Night Fever (12 page)

“I don't,” she began.

His thumb circled her damp palm sensuously. “Don't what?” he asked, his voice deep and slow and exciting. His eyes fell to her lips and lingered there until she was drowning. “You've never had a lover, Becky?” he whispered.

“No.”

He looked up, seeing the feverish reaction he'd kindled, the mingled fear and hot excitement in her face. He felt her hand tremble as his touched it. His own body clenched with a sudden fierce need. She was slender, but her breasts were firm and high and her waist small, narrowing just above flaring hips and long legs. He could imagine that she was exquisite under her clothes, and his imagination went wild as he let his gaze fall to the soft rise and fall of her chest.

“Rourke,” she groaned, flushing.

He forced his gaze back up to hers. “What?”

She tugged at her hand and he let it go with obvious reluctance. She put a mouthful of fish on her fork and almost dropped it getting it to her lips.

Kilpatrick watched her with detached satisfaction. She was vulnerable to him, all right. She was attractive and innocent, and it would be like shooting ducks in a row to win her trust.

Part of him disliked the idea of using her to get to her brother, and through him, the Harris boys. But another part was excited by her and hungry for her, and that part convinced him that he was helping to liberate her from a smothering lifestyle. After that, it was easy enough to rationalize his intentions, all the way to noble intervention. He simply refused to consider any other ideas.

“We could do this again tomorrow,” he said, leaning back in his chair to watch her. “I don't like eating alone.”

She was almost pulsating with excitement. Imagine, a man who looked like Kilpatrick actually noticing her, wanting her company! She didn't question his motives or his intentions. She was too infatuated with him to care about them. It was enough that he was interested.

“I'd like to have lunch with you,” she stammered. “Are you sure?” she added uncertainly.

He let his gaze wander over her oval face, down to her soft mouth. “Why wouldn't I be?” He scowled. “You seem to have some crazy idea that no normal man would find you attractive.”

“Well, I'm not very,” she said with a faint smile.

“You have beautiful hair and eyes,” he said. “Your figure is enchanting, and I like your sense of humor. I enjoy being around you.” He smiled wickedly. “Besides, I'm partial to lemon pound cake.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, all too ready to lighten the atmosphere. “You're allowing yourself to be bribed.”

He nodded. “That's it, exactly. I can't be bought with money, but food is another matter. A starving man and a good cook are a match any jury could understand.”

“That's in case I poison you accidentally?” she asked, all eyes.

“Of course.”

“I'll stomp my hemlock patch to death this very night,” she said, placing a hand on her heart. “I only kept it to feed traveling salesmen carrying vacuum cleaners.”

“Good girl. Eat your dessert.”

She did, but she never knew what she'd put in her mouth. She was too busy staring at Kilpatrick to notice.

She floated around the office for the rest of the day, half in and half out of her mind. Maggie noticed and teased her, and she didn't even care. Having a man notice her was so new that she could hardly believe it had actually happened.

Once she got home, she was careful not to mention Kilpatrick. It wouldn't do to borrow trouble, and she knew already how her family felt about him. Clay would hate the whole idea, and so would her grandfather. The only ally she might have was Mack, and he wouldn't be enough. She groaned inwardly as she wondered how she was going to keep her sanity and Kilpatrick.

She fed the chickens and gathered eggs with her mind only half on what she was doing. With her long, tanned legs in cutoff jeans and her breasts emphasized by the green tank top, her long hair veiling her face, she was the picture of a country girl. Her legs were her best asset, long and elegant and tanned from hours working in the sun. But her thoughts were a long way from her appearance. She was thinking about Kilpatrick and allowing herself to dream for the first time in her life.

The loud drone of an engine pulled her up short and she watched Clay climb out of a very expensive sports car, laughing as he waved off the driver.
That's not the Harris boys,
she thought, watching.
It's a girl.
His stomachache had improved pretty rapidly! She glared toward him with pure rage.

Clay was walking toward the house when he spotted Becky. He hesitated and then joined her. He was wearing designer jeans and a designer shirt. Becky caught her breath.

