himself for a minute, but they couldn't prove a thing. Still, the Internal Affairs guys were merciless. Paul resigned."
"That's terrible. Poor man." Royce sighed and he battled the urge to take her into his arms.
"It was the city's loss. He's the best detective I've ever seen. That's why he's on your case."
"Val's working for him, you know."
"In the credit card fraud department. That's upstairs away from the unit working on your case." He tried to sound reassuring, but he was concerned. He didn't like having a suspect so close to case files.
"About the bracelet," Royce said, "it's possible they missed it. My place is such a mess that it's hard to tell what's there."
"We're going to report it. If it turns up, we can cancel the report. That way you'll get insurance money if it doesn't." Mitch got up and tossed the pizza box in the trash compactor.
"Will I bother you if I use the computer tonight?" she asked.
"No, I'm going to be in the office too" he said, making this up as he went. "Doing research."
Now he could picture it, he thought, after they'd gone up to the office and were working. When he was away, he'd been unable to imagine her in his office: Royce tapping softly on the computer keys, her head bent, sending a fall of blond hair over her shoulder. She was so damned cute, he could kiss her. And even though his back was killing him, nothing could have budged Mitch, not even faithful Jenny gazing up at him, silently pleading to be taken for a walk.
Later Mitch looked up, ready to suggest walking Jenny. Royce was staring at the computer screen. Her profile was to him, so he couldn't exactly see her expression, but she seemed upset. He gazed at her a few more minutes but she didn't move. He rattled some papers. Nothing.
He walked over, turned a chair around backward and sat down, straddling the chair. Jenny followed him, nudging her head under his hand so he could pet her. Royce's eyes were fired with a light he'd seen too often. She was pissed big time.
Aw, hell, not tonight. The last thing he wanted to do was fight with her. He wanted to take her into his bed with soft music crooning from the stereo, slowly undress her, and make love all night.
"You're right, Mitch. I have shit for brains. Look at this."
He let out a sigh of relief. There was a God. Royce wasn't angry with him. For once. He scooted so close that he caught the fresh scent of her shampoo.
She was too preoccupied with the computer to care how close he was. "The entire time I was dating Brent, he kept calling Caroline from the office." She scrolled down the screen, saying, "The average call was over half an hour. He wasn't really over Caroline. No wonder he's dating her again. Did he ever love me?"
"Caroline is still dating that Italian count. She may never have been out with Brent after your arrest. Tobias Ingeblatt probably dug up an old photo. You know he fabricates his stories." Jeezus, why was he defending that prick Farenholt?
Royce scowled, unconvinced. "Well, phone records don't lie. He called her every day from the conference room phone."
"Sneaky bastard. He's smarter than I thought he was."
"What do you mean?"
"Ward Farenholt is executor of Caroline's trust, so she's a client. Secretaries keep logs of billable hours. If Brent called from his own phone, Caroline would have been charged. But he called from the conference room, where he had privacy and no one would bill Caroline."
Now Royce looked hurt. Part of him was glad, but another, nobler side felt for her. Women were fools for Brent Hadn't he learned that lesson once?
"Come on," he said. "That's enough for tonight. Let's take Jenny for a walk."
Outside the bracing night was heavy with the scent of the sea and night-blooming jasmine, a welcome change from the winter months when wispy fog crept in from the bay. In the distance iridescent stars of light danced on the water. Royce had run up to her apartment and put on a red wig that made her look like a stranger. A sexy stranger. Hot, swift currents of arousal surged through him, but he controlled himself. Tonight he had a game plan.
"You don't have to hold the leash," he told Royce as Jenny marched ahead, the leash between her teeth. "Just hook it to her collar and let Jenny hold the other end in her mouth. That way if a cop stops you for violating the leash law, you just say: 'But, officer, my dog is on a leash. The law doesn't say a person has to be holding the leash.' "
She laughed, a warm laugh that reminded him of the night he'd met her. She'd joked with him then, happy, relaxed.
"Leave it to a lawyer to find a way around the law."
"Hey, Jenny loves running free. Just call to her when she gets to the corner. Sometimes she sprints ahead. I'm afraid she'll get run over."
"Don't worry, Mitch," Royce said in her familiar sassy tone. "I know the intent of the law. When I walk Jenny, I'll hold on to the leash."
There was something subtle in the air between them now. Umm-hmmm. It wasn't just his imagination. She cocked her head to one side and offered him a shy smile charged with sexual chemistry. Ooo-kay. Now what?
They walked several blocks, then stopped to admire the lovers' moon suspended above the Golden Gate Bridge. It was perfectly round and as soft white as a magnolia against the night sky. But Royce's mind wasn't on the panoramic view. He could tell she was still worrying about Brent.
Her self-esteem had to be zero right about now, and he wasn't sure what to say to make her feel better. He was great with words, all right. He'd persuaded countless juries to let guilty men go free, but he'd be damned if he knew what to say in this situation.
