Holding the Dream (25 page)

“I obtained copies of the documents in question.”

“Did you?” Kusack's bland eyes narrowed. “Did you really? And how did you do that?”

“Without breaking any laws, detective. Once the copies were in my possession, I did what it seems to me, in my muddled civilian capacity, should have been done at the outset. I sent them to a handwriting expert.”

Leaning back, Kusack picked up what remained of his dinner, used his free hand to motion Byron to continue.

“I just received my expert's report, via phone. I had him fax it to me.” Byron took the sheet out of his inside pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on Kusack's desk.

“Fitzgerald,” Kusack said with his mouth full. “Good man. Considered tops in his field.”

So Josh had said, Byron thought. “He's been used for over a decade by both prosecutors and defense attorneys.”

“Mostly for the defense—rich defense,” said Kusack. He caught the whiff of Templeton influence. “Costs a goddamn fortune.”

And has a very full schedule, Byron thought. Hence the delay in the report. “Whatever his fee, detective, his reputation is unimpeachable. If you care to read his report, you'll see—”

“Don't have to. I know what it says.” It was small of him, Kusack supposed, but it gave him a little lift to tweak a man who didn't appear to have an ounce of extra fat on his body and who could wear a monkey suit and not look like a fool.

Byron folded his hands. Patience was, and always had been, his best weapon. “Then you've been in contact with Mr. Fitzgerald on this matter.”

“Nope.” Kusack dug out a napkin, wiped his mouth. “Got our own handwriting analysts. Got their final take in a couple weeks ago.” Politely, he stifled a belch. “The signatures on the altered forms are an exact match. Too exact,” he added
before Byron could snarl. “Nobody writes their name the exact and precise same way every time. All the doctored forms have the same precise signature, stroke for stroke, loop for loop. Copies. Likely tracings of Ms. Powell's signature on the one 1040.”

“If you know that, why are you sitting here? This is hell for her.”

“Yeah, I figured that. Trouble is I gotta cross all my t's, dot all my i's. That's the way things work around here. We've got a few lines of inquiry going here.”

“That may be, detective, but Ms. Powell has a right to know the status of your investigation.”

“As it happens, Mr. De Witt, I'm finishing up my report on the progress of this investigation right now. I'll see Mr. Bittle first thing in the morning, and continue my investigation.”

“You certainly don't believe Kate copied her own signature.”

“You know, I believe she's smart enough to have done something just that clever.” He balled up the napkin and two-pointed it into an overflowing wastebasket. “But . . . I don't think she's stupid enough or greedy enough to have risked her job and her freedom for a piddly seventy-five large.” He rolled his shoulders, which had grown stiff after hours at his desk. “I don't believe she'd have risked it for any amount of money.”

“Then you believe she's innocent.”

“I know she's innocent.” Kusack sighed a little and adjusted his girth. “Look, De Witt, I've been doing this job a long time. I know how to look into people's backgrounds, their habits, their weaknesses. My take is that Ms. Powell's weakness, if you want to call it that, was making a big splash at Bittle. Now why is she going to jeopardize something she wants that much for a little playing-around money? She doesn't gamble, she doesn't do drugs, doesn't sleep with the boss. If she needs flash, she's got the Templeton pool to play in. But she doesn't. She puts in sixty-hour weeks at Bittle and
builds up her client list. That tells me she's hardworking and ambitious.”

“You might have indicated to her that you believed her.”

“It's not my job to soothe anxious souls. And I've got my reasons for keeping her on the hot seat. Hard evidence is what makes or breaks a case in the real world. And gathering hard evidence takes time. Now, I appreciate you coming by with this.” He handed Byron the expert's report. “If it helps, you can tell Ms. Powell that the department has no plans to charge her with anything.”

“That's not enough,” Byron said as he rose.

“It's a start. I've got seventy-five thousand to track down, Mr. De Witt. Then we'll finish it.”

It seemed he would have to be satisfied with that. Byron slipped the report back in his pocket, then eyed Kusack. “You never believed she was guilty.”

“I go into an investigation with an open mind. Maybe she did it, maybe she didn't. After I took her statement, I knew she didn't. It's the nose.”

Byron smiled curiously. “She didn't smell guilty?”

Laughing, Kusack stood, stretched. “There's that. You could say I've got a nose for guilt. I meant
her
nose.”

“I'm sorry.” Byron shook his head. “You've lost me.”

“Anybody who dives headfirst into third and busts their nose to stretch a double has guts. And style. Somebody who wants to win that bad doesn't steal. Stealing's too easy, and this kind of stealing's too ordinary.”

“Sliding into third,” Byron murmured, grinning foolishly. “So that's how she did it. I never asked her.” Because Kusack was grinning back, Byron offered a hand. “Thanks for your time, detective.”

