Night Fever (11 page)

C
lay was still lying in bed the next morning when Becky stuck her head in the boys' room to remind him to get up. Mack was already at the table, eating pancakes as fast as Becky could cook them, but Clay mumbled something about a stomachache and wouldn't get up.

“Do you need me to take you to the doctor?” she asked, frowning.

“No. I'll be fine. Granddad's here,” he reminded her.

She sighed. Fat lot of good that would do, when he could hardly get from bed to the living room by himself. But she didn't argue. Clay had been quiet since she'd mentioned Kilpatrick's close call. She didn't understand why, unless it was because he'd wished something terrible on the D.A.

“Well, take care of yourself,” she said firmly, and closed the door. She went back to the kitchen, wishing she knew more about teenagers.

“You look nice,” Mack said unexpectedly.

Her eyebrows rose. She was wearing an old red plaid skirt with a white blouse and black pullover sweater, and her long hair was pulled back in a neat bun. “Me?” she asked.

He grinned. “You.”

She bent and kissed his cheek. “You'll be a lady-killer in four more years,” she assured him.

“Monster killer,” he corrected. “I hate girls.”

She pursed her lips. “I'll remind you of that in four more years. There's the bus,” she said, nodding out the window. “Get cracking.”

“What about Clay?” He hesitated at the back door, his eyes worried. “Is he okay?”

“He's got a bellyache,” she said. “He'll be fine.”

Mack hesitated again, then shrugged and went out the door.

Becky hadn't thought a lot about it that morning, but it haunted her all day at work.

“Problems?” Maggie asked gently as they got things put away in time for lunch.

“Always, these days, it seems,” Becky said with a sigh. “My brother's home with an upset stomach. Seventeen, and already in trouble with the law. I don't know what I'm doing wrong. He's so difficult!”

“All boys are difficult, in various degrees,” the older woman assured her. “I raised two of my own, but they were Ivy League kids, I guess,” she added with a warm smile. “You know, chess club, band, drama club—that kind of kid. Thank God they never had wild streaks.”

“Thank God is right. My brother Mack is like that. But Clay makes up for him, I'm sorry to say.”

“It's been quiet today,” Maggie noted. “Nice not to have bomb squads crawling all over the building.”

Becky nodded, glancing at the brown bag she'd brought along. It contained a lemon pound cake she'd baked for Kilpatrick. She'd dithered all morning, wondering how she was going to get up enough nerve to give it to him. She thought he needed a little pampering after his upset yesterday, and losing his dog.

“You'd better go ahead,” Maggie said absently. “It's ten minutes to twelve, but I'm going a little later today so that I can meet one of my ex-husband's sisters for lunch. Incredible how well I get along with his family after all this time.” She shook her head. “Pity I couldn't get along with him.”

“I'll be back by one,” Becky promised, grateful for being allowed to leave early. Maybe she could give the cake to Kilpatrick's secretary without saying who it came from.

“Sure,” Maggie said. She noticed the brown bag, but she didn't say a word. She just smiled as Becky left the office.

Becky was sure she looked her absolute worst. She pushed two stray wisps of hair back into her bun, but it was trying to come down because her fingers had worried it so much this morning. Her skirt was askew and there was a run in one leg of her panty hose. She paused at Kilpatrick's office door and almost turned around and ran. Then she realized that her appearance was going to be the least of his worries, so she opened the door and went in.

His secretary looked up from her desk and smiled. “Hi. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Becky said, taking the opportunity to avoid a confrontation. Her heart was beating in her ribs as it was, and her nerve was gone. She put the sack on the desk. “It's some lemon pound cake,” she blurted out. “For him.”

An investigator, a paralegal, and three assistant district attorneys were in the office, all male, but the secretary knew who Becky meant. “He'll appreciate it,” she told the younger woman. “He's partial to cake. It was nice of you.”

“I was sorry about his dog,” Becky murmured. “I had a dog myself. The mailman ran over him last year. I'd better go.”

“He'll want to thank you…”

“No need. No need at all,” Becky said, smiling as she backed toward the door. “Have a nice…oops!”

Her back collided with a tall, strong body. Big, lean hands, very dark, caught her arms, and a deep voice chuckled behind her.

“What have you done now?” he asked. “Robbed a bank? Held up a grocery store? Are you here to plea-bargain?”

“Yes, sir.” His secretary grinned at him. “She brought you a bribe. Lemon pound cake.” She leaned forward. “It smells delicious. I'd settle out of court, if I were you.”

“Good idea, Mrs. Delancy,” he replied. “I'm taking you into protective custody, Miss Cullen. We'll discuss terms at the nearest café.”

“But…” Becky began.

It was no good protesting. He was already guiding her out the door. “I'll be back in at one,” he told Mrs. Delancy.

“Yes, sir.”

Kilpatrick was wearing a cream and tan sports coat with tan slacks, and he looked twice as tall as usual as he guided her to the elevator, his eternal smoking cigar in his hand. “Nice of you to bake me a cake. Is it a bribe, or do you just think I'm undernourished?” he asked with a faint smile as he hit the “down” button with a big fist.

“I thought you might have a sweet tooth,” she replied. She was still tense, but being with him was like going on the wild rides at a carnival. She felt as if she glowed. She glanced up at him, her big hazel eyes radiant. “I guess you're probably a better cook than I am.”

“Because I live alone?” He shook his head. “I can't boil water. I buy things at the deli and heat them up. Someday I'm going to have to break down and hire another housekeeper, before I poison myself.”

