Читать книгу Night Fever - Diana Palmer - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Granddad took the news of Clay’s arrest better than Becky had expected him to. It was a blessing that Clay had been arrested in town, and not at home. To his credit, he didn’t balk at going to school, for once. He got on the bus without an argument, with Mack right behind him.

Becky settled Granddad in his armchair in the living room, concerned at his silence.

“Are you going to be all right?” she asked after she’d given him his pill. “Should I ask Mrs. White to come and sit with you?”

“I don’t need fussing over,” he muttered. His thin shoulders lifted and fell. “Where did I fail your father, Becky?” he asked miserably. “And where did I fail Clay? My son and my grandson in trouble with the law, and that Kilpatrick man won’t stop until he’s got them both in jail. I’ve heard all about him. He’s a barracuda.”

“He’s a prosecuting attorney,” she corrected. “And he’s only doing his job. He just does it passionately, that’s all. Mr. Malcolm likes him.”

Her grandfather narrowed one eye and looked up at her. “Do you?”

She stood up. “Don’t be silly. He’s the enemy.”

“You remember that,” he said firmly, his stubborn chin jutting. “Don’t go getting soft on him. He’s no friend to this family. He did everything in his power to put Scott away.”

“You knew about that?” she asked.

He sat up straighter. “I knew. Saw no reason to tell you or the boys. It wouldn’t have helped things. Anyway, Scott beat the rap. The witness changed his mind.”

“Did he change it—or did Dad change it for him?”

He wouldn’t look at her. “Scott wasn’t a bad boy. He was just different; had a different way of looking at things. It wasn’t his fault that the law kept hounding him, no more than it’s Clay’s. That Kilpatrick man has it in for us.”

Becky started to speak and stopped. Granddad couldn’t admit that he’d made a mistake with Scott, so he certainly wasn’t going to admit that he’d made one with Clay. It wouldn’t do any good to have an argument with him over it, but it left her holding the bag and Clay’s future in her own hands. She could see that she’d get little help from Granddad now.

“Becky, whatever your father did or didn’t do, he’s still my son,” he said suddenly, clenching the chair hard with his lean old hands. “I love him. I love Clay, too.”

“I know that,” she said gently. She bent down and kissed his leathery cheek. “We’ll take care of Clay. They’re going to give him some counseling and help him,” she said, hoping she could make Clay go to the sessions without too much browbeating. “He’ll come through. He’s a Cullen.”

“That’s right. He’s a Cullen.” He smiled up at her. “You’re one, yourself. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”

“Frequently,” she said, and grinned. “When I get rich and famous, I’ll remember you.”

“We’ll never get rich, and Clay’s likely to be the only famous one of us—infamous, most likely.” He sighed. “But you’re the heart of the whole outfit. Don’t let this get you down. Life can get hard sometimes. But if you see through your troubles, think past them to better times, it helps. Always helped me.”

“I’ll remember that. I’d better get to work,” she added. “Be good. I’ll see you later.”

She drove to the office, inwardly cringing at the thought of the ordeal ahead. She had to talk to Kilpatrick. What Clay had said about Kilpatrick trying to put him in reform school frightened her. Kilpatrick might decide to pursue it, and she had to stop him from doing that. She was going to have to bury her pride and tell him the real situation at home, and she dreaded it.

Her boss gave her an hour off. She phoned the district attorney’s office on the seventh floor and asked to see the man himself. She was told that he was on his way down, to meet him at the elevator and they could talk while he got his coffee in the drugstore.

Elated that he’d deigned to at least speak to her, she grabbed her purse, straightened her flowery skirt and white blouse, and rushed out of the office.

Fortunately, the elevator was empty except for the cold-eyed Mr. Kilpatrick in his long overcoat, his thick black hair ruffled, and that eternal, infernal choking cigar in one hand. He gave her a cursory going-over that wasn’t flattering.

“You wanted to talk,” he said. “Let’s go.” He pushed the ground floor button and didn’t say a word until they walked into the small coffee shop in the drugstore. He bought her a cup of black coffee, one for himself, and a doughnut. He offered her one. But she was too sick to accept it.