The crowd was thinning out by the time Byron arrived at Pretenses. Three hours late, he thought with a wince. The auction was obviously over, and only those lingering over their drinks or conversations were left. The fragrance of night jasmine blooming on the veranda mixed with the scents of perfume and wine.

He spotted Margo first, flirting with her husband. Even as he hurried toward her, he was scanning for Kate. “Margo, I'm sorry I'm so late.”

“You should be.” She touched pouty lips to his. “You completely missed the bidding. Now you'll have to come in next week and buy something very, very expensive.”

“It's the least I can do. Still, you look successful.”

When you bother to look at me, she thought, smothering a grin at the way he kept searching the room. “We raised just over fifteen thousand for Wednesday's Child. Nothing makes me happier than raising money to help handicapped children.”

Josh wrapped his arms around her from the back, placed their joint hands protectively over her belly. It rippled under them, thrillingly. “She's trying not to look too gleeful over the number of requests to hold merchandise.”

“It's a charity event,” she said primly, then laughed. “And boy, are we going to clean up next week. In fact, Kate's in the office logging in all the holds.”

“I'll go let her know I'm here. Actually, I—” He broke off, torn. Josh was her lawyer, after all. “No, I have to tell her first. Don't go anywhere.”

He started across the room just as Kate swung through the office door. “There you are.” She beamed at him. “I thought you must have gotten stuck in L.A. You didn't have to—” She stopped because he was staring at her as if he'd had a lobotomy on the trip home. “What is it?”

He managed to close his mouth, get his lungs working again. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with Katherine Powell?”

“Boy, a guy doesn't see you for a few hours, and—oh!” Her face lit up and she tried a sophisticated turn. “I forgot. Margo did it. What do you think?”

He turned first to Margo. “God bless you,” he said fervently, then took Kate's hand. “What do I think? I think my heart stopped.” He kissed her fingers, then, wanting more, her mouth.

“Wow.” A little surprised by the dizzying depth of the kiss,
she took a cautious step back. “Look what a little goop on the face and a push-up bra gets you.”

His gaze shifted down. “Is that what's under there?”

“You're not going to believe what's under here.”

“How long is it going to take for me to find out?”

Amused by his reaction, she toyed with his tie. “Well, big guy, if you play your cards right, we can—”

“Damn.” He grabbed her hands. “It's amazing how a sexy woman can shut a man's mind down. I have news for you.”

“Fine. If you'd rather discuss current events than my underwear.”

“Don't distract me. I've just come from seeing Detective Kusack. It's why I'm so late.”

“You went to see him?” The excited flush drained out of her cheeks. “He called you in? I'm sorry, Byron. There's no reason for you to be involved.”

“No.” He gave her a little shake. “Be quiet. I went to see him because I finally got the report I've been waiting for. I had the documents Marty Bittle gave me sent to a handwriting expert that Josh recommended.”

“Handwriting expert? But you never told me. Josh never said anything.”

Before her eyes could heat, he hurried on. “We wanted to wait until we had some results. And now we do. They were forgeries, Kate. Copies of your signature.”

“Copies.” Her hands began to tremble in his. “He can prove it?”

“He's one of the most respected people in his field in the country. But we didn't need him. Kusack had already verified the signatures. He knows they're forgeries. He doesn't consider you a suspect, Kate. Apparently he never really did.”

“He believed me.”

“He got his expert's report shortly before I got mine. He's going to take the information and his progress report to Bittle in the morning.”

“I—can't take it in.”

“That's all right.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “Take your time.”

“You believed me,” she said shakily. “From the first day, on the cliffs. You didn't even know me, but you believed me.”

“Yes, I did.” He kissed her again and smiled. “It must be that nose.”

“Whose nose?”

“I'll explain later. Come on, we have to fill Josh in.”

“Okay. Byron—” She squeezed his arm. “You went to see Kusack before you came here. Was that what you'd call a white knight sort of thing?”

Sounds like a trick question, he thought. “It could be construed in that manner.”

“I thought so. Listen, I wouldn't want you to make it a habit, but thanks.” Grateful and touched, she pressed her lips to his. “Thank you very much.”

“You're welcome.” Because he didn't want her eyes swimming, but laughing, he traced a fingertip over her beautifully bared shoulder. “Does that mean I get to see your underwear?”

Kate had a long-standing concept of what Sunday mornings were for. They were for sleep. Throughout college she had used them for extra study time, or to finish up papers and projects. But once she entered the real world, she designated that time for indulgence.

Byron had a different agenda.

“You've got to resist both ways,” he told her. “Mentally isolate the muscle you're working on. Right here.” He pressed his fingers to her triceps as she lifted and lowered the five-pound weight, over her head, behind her back. “Don't flop your arm,” he ordered. “You're pulling it up and pushing it down through mud.”

