This was supposed to give the defense team a chance to try out their arguments and prepare Royce, but facing twelve sets of accusing eyes was wearing on her. When evening came she was alone with too much time to think. She honestly didn't know what she'd do when she saw Mitch.
A sharp spasm of guilt hit her. Hadn't she learned anything from her father's experience with Mitch? Remember, Mitch is a man whose ambition overrides anything else. Don't fall for him. It'll only compound your problems.
A knock at the door startled Royce. It couldn't be Mitch; he wasn't due back for a few days. She cautiously peered out the window. Even if she didn't share Paul's opinion that the informant's killer might target her next, she was cautious. But it wasn't a killer at the door; it was Wally.
She greeted him with an affectionate hug. "I've been worried about you. Why didn't you call?"
"Sorry," he said, with a half-smile that lit up the green eyes that were so like her own. "I had to go underground to get the scoop on the chicken farm. No phone."
She smiled. Now, this was the Wally she remembered. A master of disguises, he often went underground to get a story. But he looked tired, worried. Was he still concerned about Shaun? Or was she causing him to lose sleep?
He put both hands on her shoulders and peered into her eyes. "How's it going?"
"Preparing for the trial is grueling." Although she usually shared her problems with Wally how could she possibly explain to him that she'd made love to the man who'd persecuted his brother, causing him to commit suicide?
A gnawing emptiness, almost an emotional paralysis, enveloped her. Isolated, she couldn't share her feelings with anyone. Her despair must have shown in her face.
"Let's get you out of here," Wally said. "Put on a wig and let's go down to Fisherman's Wharf and have dinner. You love to watch the sea lions."
Wally was right. They sat on the pier, sharing a jumbo basket of fresh crab legs and watching the horde of sea lions basking in the last rays of a waning sun. Royce felt much better than she had all week.
She told herself that it didn't matter if Mitch called. Making love to him had been inevitable, but she had to get on with life, with the upcoming trial. She couldn't afford to mope over him like some teenager with more hormones than common sense.
"How's Mitch?" Wally asked casually. Too casually.
"He's away on a case." Did he suspect?
"While I was in Alabama, I did a little checking on him."
"You didn't! I thought we agreed to drop it." What would happen if Mitch found out? Dear God, she didn't need anything else to go wrong.
"I was just passing through Gilroy Junction and saw the recruiting office. Know what? The officer who signed up Mitch was still there and he remembered him." Wally paused and tossed a piece of crab to a sea lion who kept barking at them. "The officer knew Mitch had been accused of stealing a carton of milk."
"He must have been hungry. Maybe he was a homeless runaway." Royce tried to imagine Mitch as a boy forced to steal to survive. No wonder he's so tough, so cynical. Who knew what private hell he'd emerged from?
"You're right. Mitch was homeless. The officer felt sorry for him because he'd been sleeping in the alley behind Pizza Hut. He thought Mitch would be better off in the Navy, so he ignored the bogus birth certificate and called someone who'd vouch for Mitch. A nun named Sister Mary Agnes at St. Ignatius Academy in Waycross Springs verified the facts on the phony certificate."
A wave of shame washed over Royce. How can you feel sorry for yourself? Why, she was surrounded by people trying to help her. Not Mitch. Back then he'd been totally alone, sleeping in the cold, eating anchovies people had picked off their pizzas, forced to steal milk to survive.
A living hell. But he'd survived—and triumphed. That knowledge gave her courage. Somehow she'd get through this.
"For some reason the nun lied," Wally insisted. "Why would she do such a thing? I'm going back South next week. I'll see if I can find out the truth."
"Please don't. This has nothing to do with my case. Don't make Mitch angry."
"There's something strange about this case, something even a pro like Paul Talbott can't uncover. There's a missing link somewhere, and I'll be damned if I let you go to jail if there's something I can do to prevent it."
Royce couldn't argue with him. Too much had happened —including murder. Even the most farfetched possibilities had to be considered. "Please be careful. I don't want Mitch to drop my case."