He believed Royce when she said she no longer loved Brent. But, dammit, she had loved him. Not that he could blame her. He'd seen it all before. And it hurt just as much now as it had then.
Brent Farenholt was handsome in an unfair way. Women couldn't take their eyes off him. Mitch never got that kind of attention until a woman realized he was the Mitchell Durant. Ad
d money and charm to Brent's looks and it was no wonder that so many women fell for him. Had anyone ever said no?
Had any woman ever turned her back on Brent Farenholt?
They headed home, walking in comfortable silence with Jenny strutting ahead, her leash in her mouth. Royce called to Jenny to stop on every corner, but his awareness focused entirely on Royce, excluding everything except the erotic signals her body sent to him. He'd bet the farm she wanted him, but she wasn't about to let him know it. The past stood between them like a wound that refused to heal.
He followed her up the stairs to her apartment. She said good-night and turned to open the door.
"Royce," he said, touching her arm.
She swung around, whipping the red hair around her cheeks. It resettled in rippling waves across her shoulders as her eyes met his. He'd be damned if he'd let her go to bed tonight heartsick over that mama's boy.
He caught a strand of hair between his fingers. Not nearly as soft as her own hair, not nearly as sexy. He slowly brushed the curl over her lips. Her eyes were luminous in the moonlight; the pupils had reduced the vibrant green to narrow hoops. How could one woman be so astonishingly appealing?
"Good night," she repeated, a seductive undertone to her voice.
Hey, Mitch, don't give her a choice. When you do, she runs. He pulled her to him—Uhh-ooli—more roughly than he'd intended. Her body conformed to his, the soft fullness of her breasts flattening against his chest as his mouth found her sensuous lips.
Her mouth was already parted, the tip of her tongue waiting for his. Heat spiraled through him, faster and hotter than ever before, becoming a tight knot in his groin.
"Don't," she whispered against his lips, but he felt the physical pull emanating from her body.
His sixth sense told him not to give her a choice. Make certain you're the one she dreams about tonight, not that prick. He moved his mouth over hers, devouring its softness. Instantly her lips responded. Her whole body did.
He felt her surrender deep in his gut. She was indisputably under his control. That savage satisfaction was heady and every bit as arousing as her kiss. She didn't have the power to resist him because she didn't want to—no matter what she said.
Her tongue flirted with his, enticing him to delve deeper. Her hips were tilted upward, flush against his turgid sex, challenging him to take this kiss a step farther.
Should he? No way. Hell, he was tempted, but he had a point to make. So he lingered, kissing her. It was a hot, yearning kiss calculated to let her become accustomed to his arms around her, his tongue caressing hers, his hardness pressed against the notch of her thighs.
Somehow he wedged his hand between them and touched her breast. Even through the sweater he could feel the erect nipple. It had been five long years—dammit—but he remembered exactly what her breasts were like. Soft, full. Taut nipples flushed with desire. There was nothing he'd like better than to lower his lips and sculpt those nipples with his tongue, but he couldn't allow himself to be sidetracked.
He used sheer willpower to pull away. "You hate me, don't you, Royce?"
She stared at the toes of her running shoes. "Why are you doing this?"
"You hate me, but you want me. There are some things between people that just can't be explained, right? Right. That's how it must be with Caroline and Brent. He's been close to her for years. So he talked to her even when he knew he loved you and was going to marry you. No big deal."
"I wish I could believe that."
So did Mitch—for her sake—but he didn't say a word. Instead, he just walked away. Who knew what that cocky little shit was thinking? But he'd be damned if he'd let Brent destroy her self-confidence. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned. She stood transfixed, watching him.
"Think about us, Royce. Can you explain it?"
CHAPTER 14
Paul found it surprisingly easy to obtain an interview with Eleanor Farenholt. His disguise as a reporter for Town and Country doing advance work for an upcoming layout worked perfectly. He sat in the living room of the Farenholts' Nob Hill mansion, watching the bay sparkling in the distance. Bright sunlight reflected off the Louis XIV furniture in a blaze of gilt.
So far, Paul had managed to balance the dainty tea cup and saucer and keep up a steady stream of inane conversation. Boy, he hated prissy rooms like this. Pretentious museum-like rooms that left him cold. Pretending to love the furnishings and find them "smashing" for an upcoming issue wasn't easy, but he decided that he'd finally gained Eleanor's trust enough to broach the subject of Royce Winston.
"Nasty bit of business with those jewels taken at the auction, wasn't it?" he asked, keeping his intonation eastern and his attitude officious.
"Terrible," Eleanor agreed, "most embarrassing."
"Wasn't your son"—he paused as if he couldn't quite bring himself to insult the lady by saying her son was engaged to a criminal—"friendly with the suspect?"