They sat down at a corner table and he studied her quietly while he sipped his coffee. Her hair was in its usual bun, her face devoid of makeup. She looked as she felt—washed out and depressed.

“No cutting remarks about my cigar?” he prompted with a raised eyebrow. “No running commentary on my manners?”

She lifted her wan face and stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. “Mr. Kilpatrick, my life is falling apart, and I don’t care very much about your cigar smoke or your manners or anything else.”

“What did your father say when you told him about your brother?”

She was tired of the pretense. It was time to lay her cards on the table. “I haven’t seen or heard from my father in two years.”

He frowned. “What about your mother?”

“She died when the boys were young, when I was sixteen.”

“Who takes care of them?” he persisted. “Your grandfather?”

“Our grandfather has a bad heart,” she said. “He isn’t able to take care of himself, much less anyone else. We live with him and take care of him as best we can.”

His big hand hit the table, shaking it. “Are you telling me that you’re taking care of the three of them by yourself?!” he demanded.

She didn’t like the look on his dark face. She moved back a little. “Yes.”

“My God! On your salary?”

“Granddad has a farm,” she told him. “We grow our own vegetables and I put them up in the freezer and can some. We usually raise a beef steer, too, and Granddad gets a pension from the railroad and his social security. We get by.”

“How old are you?”

She glared at him. “That’s none of your business.”

“You’ve just made it my business. How old?”

“Twenty-four.”

“You were how old when your mother died?”

“Sixteen.”

He took a draw from the cigar and turned his head to blow it out. His dark eyes cut into hers, and she knew now exactly how it felt to sit on the witness stand and be grilled by him. It was impossible not to tell him what he wanted to know. That piercing stare and cold voice full of authority would have extracted information from a garden vegetable. “Why isn’t your father taking care of his own family?”

“I wish I knew,” she replied. “But he never has. He only comes around when he runs out of money. I guess he’s got enough; we haven’t seen him since he moved to Alabama.”

He studied her face quietly for a long time, until her knees went weak at the intensity of the scrutiny. He was so dark, she thought, and that navy pin-striped suit made him look even taller and more elegant. His Indian ancestry was dominant in that lean face, although he seemed to have the temperament of the Irish.

“No wonder you look the way you do,” he said absently. “Worn out. I thought at first it might be a demanding lover, but it’s overwork.”

She colored furiously and glared at him.

“That insults you, does it?” he asked, his deep voice going even deeper. “But you yourself told me that you were a kept woman,” he reminded her dryly.

“I lied,” she said, moving restlessly. “Anyway, I’ve got enough problems without loose living to add to them,” she said stiffly.

“I see. You’re one of those girls. The kind mothers throw under the wheels of their sons’ cars.”

“Nobody will ever throw me under yours, I hope,” she said. “I wouldn’t have you on a half shell with cocktail sauce.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked, lifting his chin to smile at her with pure sarcasm. “Has someone told you that I’m a half-breed?”

She flushed. “I didn’t mean that. You’re a very cold man, Mr. Kilpatrick,” she said, and shivered at his nearness. He smelled of some exotic cologne and cigar smoke, and she could feel the heat from his body. He made her nervous and weak and uncertain, and it was dangerous to feel that way about the enemy.

“I’m not cold. I’m careful.” He lifted the cigar to his mouth. “It pays to be careful these days. In every way.”

“So they say.”

“In which case, it might be wise if you stopped smearing honey over the mystery man who keeps you. You did say,” he reminded her, “that you were the kept woman of one of your employers?”

“I didn’t mean it,” she protested. “You were looking at me as if I were totally hopeless. It just came out, that’s all.”

“I should have mentioned it to Bob Malcolm yesterday,” he murmured.

“You wouldn’t!” she groaned.

“Of course I would,” he returned easily. “Hasn’t anyone told you that I don’t have a heart? I’d prosecute my own mother, they say.”

“I could believe that, after yesterday.”