Later that night Royce's portable telephone rang. It couldn't be Val or Talia. They'd called as they usually did earlier in the evening.
"Hello?" Was it Mitch?
"Royce?" The deep voice sent a shock wave of raw anger through her. Brent. The disloyal jerk. "Talia gave me your number. I hope you don't mind."
Royce forced herself to be calm. Once she would have told him what a bastard she thought he was—just the way she'd attacked Mitch at her father's funeral—but too much was at stake to alienate Brent. This was her chance to persuade him not to testify against her.
"I'm sorry about all that's happened, Royce. I want to talk to you."
"I'm listening," she said, her tone not betraying her anger.
"I think we should meet somewhere."
Mitch would go ballistic if he found out she was even talking to the star witness for the prosecution. Meeting Brent would be pure insanity.
"Please, Royce, it's important. I need to talk to you."
She almost said no, but a wrenching pain, an amalgam of hopelessness and a deep anger borne of frustration, kept her quiet. Everyone ordered her around, taking charge of the case that was just another case to them, but one that would decide her future. This was her chance to do something to help herself by persuading Brent not to testify.
An hour later she rushed into a North Beach coffeehouse. They'd agreed no one would recognize either of them in the dark café. She hadn't worn a wig, but she was wearing huge tortoiseshell glasses that disguised her face. Brent was waiting at a booth in the dimly lit rear section. He rose when he saw her approaching.
Designer clothes had been intended for bodies like Brent's. Lanky. Lean. An inbred air of understated elegance. Mitch was a shade too tall, a bit too muscular, but he was infinitely more masculine. And he was mentally and emotionally tougher than Brent.
For a second she wondered what Mitch would have been like had he grown up in a life of wealth and privilege. He'd never have been as easygoing as Brent, as comfortable with himself and the world. No. There was a subterranean undercurrent to Mitch's personality that would have shaped him into a dynamic man no matter what the circumstances of his birth.
Still, she couldn't help asking herself just what had happened to Mitch. Why had he run away from home? How had he lost the hearing in one ear? Who was the nun who loved him so much she'd broken her vows and lied for him, verifying a phony birth certificate? There had to have been a good reason for a nun to take a risk like that.
"You look terrific," Brent said as she slipped into the booth, taking care to keep her back to the room so she wouldn't be recognized.
She removed the glasses and asked herself what she'd seen in Brent. True, he was outrageously handsome and charming. But something was missing, she realized. Or maybe this ordeal had simply changed her so much that she was no longer the same person. Brent was probably exactly what he'd always been—an endearing boy who had grown older, but never quite grown up. He simply didn't have Mitch's depth and power.
Had she ever really been in love with this man? Of course not. She'd wanted a home. A family. Losing both parents had taken its toll on her emotionally, leaving her more vulnerable than she'd realized until now.
Could she trust Brent? No. He'd proven how unreliable he could be the night she'd been arrested. Could she trust anyone? Not really. Bewildered, she prayed nightly—not for revenge, but for deliverance.
Somehow she had to save herself. She had to focus on that and nothing else. What did it matter if she had once dec
eived herself into thinking she loved Brent? Did it even matter that she was slowly—against her will—falling hopelessly in love with Mitch?
No, Royce. Nothing is more important than saving yourself.
"Royce," Brent began, and she could hear the nervousness in his voice that she'd only noticed before when Ward was angry with him. "I'm really sorry about this mess, you know. Are you all right?"
She managed a nod. All right? How could she be all right when faced with a trial that could cost her the best years of her life? Calm down. Now isn't the time to lose your temper. "You wanted to talk to me?"
Brent tried the smile that could melt the ice cap, but it didn't work. She gazed at him, barely able to keep from telling him what she really thought of him.
"I'm ashamed of myself, you know," Brent confessed. "I should have come to your rescue the second they found those diamonds in your purse."
"It certainly would have helped if you'd insisted it was a joke. If it had been Caroline, you and your parents would have jumped to her defense."