“Mud. Right.” She tried to envision a pool of thick, oozing mud instead of a nice soft bed with cool sheets. “And why am I doing this?”

“Because it's good for you.”

“Good for me,” she muttered, and watched herself in the mirror. She had thought she would feel ridiculous in the little
sports bra and snug bike pants. But it wasn't really so bad. Besides, she got to look at him, too. A well-built man in a tank top and sweat shorts wasn't hard on the eyes at all.

“Now stretch. Don't forget the stretch. Go to the set of concentration curls. Remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

She sat on the bench, frowned at the weight she lifted and lowered and tried to imagine her biceps growing. Good-bye, one-hundred-and-two-pound weakling, she thought. Hello, buff.

“And when we're finished here, you're going to make French toast, right?”

“That was the deal.”

“I've got me a personal trainer and a chef.” She flashed him a smile. “Pretty cool.”

“You're a lucky woman, Katherine. Other arm now. Concentrate.”

He moved her through flys and dead lifts, hammer lifts and extensions. Though he'd completed his Sunday routine before hauling her out of bed, they'd both worked up a nice sweat by the time he proclaimed her finished.

“So, I'm going to be buff, huh?”

He grinned, rubbing her shoulders, massaging his way down her arms. “Sure you are, kid. We'll put you in one of those little bikinis, oil you up, and shoot you into competition.”

“In your dreams.”

“Not my dreams,” he said sincerely. “Believe me. I've discovered this latent desire for skinny women. In fact, it's starting to stir right now.”

“Is that so?” She didn't object when his hands moved around her back and down to cup her bottom.

“I'm afraid it is. Hmm.” His fingers roamed, clutched. “This reminds me. Tomorrow we work on the lower body.”

“I hate those squats.”

“That's because you don't have my vantage point.” His gaze shifted to the mirror behind her, and he watched his hands take possession, watched her move against him, saw her
shiver when he lowered his mouth to that wonderful curve of neck and shoulder.

It was almost ridiculous the way he wanted her, the way the need would rise up time after time, again and again. Like breathing, he thought, nibbling his way up to her ear. Like life.

“I think we should finish off your morning routine with a little aerobics.”

She managed a sound between a groan and a sigh. “Not the NordicTrack, Byron. I'm begging you.”

“I had something else in mind.” His busy mouth skimmed over her cheek. “I think you'll like it.”

“Oh.” She got the idea when his hand moved up to palm her breast. “You did say that for overall training aerobics is essential.”

“Just put yourself in my hands.”

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

She gave so easily, he thought. So eagerly. The way her mouth moved on his, the mating of tongues, the press of bodies. All of his old fantasies about the woman of his dreams had faded and shifted and reemerged as her. Only her.

An image of her flickered into his mind. The way she'd looked the night before in that slim, shoulder-baring dress. All that smooth skin, those surprising curves. That wide, wet mouth.

And beneath the dress had been a wanton fantasy of black lace. The sight of her had been staggering, and so unexpected, so impractical for his practical Kate. It was a side of her he had loved exploring. Knowing she had been exploring it as well had been brutally erotic.

She was just as appealing to him now, in damp workout gear that he could hastily peel off.

Both of them were naked to the waist when they tumbled to the mat.

She laughed, rolling with him as they tugged at those last barriers. It was wonderful, wasn't it, to feel so . . . unbound. So completely liberated. She'd stopped questioning how it was
he knew just where, just how to touch her. As if he'd always known. And his body was so strong, so hard. It was like making love with a dream. Rolling on top of him, she poured the sheer joy of it into a kiss.

Yes, touch me, she thought. And taste. Here. And here. Let me. Again. Always again, she thought as her heart pounded and her blood swam. Over and over, moment to moment, he could fill her with so many clashing sensations. The wave of heat, the chill of anticipation, a shiver of greed, the warmth of giving.

She wanted to hold him forever, to steep herself in him. Lose herself. And so she took him inside here, trembling to a gasp at that bright instant of joining. She arched back, savoring, tormenting herself with the power, groaning at the texture of his hands that slicked up her to torture her aching breasts.

She held them there, her tensed fingers gripping as she began to move.

It staggered him, the look of her. The dark cap of hair framed her glowing face. Breath heaved and hitched through her parted lips. That long swan's neck was bowed back, the doe's eyes closed. Sunlight poured in over her, so bright, so full, they might have been outdoors in some verdant meadow. He could see her there, a hot-blooded Titania, lusty and sleek.

He wanted her to feed herself, feed herself to satiation. But she increased her rhythm, driving him with her. Her moans and cries swarmed into his blood until they were thrust for desperate thrust.