“Your brother is going to be a lost cause if you don’t get him in hand,” he told her. “I came down on him hard for that reason. He needs firm guidance. Most of all, he needs a man’s example. God help you if your father is his hero.”

“I don’t know how Clay feels about Dad,” she said honestly. “He won’t talk to me anymore. He resents me. I wanted to talk to you because I wanted you to understand the situation at home. I thought it might help if you knew something about his background.”

He nibbled the doughnut with strong white teeth and swallowed it down with coffee. “You thought it might soften me, in other words.” His dark eyes pinned hers. “I’m part Indian. There’s no softness in me. Prejudice beat it out a long time ago.”

“You’re a little bit Irish, too,” she said hesitantly. “And your people are well-to-do. Surely, that made it easier.”

“Did it?” His smile was no smile at all. “I was unique, certainly. An oddity. The money made my path a little easier. It didn’t remove the obstacles, or my uncle, who tolerated me because he was sterile and I was the last of the Kilpatricks. God, he hated that. To top it all off, my father never married my mother.”

“Oh, you’re...” She stopped dead and flushed.

“Illegitimate.” He nodded and gave her a cold, mocking smile. “That’s right.” He stared at her, waiting, daring her to say something. When she didn’t, he laughed mirthlessly. “No comment?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she replied.

He finished his coffee. “We don’t get to pick and choose, and that’s a fact.” He reached out a lean, dark hand devoid of jewelry and gently touched her thin face. “Make sure your brother gets that counseling. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions about him.”

The unexpected apology from such a man as Kilpatrick brought tears into her eyes. She turned her face away, ashamed to show weakness to him, of all people. But his reaction was immediate and a little shocking.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said curtly. He got her to her feet, purse and all, put the refuse in the appropriate container, and hustled her out of the coffee shop and into one of the elevators standing open and empty.

He closed the doors and started it, then stopped it suddenly between floors. He jerked her completely into his arms, and held her there gently but firmly. “Let go,” he said gruffly at her temple. “You’ve been holding it in ever since the boy was arrested. Let it go. I’ll hold you while you cry.”

Sympathy was something she’d had very little of in her life. There had never been arms to hold her, to comfort her. She’d always done the holding, the giving. Not even her grandfather had realized just how vulnerable she was. But Kilpatrick saw through her mask, as if she wasn’t even wearing one.

Tears tumbled from her eyes, down her cheeks, and she heard his deep voice, murmuring soft words of comfort while his hands smoothed her hair, his arm cradled her against his huge chest. She clung to the lapels of his coat, thinking how odd it was that she should find compassion in such an unlikely place.

He was warm and strong, and it was so nice for once to let someone else take the burden, to be helpless and feminine. She let her body relax into his, let him take her weight, and an odd sensation swept through her. She felt as if her blood had coals of fire in it. Something uncoiled deep in her stomach and stretched, and she felt a tightening in herself that had nothing to do with muscles.

Because it shocked her that she should feel such a sudden and unwanted attraction to this man, she lifted her head and started to move away. But his dark eyes were above hers when she looked up, and he didn’t look away.

Electricity burned between them for one long, exquisite second. She felt as if it had knocked the breath out of her, but if he felt anything similar, it didn’t show in that poker face.

But, in fact, he was shaken, too. The look in her eyes was familiar to him, but it was a new look for her and he knew it. If ever a woman’s innocence could be seen, hers could. She intrigued him, excited him. Odd, when she was so totally different from the hard, sophisticated women he preferred. She was vulnerable and feminine despite her strength. He wanted to take her long hair down and open her blouse and show her how it felt to be a woman in his arms. And that thought was what made him put her gently but firmly away.

“Are you all right now?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. I’m...I’m sorry,” she said unsteadily. She felt his lean hands pushing her from him, and it was like being cut apart suddenly. She wanted to cling. Perhaps it was the novelty, she tried to tell herself. She pushed back the wisps of hair that had escaped her bun, noticing the faint dark stains of his tan overcoat. “I’ve left spots on your coat.”