"Yes, Father would have protected Caroline," Brent admitted. "But I was too blown away to react. I'm not used to scandals... or anything."
How true, Royce thought. Life had been smooth sailing for Brent. Money and good looks meant untroubled waters. No one would expect his girlfriend to be arrested. Without giving it a second thought she knew Mitch would have stood by her.
"I know you're not guilty. You'd never steal or take drugs."
"Who do you think did it?" She assured herself this wasn't actually discussing the case, but maybe she could learn something that Paul hadn't.
Brent shrugged, his one-shouldered shrug she'd once thought so cute. Now it annoyed her as much as his habit of adding you know to his sentences. "That Italian count Caroline's been dating is probably behind all your problems."
"Why would he have a grudge against me?" Royce remembered the count was really an actor from Texas, but didn't share the confidential information with Brent.
"You know, there's something funny about the guy, but he wouldn't have any reason to hurt you, would he?"
She wasn't surprised that Brent had detected something odd about the count. Brent loved to play the good ole rich boy to the hilt. He put people at ease by never emphasizing his wealth or his intelligence, but he had a very incisive mind. He was a lot more intelligent—and shrewder—than most people thought.
"Did you meet the count in Italy when you were living with your cousins?"
Mitch and Paul had asked the same question. "No. The first time I met him was when he came to dinner at your parents' with Caroline." There had been something strange about that evening. Eleanor, easily impressed by titles, fawned over the count, but Ward and Brent had been unusually silent.
Brent paused for the waiter to take their orders, then said, "I wouldn't be surprised if Mitch was behind this." There was an edge to Brent's voice that she'd never heard before, and a solemn look in his eyes that said he actually believed Mitch had done it.
For a second her protective instincts flared—not that Mitch had ever needed her protection—and she experienced an annoying surge of affection for him. "Mitch, why? It doesn't make sense."
Brent ran his slim fingers over the demitasse spoon the waiter had given him, his highly buffed nails catching the dim light. "He wanted to make certain you didn't marry me. We've been rivals since Stanford, you know."
"Did your father throw Mitch's success at you?" This was a wild guess. She'd never heard Ward compare his son to Mitch. Brent had never mentioned it either.
After an uncomfortable pause Brent admitted, "Yes. Father calls him a hillbilly, but he never loses an opportunity to remind me how successful Mitch is."
This certainly sounded more like Brent's problem than Mitch's, but she refrained from saying so. She wanted to persuade Brent not to take the stand.
"Of course, Mitch always wanted to be a part of our crowd, but even when he became successful, he still had that crude edge."
Royce conceded Mitch could be abrasive, but she doubted he aspired to the Farenholt circle with their limited interests and bored arrogance. Actually, Mitch was the most solitary man she'd ever known. He guarded his privacy like Fort Knox and seemed content to spend his free time by himself.
Brent was entirely different. He spent most of his evenings socializing with friends. When they'd been together, they'd spent very few evenings by themselves. Looking back, she realized Brent needed a court around him. Mitch didn't need anyone.
Brent gazed at her speculatively. "I bet Mitch is spending a lot of time alone with you, isn't he? No one else knows where you are. No one is allowed to see you."
She took care not to react to his insinuation about Mitch, even though it disturbed her that he'd hit the mark. Yes, Brent was a whole lot sharper than he appeared. "We're trying to counter my negative image with the media. That's why I'm keeping out of sight."
"Don't tell me he hasn't hit on you." There it was again, that disturbing edge to his voice that Brent tried to temper with the full force of his smile.
Instinct told her not to give a hint of credence to this accusation. "I rarely see Mitch. He's usually away on a case. I work with the defense team. He won't join us until closer to the trial." She was surprised how easily the lie came. The next one came even easier. "I live like a Gypsy, moving from safe house to safe house."
She looked directly into his eyes. This time the words came from her heart. "It's terribly lonely, so lonely sometimes, I just want to cry."
