Sawyer, Meryl Read Free Page A

at them and managed to come
up with a wisp of a smile.
    "About my balls"—Mitch's grin bordered on a smirk—
"if you touch my zipper, you'll have to come home with me."
    "You know, you're a real bastard."
    "You're not the first to bring it to my attention. And you
haven't changed, either, except I hear you're engaged." He glanced at her
bare left hand. "Love your engagement ring."
    "I'll have it next week. A pear-shaped diamond the size of a
doorknob. Nine carats."
    That stopped him. But she wished she hadn't mentioned the huge diamond
Brent had insisted on. The size of the stone wasn't important; Brent was the
catch. She still couldn't get used to the idea he'd chosen her when he could
have had his pick of all the eligible women in San Francisco.
    "How are you getting along with the Farenholts?"
    "Fine," she fibbed, "they're delightful."
    Mitch stared at her and she felt a taste of what it must be like
to be on the witness stand, being cross-examined by him. "Doesn't it piss
you off—big time—to have people you don't like reject you because you're not
good enough for their son?"
    She reined in her temper, reminding herself that Mitch specialized
in tricking people into revealing things. "What makes you think they don't
like me?"
    He grinned—his big-bad-wolf grin—making her wish she hadn't taken
the bait. "Lots of things. Let's start with your dress."
    "What's wrong with it?" Royce looked down; she hadn't
anticipated dancing in the strapless sheath. Her raised arms pulled her breasts
upward, dangerously close to exposing the dusky rims of her nipples. She tried
dropping her arms, but Mitch wouldn't let her.
    His eyes, unusually blue, unusually intense, roamed slowly over
her half-exposed breasts. "I can see what you had for lunch."
    She would have whacked him except the Dillinghams were dancing too
close, smiling approvingly at them.
    "Caroline Rambeau, Brent's old girlfriend, would never be
caught dead in that dress."
    "Of course not. She couldn't possibly hold it up."
    Mitch chuckled, a deep, masculine laugh she'd chosen to forget.
She cursed herself for having made him laugh.
    The Dillinghams stopped beside them. "What's so funny?"
    Think of something quick, Royce told herself. A joke came to mind,
but she wasn't truly comfortable with it, considering the plight of the
homeless in the bay area. But she told it anyway, determined not to let Arnold
Dillingham know what really amused Mitch.
    "Since Mitch wants to help the homeless, I was telling him
about a woman he should date. Instead of carrying a placard saying will work
for food, hers reads: WILL WORK FOR SEX.
    Arnold hooted. "That's what I like about you, Royce. You can
inject humor into any topic, even a serious one."
    Royce didn't think it was the least bit funny. In fact, it was
disgusting. Just what did Arnold expect on the show, a tasteless comedienne?
She wanted to be serious for a change and get away from the fluff pieces she'd
been writing.
    But Arnold probably did want someone outrageous. After all, he'd
made his fortune with TV stations that played nonstop infomercials that touted
ways to become rich, successful, beautiful—or dice an onion in thirty
seconds—with a money back guarantee.
    Had he lived, what would her father have said? You're a born
writer. Someday you'll be famous. Well, maybe. Someday. But right now all
the newspaper wanted from her was humor. They'd rejected all her serious
articles. At least Arnold was giving her a chance.
    "Arnie's agreed that during my appearance on the show, your
questions will be limited to the homeless," Mitch informed her as the
dance ended. "No questions about my practice, my private life... my
past."
    Watching Brent approach, set to rescue her, she recalled Mitch
usually avoided the press. "You know what I think?"
    "Royce, I'm always afraid to hear what you think."
    "I think you have something to hide." She left him
standing alone and went to Brent.
    "What were you doing with Durant?" Brent pulled her