“They’ll dry. Here.” He pressed a handkerchief into her hands and watched her dry her eyes. He found himself admiring her strength of will, her courage. She had taken on more responsibility than most men ever would, and was bearing up under it with enormous success.

Her face came up finally, and her red eyes searched his broad face. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

She managed a watery smile. “Shouldn’t we start the elevator up again?”

“I guess so. They’ll think it’s broken and send repair crews along.” He snapped his wrist up and looked at the thin gold watch buried in thick hair over deeply tanned skin. “And I’ve got court in an hour.” He started the elevator up, preoccupied now.

“I’ll bet you’re terrible across a courtroom,” she murmured.

“I get by.” He stopped the elevator at the sixth floor, his eyes faintly kind as he studied her. “Don’t brood. You’ll make wrinkles.”

“On my face, who’d notice?” She sighed. “Thanks again. Have a nice day.”

“I’ll manage.” He pushed the “up” button and was lifting the cigar to his mouth again when the doors swallowed him up. Becky turned and went down the hall in a daze. It was unreal that Kilpatrick had said something nice to her. Perhaps she was still asleep and dreaming it.

And she wasn’t the only one feeling that way. She wore on Kilpatrick all day. He went to court and had to forcibly put her from his mind. God knew how she’d managed to get under his skin so easily. He was thirty-five years old and one bad experience with a woman had encapsulated him in solid ice. His women came and went, but his heart was impregnable, until this plain little spinster with her pale freckled face and wounded hazel eyes had started fencing with him verbally in the elevator. He’d actually come to look forward to their matches, enjoying the way she faintly teased him, the pert way she walked, and the light in her eyes when she laughed.

Amazing that she still could laugh, with the responsibility she carried. She fascinated him. He remembered the feel of her body in his arms while she cried, and a tautness stirred limbs that had banished feeling. Or so he thought.

The one thing he was certain of was that she wouldn’t be a tease. She had a basic honesty and depth of compassion that would prevent her from deliberately trying to kill a man’s pride. He scowled, remembering how Francine had created feverish hungers in his body and then laughed as she withheld herself, and taunted him for his weakness. The rumor was that she’d run away to South America with their law clerk, reneging on their engagement. The truth was that he’d found her in bed with one of her girlfriends, and that was when he had understood her pleasure in tormenting him. She had even admitted that she hated the whole male sex. She wouldn’t have him under any conditions, she’d said. She was only playing him along, enjoying his pain.

He hadn’t known such women existed. Thank God he hadn’t loved her, or the experience might have killed his heart. At any rate, it kept him aloof from women. His pride was lacerated by what she’d done to him. He couldn’t afford to lose control like that again, to want a woman to the point of madness.

On the other hand, that Cullen woman was giving him fits! He only realized how blackly he was scowling when the witness he was cross-examining began to blurt out details he hadn’t even asked for. The poor man had thought the scowl was meant for him, and he wasn’t taking any chances. Kilpatrick interrupted his monologue and asked the questions he needed the answers to before he went back to his seat. The black defense attorney, one J. Lincoln Davis, was laughing helplessly behind some papers. He was older than Kilpatrick—a big man with café au lait skin, dark eyes, and a ready wit. He was one of Curry Station’s richest attorneys, and arguably the best around. He was the only adversary Kilpatrick had been beaten by in recent years.

“Where were you in court?” Davis asked him in a whisper after the jury had retired. “God, you had that poor man tied in knots, and he was your own witness!”

Kilpatrick smiled faintly as he gathered his material into his attaché case. “I drifted off,” he murmured.

“That’s a first. We ought to hang a plaque or something. See you tomorrow.”

He nodded absently. For the first time, he’d lost his concentration in court. And all because of a skinny secretary with a mane of tawny hair.

He should be thinking about her brother. He’d had a long talk with his investigator at lunch, and there were some solid rumors that a drug-related hit was about to go down. Kilpatrick was working on a case involving crack peddling. He had two witnesses, and his first thought was that they might be the targets. The investigator had said that he was fairly certain Clay Cullen was involved somehow with the dealers because of his friendship with the Harrises. If the boy had that much crack on him, was it possible that he was starting to deal it?