“A stomachache, wasn't it?” she asked icily. “And where in the world did you get those clothes?”

“My clothes?” he murmured. His mind was on Francine and the fever that was burning between them. They were getting real thick now that he had some neat clothes and a little pocket money, but he'd blown it by letting Becky see the clothes. Now she was going to give him hell about them. Not to mention the bigger trouble he was in for laying out of school again.

“Designer clothes,” she said heavily. “Oh, Clay!”

“I got them on time,” he said, thinking fast. “I've got a part-time job working nights at a convenience store in Atlanta,” he added. “That's where I've been. I wanted to surprise you.”

She studied him with patent disbelief. Clay didn't like work. She couldn't even get him to clean up his room, so this revelation came as just a little too much of a surprise. “Really?” she asked. “Exactly where are you working?”

He couldn't think of a quick reply. He wondered if Mack had spilled the beans, and decided probably not, or Becky would be doing more than guessing. He'd held his breath over that, because he'd really put some pressure on his brother. But Mack wouldn't give an inch, so Clay had found himself another contact at the elementary school. Now the Harrises had a real business going over there. Clay hadn't allowed himself to feel any guilt. After all, the kids were going to get the crack anyway, so they might as well get it from him as anybody else. And it wasn't as if he was actually dealing. He just handed the stuff out to the dealers. That was his only part of the action. He couldn't get in any real trouble.

“What does it matter where?” he asked belligerently. “Now that I can afford good clothes, I've got a girl.”

Becky stiffened. “Listen, buster,” she said, lifting her head, “a girl who looks at the cost of your clothes before she looks at what's inside them isn't a girl you want.”

“Baloney!” he shot back with narrowed eyes and a reddening face. “Girls look at that sort of thing! Francine wouldn't even talk to me before, and now she's asking me for dates!”

“The lady in the fancy sports car?” Becky asked.

“Yes, if it's any of your business,” he said icily.

“If?! Who got you out of jail?” she demanded, glaring at him. “As long as you live here, everything you do is my business. And I want to know more about this job of yours.”

“Dammit, that's enough! I'm going to pack my stuff and get out!”

“Fine!” She emptied the feed bowl on the ground. “Go ahead. I'll tell Kilpatrick you've welshed on the bargain to remain in my custody and you can damned well go to jail!”

He sucked in his breath. That didn't sound like sweet, forgiving Becky. His eyes almost popped.

“I'm sick of you,” she continued, almost shaking with pent-up rage. “I've given you and Mack and Granddad all my attention, all my free time, for what seems forever. And what have I got to show for it? One brother who lays out of school, half in and half out of prison, another one who thinks homework is done by elves, and a grandfather who wants to dictate who I spend my spare time with! Not to mention a father with no sense of honor at all!”

“Becky!” Clay exclaimed.

“Well, you can go to hell,” she raged at him. “You and your dope-peddling friends can land yourselves in prison and get yourselves out, as well!”

Tears were pouring down her cheeks. Clay felt helpless and guilty and angry all at once. He couldn't think of anything to say.

He let out a furious curse and stormed off toward the house.

“Where do you think you're going now?” she demanded, beyond trying to reason with him.

“Make a guess!” he ground out over his shoulder.

She slammed the bowl down in the dirt, shaking with rage. He was just too much for her to handle. Everything was too much these days. Now he was going to upset Granddad and she'd have her hands full listening to him rage for the rest of the night. She hoped he didn't have another heart attack in the process. If only she could throw up her hands and go away, just drop it all in somebody else's lap and quit. But life wasn't that simple. She shouldn't have started accusing Clay the minute she opened her mouth, but he had no business laying out of school, running around with girls in expensive sports cars, and wearing designer clothes when she could hardly afford to buy seconds for the rest of the family on her salary. Clay had expensive tastes and now she was going to worry herself sick wondering how he was feeding them.