She studied him covertly while they waited for the slow ascent of the elevator. He looked all right. Amazing that he could walk away from a car bombing and look so cool and collected. “Were you in the armed forces?” she asked absently.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Marine Corps,” he said. “Does it show?”

She smiled. “You don't get rattled very easily.”

He stuck the cigar in his mouth and stared down at her. “Neither do you, as a rule. Living with two brothers, you've probably had advanced combat training.”

“Living with my brothers feels like it,” she agreed. “Clay, especially.”

He had to bite his tongue not to ask questions. He averted his eyes to the elevator as it arrived. He put Becky inside, making room for the two of them, because it was crowded with office workers heading to lunch.

Becky was crushed backwards. She felt his lean arm snake around her with delicious subtlety, drawing her back so that she leaned against his hard, broad chest. She could feel him breathing against her, smell the cigar smoke and cologne that clung to him. Her knees went weak, so it was a good thing that the elevator went straight down without stopping. It was almost a relief to get off on the ground floor.

“Does the café suit you today?” he asked. “We could drive across town.”

“But, your car!” she said and stopped dead, her face paling as she realized how close a call he'd had.

He paused and lifted an eyebrow, searching her wide eyes. “My car was a total loss, but the insurance payments were current, thank God. It will be replaced. I'm driving a city car right now. It's not the flashy piece of metal my own was, but it's comfortable and functional.”

She lowered her eyes to his chest and swallowed. “I'm glad you smoke cigars, Rourke.”

His lean hand smoothed down the worn sleeve of her white blouse. “So am I,” he said hesitantly. His fingers clenched suddenly, enclosing her arm in a warm, rough grasp. He towered over her, so close in the hallway leading to the café that she could feel the heat and power of his body all the way to her toes. “Say my name!” he said huskily.

“Rourke.” It came out as a breathless whisper. She looked up, then, and the world narrowed to the darkness of his eyes in a face like honed steel. “Rourke.” She said it again, achingly.

His gaze fell suddenly to her mouth and his jaw clenched. The hand on her arm bit into it until he turned suddenly and drew her along with him toward the line forming at the café door. “I can't imagine how you've escaped being ravished on the lobby floor.”

Her eyes widened. She wasn't sure she'd heard him.

He glanced down at her and laughed in spite of himself at the look on her face. “You don't understand, do you?” he mused, lifting the cigar to his lips. “You have the sexiest damned eyes I've ever seen. Bedroom eyes. Long lashes with golden tips and a way of looking up at me that makes me want to…” He shook his head. “Never mind.” He looked over her head. “Looks like fish and liver and fried chicken,” he murmured to change the subject. His body was tautening in a way that made him uncomfortable.

“I hate liver,” she murmured.

“So do I.”

She made a face as the cigar fired up curls of smoke.

“Did you know that there's a city ordinance against smoking down here?” she asked him.

“Sure. I'm a lawyer,” he reminded her. “They teach us stuff like that at law school.”

“You're not just a lawyer, you're the county district attorney,” she replied.

“I'm setting an example,” he explained. “If there are people who don't know what smoking looks like, when they see me, they will.” He stuck the cigar between his teeth and grinned.

She laughed and shook her head. “You're just impossible!”

But when they reached the inner doors of the cafeteria, he did put out the cigar. And despite her protests, he bought her lunch. She felt guilty, because she'd added a dessert and a salad that she wouldn't have if she'd known.

“Please, you shouldn't have…” she protested as they sat down at a table for two near the window.

“Shut up. Here, let me have your tray.” He took it with his and handed it to a passing waitress, flashing a smile at her. “Now eat,” he told Becky as he picked up his fork. “I don't have time to argue with you.”

“Actually, I hate arguing,” she murmured between bits of fish.

He stopped in the middle of spearing a mouthful of salad. “You?”

“I do enough of it at home,” she explained with a rueful smile.

“There are legal ways to force your father to meet his responsibilities,” he said quietly.

“Dad is the last complication I need right now,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You can't imagine what it's like, to have him turn up and demand to be helped out of some jam. I spent my whole life doing that up until two years ago. It's been like another world since he went to Alabama. I just hope he stays there,” she said, and shivered. “I've got all I can handle.”

“You shouldn't have to handle it,” he said shortly. He put down his fork. “Look, there are social agencies…”

She touched his lean hand where it lay on the table. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it. “But my grandfather is too proud to accept any kind of help. My brothers would run away and live on the streets before they'd stay with anyone else. The farm is all we have, so I have to keep it going as best I can. I know you mean well, but there's only one way to do things, and I'm already doing it.”

“In other words,” he said bluntly, “you're trapped.”

She went white. She averted her eyes, but his hand turned over and grasped hers in its hard, warm grasp.

“You don't like the word, do you?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing as they compelled hers to meet them. “But it's the truth. You're as much a prisoner as any criminal I send to jail.”

“A prisoner of my own pride and duty and honor and loyalty,” she agreed. “My grandfather taught me that those words are the foundation of any decent upbringing.”

“And he's right,” he said. “I can't fault his teachings. But guilt is no substitute for them.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I don't stay out of guilt.”

“Don't you?” He toyed with her hand, sliding his big, strong fingers in and out of hers in an intimacy that made her tremble. His eyes came up and caught hers. “Have you ever had a love affair?”

“Even if I believed in that sort of thing, there's no time,” she began, flustered.

“You're attractive. You could have a husband and family of your own if you wanted it enough.”