Having to prosecute the boy wouldn’t really bother him, but he thought of Rebecca and that did. How would she react to having her brother in jail and knowing that Kilpatrick had put him there? He had to stop thinking like that. Prosecuting criminals was his job. He couldn’t let personal feelings get in the way. He only had a few months to go as district attorney. He had to make them count.

He went back to his office deep in thought. Would the drug dealers risk obvious murder to keep their territory intact? If they started blowing up people in his district, it was going to fall to him to get the goods on the perpetrators and send them away. He scowled, hoping that Rebecca Cullen’s brother wasn’t going to wind up back in his office as part of that fight over drug territory.

Rebecca was going through the motions of working herself. She typed mechanically, doing briefs on the electronic typewriter while Nettie fed precedents for another case into the computer. Nettie was a paralegal, qualified to do legwork for the attorneys as well as secretarial work. Becky envied her, but she couldn’t afford the training that was required for paralegal status, even though it would have meant a salary increase.

She was worried about Granddad. His silence at breakfast had been disturbing. She phoned Mrs. White at lunch and asked the widowed lady to go over to the house and check on him. Mrs. White was always willing to look in on the old gentleman when she was needed. Besides that, she was a retired nurse, and Becky thanked her lucky stars for such a good neighbor.

If only Clay would straighten himself out, she thought. It was enough work trying to raise the boys without having to get them out of jail. Mack adored his older brother. If Clay kept it up, it might be only a matter of time before Mack emulated him.

It was quitting time almost before she realized it. She’d had a busy day, and had been grateful for it. Slow days gave her too much time to think.

She gathered up her purse and worn gray jacket and said her good-byes. The elevator would be full at this time of day, she thought, her heartbeat increasing as she went down the hall. Probably, Mr. Kilpatrick was still upstairs working, anyway.

But he wasn’t. He was in the elevator when she got on it, and he smiled at her. She couldn’t know that he’d timed it exactly, knowing when she got off and hoping that he’d encounter her. Amazing, he thought cynically, how ridiculously he was behaving because of this woman.

She smiled back, feeling her heart drop suddenly, and not from the motion of the elevator.

He got off with her on the ground floor and strode along beside her as if he had nothing better to do.

“Feeling better?” he asked as he held open the door for her on the way to the street.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. She’d never felt so shy and speechless in all her life. She glanced up at him and blushed like a girl.

He liked that telltale sign. It made his spirits lift. “I lost a case today,” he remarked absently. “The jurors thought I was deliberately badgering a witness and threw their decision in the defense’s favor.”

“Were you?”

“Badgering him?” His wide mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. “No. My mind was somewhere else and he got in the way.”

She knew that black glare of his very well. She could certainly understand how a witness might feel under its pressure.

Her hands clutched her purse. “I’m sorry you lost your case.”

He stopped on the sidewalk, towering over her, and looked down at her thoughtfully. He hesitated, wondering what kind of chain reaction he might start if he asked her out. He was crazy, he told himself shortly, to even contemplate such a thing. He couldn’t afford to get involved in her life.

“How did your grandfather take the news?” he asked instead.

She was disappointed. She’d expected a different question, but it was probably just wishful thinking. Why would he want to take out someone like her? She knew she wasn’t his type. Besides, her family would raise the roof—especially Granddad.

She managed a smile. “He took it on the chin,” she said. “We’re a tough lot, we Cullens.”

“Make sure you know where that boy is for the next few days,” he said suddenly. He took her arm and drew her to the wall, wary of passersby. “We’ve had a tip that something is going down in the city—a hit, maybe. We don’t know who or when or how, but we’re pretty sure it’s drug-related. There are two factions fighting for dominance in the distribution sector. The Harris brothers are involved. If they tried to use your brother as a scapegoat, considering the trouble he’s already in...” He left the rest unsaid.