She picked up the bowl she'd slammed to the ground, amazed that the heavy stoneware hadn't broken. She wouldn't have cared much, in her present mood. If only there was someone she could go to for help—someone who could advise her on how to handle Clay before he did get into so much trouble that he couldn't be saved.

But there is someone,
she thought, stopping in her tracks. There was Kilpatrick, who'd invited her out to lunch again and who seemed to actually care a little bit about her. He enjoyed her company, at any rate, and that had to mean he'd be willing to listen to her problems.

She wouldn't impose on him, either, she promised herself, brightening as she thought about asking him for advice. He'd dealt with problem kids before, and surely he wouldn't mind telling her what he thought. If Clay didn't like it, that was just too bad. Maybe it was time Clay had a little less indulgence and a lot more responsibility.

By the time she had supper on the table, Clay had vanished out the front door without a word. Becky didn't mention it. Mack and Granddad seemed as disinclined to talk about Clay as she did, so the conversation stayed off the topic. Bedtime came, but Clay didn't return. Becky lay awake, wondering where she'd gone wrong with him. The only positive thing was that he'd sobered up lately. Maybe it was a good sign.

K
ilpatrick picked Becky up at her office for lunch, causing raised eyebrows all over the floor. He smiled gently at her faint embarrassment while his dark eyes slid down her slender body, admiring her flowered shirtwaist dress and loose hairstyle. She looked younger and prettier than ever; the soft flush of her cheeks gave her a new radiance.

“Not as easy as you thought it would be?” he asked, glancing back toward one of the secretaries, who was blatantly staring after them. “I don't have a steady date,” he added. “Consequently, when I start taking a lady out to lunch, people notice.”

“Oh.” She was lost for words. She'd wondered if he had a mistress or the significant other of modern life, but she'd been afraid to ask, in case he had. Now she was stunned to find how much it mattered to her that he didn't.

She was still analyzing her attitude when they sat down in the café with their trays. She glanced up as he emptied his and put it aside with her own. He was so handsome. He caught her watching him and smiled faintly.

“How are things going with you?” he asked casually as he started on his salad.

“All right,” she lied. She smiled, forcing herself not to cry on his shoulder about Clay. She could handle it. To mention such a thing might make him think there were ulterior motives in her interest in him. He might even believe that she was chasing him on Clay's behalf. She couldn't let that happen—not at this fragile stage of their relationship. “How about you?” she asked. “Have you…well, have you found out who tried to kill you?”

His dark eyes narrowed slightly as they searched hers. “Not yet,” he said after a minute. “But I will.” He lifted a forkful of salad to his mouth.

She thought about what a close call he'd had and shivered. He saw the faint movement and misunderstood it for fear because of what he'd said. He wondered how deeply her brother was involved and how much she knew. Perhaps if he could win her trust, she might tell him one day.

“The pound cake was good,” he said unexpectedly, and smiled. “I thought it would last at least a week, but I finished it off last night.”

“All of it?” she exclaimed and stopped as she realized how it would sound.

He laughed, though, not taking offense. “What was left of it,” he corrected. “My secretary and my investigator got into it while I was in court.” He leaned forward. “In fact, I understand that Mrs. Delancy actually used a slice of it to entice her husband into a compromising situation.”

“I'm shocked!” she said, biting back a grin.

“Well, it was a rather exquisite morsel,” he said. He finished his salad.

“I'm glad you and the people in your office liked it,” she said with a smile. She toyed with her own salad. “Are you safe now?” she asked, her voice unsteady as she forced the question out. She lifted eyes that gave away more of her fears than she realized. “They won't try again?”

“I don't think so,” he replied, meeting her eyes. “It's made every local newspaper and television station, and was even picked up by the national wire services. Hit men, even unprofessional ones, don't like that kind of heat. They'll lie low until the publicity dies down, at least.”

“Maybe by then you'll have caught them,” she said fervently.

“Worried about me, Becky?” he asked with a lazy grin.

“Yes,” she said honestly. Her big hazel eyes searched his, and there was a wan look to her cheeks. “You do look under your hood, at least, don't you?”

“When I think about it,” he murmured dryly. “Stop looking like that. I'm not suicidal.”

