Sawyer, Meryl Read Free

Royce knew well. Before Royce's mother had died,
she'd helped develop the program. Royce had given hours of volunteer service to
the group.
    "This guest has a terrific new idea for helping the
homeless."
    Royce wasn't familiar with programs for the homeless. Rather than
appear uninformed, she tried for a light note. "Not Governor Moonbeam.
Last I heard, Jerry Brown was trying to work off his campaign debt by waiting
tables in a Thai café."
    Dillingham chuckled. "Our Mitch has a plan for helping—"
    "Mitchell Durant?" she blurted out. She almost cursed
out loud. Mercifully the band struck up a waltz and distracted everyone. Except
Mitch.
    The others rose to dance, but Mitch leaned close. "My name's
not a four-letter word, you know."
    "You could have fooled me."
    Arnold paused by her chair. "Come on, you two, dance."
    She opened her mouth to make an excuse, but Mitch was already
pulling her chair out while Mrs. Dillingham babbled about how lucky Royce was
to have Mitch on her show. She stood, thinking Mitch was notorious for refusing
interviews. So, why now? Why me? Lucky, Mrs. Dillingham had said. Okay,
remember luck is a four-letter word.
    Mitch swung her into his arms. She trained her eyes over the
shoulder of his expensive dinner jacket, ignoring him. Across the room Caroline
danced with Brent. Where was the Italian count his former girlfriend was
supposed to be dating?
    Don't be jealous, Royce chided herself, thinking what she really
resented about Caroline was how easily she fit in with the Farenholts. Except
for Brent the group was terrified of rupturing a major artery by really
laughing. Instead, they made muted sounds worthy of an aspiring ventriloquist,
while Royce admitted she laughed a little too loudly at times. Especially at a
good joke.
    Royce felt Mitch watching her, subjecting her to a thorough,
intimate appraisal. She studied his lapels for a moment, then lifted her head,
making eye contact for the first time. Involuntarily she flinched at the
intensity of his gaze. She'd almost forgotten how captivating his eyes were—
marine blue with flecks of black and rimmed by black bands the same dark color
as his hair.
    His face was thoroughly masculine with an arresting expression that
made it hard to look away. Its angular planes were tempered by two curious
scars, small dents like oversized razor nicks. Whatever had caused the scar on
the rise of his cheekbone below his eye had narrowly missed blinding him.
    The second scar, it, too, bone deep, had etched a hole the size of
a nailhead near his hairline. No one could see the third scar, identical to the
others, that she knew was hidden by his thick hair.
    Mitch had a certain way of holding his head, tilting it ever so
slightly to one side as if he were listening intently, anxious to catch every
word. Once she'd thought this particular mannerism was endearing. Now it
annoyed her. She knew him for what he truly was. An ambitious jerk who'd
hounded an innocent man to death.
    "We must be in hell," he said, more than a hint of a
jeer in his tone.
    "What do you mean?" Good work, Royce. You sound
indifferent.
    "You bastard," he mimicked her voice. "I'll see you
in hell before I ever have anything to do with you again."
    She recalled her heated words. And a lot more. "You're right,
we are in hell."
    "If memory serves"—now Mitch was smiling, gliding across
the dance floor, holding her too securely for comfort —"when I last saw
you, you promised... now, how did you put it?"
    "To hack off your balls with a rusty machete."
    "Right. So ladylike."
    True, it had hardly been a refined statement. She'd gone nuts when
Mitch appeared at her father's funeral. The rusty machete popped into her mind
as the best way to kill Mitch —a slow, painful death—the best way to avenge her
father.
    Mitch leaned closer, his turbulent blue eyes just inches from
hers. Boy oh boy she'd love to kill him. But it wouldn't bring back her father.
Nothing would. She caught Arnold Dillingham looking