Brent took the bait. He eased his arm around her just as the waiter arrived with their cappuccinos. Neither of them moved to pick up the mugs topped by a cloud of cream and a swizzle stick of cinnamon bark. He pulled her closer and she let her head rest against his shoulder with an anguished sigh that would have made Sarah Bernhardt proud.
"You know, I've never stopped loving you," Brent whispered. "I want to help you."
"Then why are you testifying against me?"
He looked genuinely shocked. "I'm just verifying the diamonds were in your purse, that's all."
Could he really be this naive? Maybe. He was an odd amalgam of intelligence and... and what? Indifference, she suspected. When Brent chose to analyze a situation, no one could best him—but most of the time he was too busy or too bored to bother. Obviously he didn't care enough about her to realize what testifying against her would do.
She pulled away from him. "Don't you know the psychological impact your testimony will have? Abigail Carnivali will persuade the jury that I used you for your money. They'll feel sorry for you, not me."
Brent put his arm around her again and it was all she could do not to slap his handsome face. "Darling, I'm an attorney, remember? Good old Carnivorous can only make me state the facts, I was closest to you. I did see the diamonds."
His words extinguished the flicker of hope, but she gave it one last try. "Can't someone else testify? Does it have to be you?" If Mitch had taught her one thing, it was that the actual facts counted less than the jury's perception of those facts. Her fiance testifying against her would be a serious liability.
"Caroline claims she wasn't close enough to see, and my parents think it's undignified to testify. Father insists I do it."
What was the point of staying? She slipped across the worn leather seat.
Brent caught her arm. "Look, if it's so important to you, I won't testify. They'll have to persuade my father to do it." His expression said this was about as likely as getting a search warrant for the Vatican. "Of course, Mother's health is too fragile for her to take the stand."
Royce suppressed a derisive snort. Eleanor had the constitution of a water buffalo. But Brent would never admit that. He always made excuses for his mother, she thought, reviewing their time together. Once she'd seen this as an admirable trait, but she realized it was a weakness, a crutch.
She waited while Brent paid the bill. He kept his hand on the back of her waist as he escorted her to the door.
/> "You're lonely, Royce. Let me come home with you."
She was thankful he was slightly behind her so he couldn't see her expression. If he came home with her, he'd want to make love to her. Oh, Mitch, how could she make love to anyone else again? "You can't. No one is to know where I am."
"That's so Durant can keep you to himself."
"No." She turned to face him, determined to dispel his suspicions, determined to keep this jerk on her side. "Paul Talbott insisted. The media is ruining my chance for a fair trial."
"You're right," he conceded. "Tobias Ingeblatt has done a number on me too. You know, he's always following me, angling for a story that isn't there."
Make the most of this, cautioned her inner voice. "You can call me. I'm home—by myself—every evening. Even if I move, the portable phone has the same number." Somehow she mustered a tear—undoubtedly Sarah Bernhardt was now turning over in her grave. "I'd be less lonely if I could talk to you." There! Now he wouldn't think she was involved with Mitch.
"Maybe we can meet again," Brent suggested.
"We'll see," she said as they stepped outside. By habit Royce scanned the street for anyone who might be following her. Nothing. "Good-bye."
He smiled at her, the intimate smile she'd seen so many times, and she knew he was going to kiss her. She didn't want him to, but didn't move away. What was the harm? A kiss would bind him to her, making him believe she still loved him, but she didn't care. Keeping him off the stand was more important than one kiss.
And another thought hit her just as Brent's lips met hers. After so many passionate kisses with Mitch, what would she feel?
Mitch sped along the freeway into the city. In the distance the sun dipped below the Pacific. He'd been gone ten days, but it felt like ten years. Jesus, he needed to slow down, but he'd scheduled these cases months ago. Before Royce.
Aw, hell, what are you going to do about her? Damned if he knew. He hadn't called her once because he didn't know what to say. What the hell could he say: You're the only person in my life who hasn't disappointed me? You were better than my wildest dreams?
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