“Going after drug dealers certainly is that,” she said stubbornly. “I was reading this article in
National Geographic
about some drug lord overseas who killed off everybody who tried to stop his operation. He had billions of dollars. How do you fight somebody with that kind of money and power?”

“The best way is to attack the reason people use drugs,” he said seriously. “The market exists because of the pressure of living. People have to have an escape. Crack is cheap—about fifty dollars for half an ounce, compared to fifteen hundred dollars an ounce for cocaine, street level. It's more expensive than booze, but it's the in thing right now. Marijuana is dirt cheap on the streets, and it wards off the nausea of too much beer or wine.” He sighed. “Prohibition didn't stop the sale of alcohol. You have to cut the demand in order to affect the market.” His dark eyes narrowed. “How do you help a kid cope with an alcoholic father who beats his mother, or a kid whose mother or father sexually abuses him? How do you put food in the bellies of a family of five supported by a mother who works in a garment factory? How do you bail out a family on relief when they can't afford transportation to a job? How do you get a homeless man off the streets and out of the cardboard box he's living in? We're talking about hopelessness, Becky. People who can't bear reality have to have a way out. Some people read books, some people watch movies, some people watch TV. A larger number turn to a bottle or a coke spoon. The pressure of modern life is just too damned much for a segment of society. When the pressure gets too much, they break out. That's when they fall into my lap.”

“By using drugs, you mean,” she said.

“By doing what it takes to afford drugs,” he corrected. “Even the nicest people will steal to support a hundred-dollar-a-day habit.”

“A hundred dollars a day!” she burst out, horrified.

“That's a small habit,” he said gently. “It can go as high as a thousand a day for somebody who's really addicted.”

Becky felt the nausea rise in her throat. She knew that Clay had used coke, because he'd told her he had. She didn't think he was still using it, but she wondered if he was selling it to afford those designer clothes.

“Do dealers make a lot of money—small-time dealers, I mean?” she asked hesitantly.

“If you mean the Harris boys, that Corvette Son drives should tell you what kind of money they're into.”

“I've seen it,” she said wearily. “Cocaine is terribly addictive, isn't it?” she asked, thinking about the people it was sold to. She was almost certain that Clay was cold sober these days.

He pursed his lips. “Do you know how an alcoholic behaves?”

“Sort of,” she admitted, because she'd seen Clay when he was drunk once or twice. “They giggle and act odd, their eyes are bloodshot, and they slur their words.”

“That's about the size of it.”

“Can it be cured?” she asked.

“In the early stages, but the cure rate isn't reassuring. Addiction isn't easy to face or defeat.” He toyed with his coffee mug, searching her face. “It's better not to start.”

She hesitated. “I'm sure it is,” she said. “Do little children get addicted, just like adults?” she added.

“Some of them are actually born addicted,” he said quietly. “It's a hell of a world, isn't it, when parents care that little about their own children?”

“It's an even worse one when they sell that stuff to grammar school children. Mack said they actually searched lockers at his school and found crack.”

He glanced at her sharply. “There's something of a turf war going on there,” he replied. “Marijuana dealers slugging it out with much tougher crack dealers.”

“Oh, lord.” Her nails were picking at her napkin, almost shredding it. His lean hand came out and covered them, dark against the soft pink of her nails.

“Let's find something more cheerful to talk about.”

She forced a smile. “Suits me.”

He nodded, removing his hand. “I think this steer died of old age before they brought it in here,” he murmured, scowling over his steak. He prodded it with his fork. “See? No life left in it at all. It doesn't move.”

She laughed. “You're kidding, aren't you? I mean, you don't really want your steak to move around by itself?”

He glared at her. “Why not? A good piece of meat should be robust, full of fight. I hate to eat anything this dejected.” He prodded it again and sighed, laying down the fork. “To hell with it. I'll eat Jell-O instead.”

She just shook her head. He was fun to be with. And she'd imagined him so stern and brooding, but he was nothing like that. He had a dry wit and a no-nonsense attitude to life. She enjoyed his company as she'd never enjoyed anyone else's.