She shivered. “It’s like walking a tightrope,” she said. “I don’t mind looking out for my kin, but I never expected anything like drugs and murder.” She shifted, wrapping her coat closer around her. Her eyes lifted to his, briefly vulnerable. “It’s so hard sometimes,” she whispered.

His breath caught. She made him feel a foot taller when she looked at him that way. “Have you ever had a normal life?”

She smiled. “When I was a little girl, I guess. Not since Mother died. It’s been me and Granddad and the boys.”

“No social life, I guess.”

“Something always came up—a virus, the mumps, chicken pox. Granddad’s heart.” She laughed softly. “There wasn’t exactly a stampede to my door, anyway.” She looked down at her handbag. “It isn’t a bad life. I’m needed. I have a purpose. So many people don’t.”

He felt that way about his work—that it was necessary and fulfilled him. But with the exception of his German shepherd, he felt no real emotions except anger and indignation. No love. His whole work experience was based on moral justice, protection of the masses, and conviction of the guilty. A noble purpose, perhaps, but a lonely calling. And until recently, he hadn’t realized how lonely.

“I suppose,” he murmured absently. His eyes were on her soft mouth. It was a perfect bow, palest pink, with a delicate look that made him ache to feel it under his mouth.

She glanced up, puzzled by his frank stare. “Is it my freckles?” she blurted out.

His thick eyebrows lifted and he met her gaze with a smile. “What?”

“You seemed to be brooding,” she murmured. “I thought maybe my freckles made you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have them, but there’s just a hint of red in my hair. My grandmother was a flaming redhead.”

“Do you take after your parents?”

“My father is blond,” she said, “and hazel-eyed. We look a lot alike. My mother was small and dark, and none of us favored her.”

“I like freckles,” he said, catching her off guard. He checked his watch. “I’ve got to get home. The Atlanta Symphony is doing Stravinsky tonight. I don’t want to miss it.”

“The Firebird?” Becky asked.

He smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Most people hate it.”

“I love it,” she said. “I’ve got two recordings of it—one avant garde and one traditional. I have to listen to it with earphones. My grandfather likes old Hank Williams records and both my brothers are into hard rock. I’m a throwback.”

“Do you like opera?”

“Madame Butterfly and Turandot and Carmen.” She sighed. “And I love to listen to Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti.”

“I saw Turandot at the Met last year,” he remarked. His dark eyes searched her face warmly. “Do you watch those specials on public television?”

“When I can get the television to myself,” she said. “We only have one, and it’s small.”

“They made a movie of Carmen with Domingo,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

“Is it good?”

“If you like opera, it’s great.” He searched her eyes slowly, wondering why it was so difficult to stop talking and say good night. She was pretty in a shy kind of way, and she made his blood sing in his veins.

She stared back at him, weak in the knees. This happened so quickly, she thought, and even as she was thinking it her mind was denying her the chance of any kind of relationship with him. He was the enemy. Now, of all times, she couldn’t afford weakness. She had to remember that Kilpatrick was out to get her brother. It would be disloyal to her family to let anything happen. But her heart was fighting that logic. She was alone and lonely, and she’d sacrificed the best part of her youth for her family. Did she deserve nothing for herself?

“Deep thoughts?” he asked softly, watching the expressions cross her face.

“Deep and dark,” she replied. Her lips parted on unsteady breaths. He was looking at her just as she imagined a man might look at a woman he wanted. It thrilled her, excited her, and scared her to death.

He saw the fear first. He felt it, too. He didn’t want involvement any more than she did, and now was the time to cut this off.

He straightened. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Keep an eye on your brother.”

“I will. Thanks for warning me,” she said.

He shrugged. He pulled out a cigar and lit it as he walked away, his broad back as impenetrable as a wall.

Becky wondered why he’d bothered to stop and talk to her. Could he really be interested in a woman like her?

She caught a glimpse of herself in a window as she walked toward the underground garage where her car was kept. Oh, sure, she thought, seeing the thin, wan-looking face that stared back at her. She was just the kind of woman who would attract such a devastatingly handsome man. She rolled her eyes and went on to her car, putting her hopeless daydreams behind her.