"Royce Winston chased my son. She was after his money."
Paul pretended to sip his tea. Eleanor Farenholt was a classic beauty: fine features, a model's cheekbones, and bright blue eyes. She wasn't the cold woman he'd expected; actually, she was quite pleasant. But then, she wanted to impress him.
"I had hoped my son would marry Caroline Rambeau," Eleanor informed him. "You remember her, don't you? T and C featured her at Tiffany's last year."
"Of course." Paul smiled, hoping he sounded convincing. "I was thinking of inquiring about her home for this same piece we're doing with you, but I wasn't quite certain it was up to snuff."
"Caroline's home would be perfect," Eleanor assured him.
"Well, I hadn't contacted her from New York," he hedged, giving Eleanor the opportunity to help him.
"I'll call her for you. Caroline's just like a daughter, you know. My husband and I love her as much as if she were our own child." Eleanor laughed, a giggle that sounded odd for such a mature woman. "Ward might just love Caroline more than Brent. He expects so much from his son."
"It's harder to be a man," Paul sympathized. "Expectations are a lot higher."
An hour later he was on his way to see Caroline Rambeau. He wasn't sure he'd learned anything helpful from his discussion with Eleanor, or that he'd get much from Caroline, but he liked to have a feel for his cases. Sometimes his sixth sense kicked in to help him solve a crime.
Caroline Rambeau's home was within walking distance of the Farenholts', causing Paul to speculate on just how close —geographically and emotionally—they all were. There was a certain inbred feeling in the upper echelons of society, a type of protectiveness, an insular attitude toward those with less that Paul had noted from his earliest days on the police force. But the Farenholts' relationship with Caroline seemed to go beyond anything he'd previously encountered.
Caroline answered the door herself, clad in a silk jumpsuit. She was even more beautiful in person than she was on the videotape he'd seen. She bore a startling resemblance to Eleanor Farenholt. But then she smiled and invited him in. Paul instantly knew the engaging smile and the cheerful attitude weren't a facade. Beauty, money, and a winning personality. A dynamite combination.
"Eleanor tells me you're doing an article on San Francisco's homes with views."
Paul wrinkled his nose, doing his best imitation of New York smugness. "Not just any view—only the spectacular ones"—he looked around the room approvingly—"with appropriate furniture to showcase the scenery."
Now, here was a classically beautiful room, he thought. None of that ornate gilt crap that Eleanor loved. Caroline's home was decorated in soft shades of white that complemented the warm wood tones of the antiques.
"I see," Caroline responded, but she didn't sound nearly as enthusiastic as Eleanor had. Paul had the feeling that she wasn't as snobbish as the older woman.
"Did you work with the decorator?" Paul asked to fill the uncomfortable silence.
"My mother worked with Gaston Norville—years ago."
"Well
"—Paul smiled brightly—"good taste always survives the test of time."
"What do you need from me?" Caroline asked.
"I'm just doing background. The legal department will send releases for you to sign before we can photograph your home." Paul hesitated, mentally rolling the dice. "I might have to delay this article a bit. There's been so much negative publicity about those stolen jewels. You were right there, weren't you?"
"Yes," Caroline admitted, "but I don't see—"
"We want our readers concentrating on the story, not wondering how that odious Winston woman infiltrated one of the best families—"
"She didn't infiltrate. Brent brought her to meet his family." Caroline sounded angry, almost as if he'd accused a close friend—not a rival. "I like Royce. I thought she was good for Brent. He lets Ward bully him too much."
"Were you surprised she stole the jewels?"
Caroline looked him directly in the eye. "Royce didn't take the jewels. She isn't that kind of person."
"Well," Paul said, taken aback by Caroline's attitude. "Who do you think did?"
"I have absolutely no idea."
"Watch the video monitor," Brian Jensen told Royce as they sat before the video camera in the jury-preparation room of Mitch's office. "See how you're waving your arms? It makes you look agitated, nervous."
"I'm half Italian. I can't talk without my hands."
"Oh, yes, you can." Brian was Mitch's in-house expert on juries. "You'll do better next time."
Next time Royce groaned inwardly. They'd been at this for hours, but she knew days of preparation stretched ahead of her before she'd be ready to face a jury.
"Try to sound as sincere and unrehearsed as possible," Brian instructed. "A jury likes to think they're hearing everything for the first time."
"Even though everyone from the arresting officer to the star witness for the prosecution has been prepped for hours," put in the young associate who'd been doing the questioning, pretending she was Abigail Carnivali.
The two laughed, but Royce couldn't even force a grin. To them it was a game. They'd seen it all before, and they'd see it again. For her, though, it was dead serious. If she were found guilty she'd spend the next ten years of her life behind bars without possibility of parole, the mandatory sentence for the drug charges.
Sawyer, Meryl Page 17