In the week that followed, Becky ate lunch with Kilpatrick every day. She'd never been so happy in all her life. The only drawback was having to keep the fact from her family. She'd had enough headaches the other time she'd had lunch with Kilpatrick, so she didn't tell them anything about how often she was seeing him.

Meanwhile, Clay was gone every night to his supposed job and spending most of the weekend in the company of Francine, the dark-haired beauty in the sports car. Clay never brought her in the house. Probably he was ashamed to have her see the cracked linoleum and poorly painted walls, Rebecca thought angrily. But Francine picked him up for work and brought him home, so that was one small blessing to be thankful for, she supposed. At least he wasn't demanding a car to go with his designer clothes. And he stayed sober.

She'd asked him where he worked, but all he'd tell her was that it was at a convenience store on Tenth Street downtown. She hadn't pursued that because she didn't want to know if he was lying. If he was, and she caught him, it would mean more trouble. She'd had so much that she felt cowardly about going looking for more. It was easier to believe that he'd reformed, that his interest in Francine had straightened him out. But a teenage girl driving a new Corvette bothered Becky especially since she'd found out inadvertently that Francine's folks were just mill workers.

Mack was quiet these days, too. He studied his math without being told, and he avoided Clay. Rebecca noticed that, and other subtle differences. They all bothered her, but she was beyond knowing what to do. She couldn't even confide in Kilpatrick now, because if she mentioned anything about the company Clay was keeping or the designer clothes he was sporting, it just might land her little brother in jail.

She couldn't talk to Clay anymore, so she tried to pretend everything was all right. She was just beginning to feel alive for the first time. She didn't want her happiness marred by anything unpleasant. So if she just ignored what was going on around her, it didn't exist.

Kilpatrick had started to watch her in a way that she found deliciously exciting. His dark eyes spent more and more time lingering on her breasts and her mouth, and even the timbre of his voice seemed to be changing. The way he spoke to her was different from the way he spoke to anyone else. Even Maggie had noticed.

“He seems to purr when he talks to you,” the older woman had mentioned just that morning, grinning wickedly at her colleague. “When he called to ask you to meet him in the parking lot, I could hear his voice change when you came on the line. Oh, he's interested—really interested. Imagine that—our shy little wallflower carrying off the sexy D.A.”

“You stop that.” Becky laughed. “I haven't carried him anywhere. And having lunch together is just convenient. I baked him a cake, you know.”

“Everybody knows you baked him a cake,” Maggie informed her. “The people he didn't tell found out from his secretary. I'm surprised the news people haven't dropped in to interview you on your baking skills.”

“Will you stop?” She groaned.

“Don't mislay that program disk,” Maggie warned. “And if I were you, I'd go home late this afternoon and do some shopping in town. I have a feeling you're going to need some party duds real soon.”

Becky frowned, brushing back her hair. She was wearing it long all the time now, because Kilpatrick liked it that way. She was taking more care with her makeup, too, and wearing the prettiest and most feminine clothes in her closet to work. It must have impressed him, because he certainly stared at her these days.

“Party duds?”

“Kilpatrick is being wined and dined by the political powers that be,” Maggie explained. “They're trying to talk him into running for a third term. I'm sure you'll enjoy the parties.”

“I'm not sophisticated enough for that kind of thing.”

“You don't have to be sophisticated, child. You only have to be yourself,” Maggie said firmly. “You don't put on airs. That's why people like you. You're just yourself. Don't worry, you'll do fine.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked, all eyes.

“I really do. Now, powder your nose and go to lunch. We wouldn't want to upset the D.A., when we have all these big cases coming up in court next month,” she added with a mischievous smile.

“Heaven forbid,” Becky agreed. Impulsively she hugged Maggie, then escaped before things got embarrassing.

Kilpatrick was leaning on the hood of a black sedan, his long legs crossed, whistling faintly. He had on gray slacks and a light sports coat with a cheery red tie. Becky sighed at the sight of him.