He exploded beneath her, into her. With one long, glorying sigh, she slid down and crushed her mouth to his.
 

She sang in the shower. This was unusual even when she was alone. Kate was well aware that she did not have a voice like a bell. As they lathered and soaped he joined in for a miserably off-key, if heartfelt, version of “Proud Mary.”

“Ike and Tina had nothing on us,” she decided as she toweled her hair.

“Not a thing. Except maybe talent.” Byron wrapped a
towel around his hips, rubbed his face, and prepared to shave. “You're the first woman I've showered with who sings as badly as I do.”

She straightened, watched him lather up. “Oh, really? Just how many women might that be?”

“The mind boggles.” He grinned at her, enjoying the laser gleam in her eyes. “And a true gentleman never keeps score.”

She watched him swipe the razor through lather, leaving a smooth, clean path. It occurred to her she'd never actually watched a man shave before. Unless she included Josh, and a brother didn't count. But she refused to be distracted by the interesting male ritual. Instead she smiled sweetly and looked over his shoulder into the foggy mirror.

“Why don't you let me do that for you, darling?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do I look stupid enough to put a sharp instrument in your hands?” He rinsed the blade. “I don't think so.”

“Coward.”

“You betcha.”

She snorted, nipped his shoulder with her teeth, then headed toward the bedroom to dress.

“Kate.” He waited until she'd turned, aimed that smug look in his direction. “There's only one woman now.” He watched her quick, almost shy smile spread before she slipped out the door.

Thoughtfully, Byron stroked off lather and stubble. The room was full of mist and heat, and their mixed scents. She'd hung her towel neatly and efficiently to dry. The little jar she used to moisturize her face sat on the counter. She'd forgotten to use it. She hadn't forgotten to put her workout clothes in the hamper or to replace the cap on the toothpaste. No, she would never overlook any practical detail.

It was the extras she forgot, particularly when they applied to herself. She wouldn't let herself browse through a shop, dreaming, and buy something foolish for herself. She wouldn't forget to turn off the lights or to give a faucet an extra twist to prevent a drip.

Her bills would always be paid on time, but stopping to eat lunch would slip her mind when it was crowded with other details.

She didn't have a clue that she needed him. Byron smiled as he lowered his head to rinse off the excess lather. Nor did she know what he'd just discovered. He no longer thought he might be falling in love with her. He knew that she, with all her contrasts and complexities, her strengths and weaknesses, was the only woman he would ever love.

He dried his face, slapped on aftershave, and decided this might be the perfect time to tell her. He stepped into the bedroom. She was standing beside the bed in black leggings and an old Yankees sweatshirt.

“See this?” she demanded, shaking a mangled rawhide bone at him.

“Yes, I do.”

“It was in my shoe. How my shoe escaped the same treatment, I'm not sure.” She tossed the bone to Byron, then scooped her hands through her hair to check for dryness. “It was Nip, that I am sure of. Tuck has much better manners. Last week it was that fish head he found on the beach. He has to be disciplined, Byron. He's very unruly.”

“Now, Kate, is that any way to talk about our child?”

She sighed, put her hands on her hips, and waited.

“I'll talk to him. But I'm sure if you considered the psychology of it, you'd agree that he puts things in your shoe as a token of his great affection.”

“And that includes the time he peed in it.”

“Well, I'm sure that was just a mistake.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, too wise to let the grin show. “And it was outside. You took them off to walk on the beach, and. . . you're not buying it.”

“I don't think you'd find it so amusing if he was using your shoes for his depository.” As if on cue, there came the sound of frantic barking, of growing canine bodies thudding. “I'll deal with them,” Kate stated. “You're too soft.”

“Yeah, and who bought them collars with their names on them?” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Retreating, Byron opened his drawer for underwear. “I'll be down in a minute.”

“To make French toast,” she reminded him and rushed down to quiet the dogs. “Okay, guys, kill the racket. Keep it up and there's not going to be any walk on the beach. And nobody's going to play sock with either of you.”

They rushed up and bumped against her, two alarmingly growing masses of fur and feet. Even as she started to ruffle them, they raced toward the front door and set up a fresh din.

“You know you go out the back way,” she began, then the idiotic door chimes sounded. It seemed Byron had decided they were whimsical and had kept them. “Oh.” Ridiculously pleased, she beamed at the dogs. “Pretty cool, guys. You were sounding the alarm. Listen, if it's anybody selling anything I want you to do this. Look, look—bare your teeth.”

She demonstrated, but they only thumped each other with their wagging tails and offered canine grins.

“We'll work on it,” she decided and opened the door.

Her bright mood plummeted. “Mr. Bittle.” Automatically she grabbed collars to prevent the dogs from leaping joyfully on the new humans. “Detective.”

“I'm sorry to disturb you on Sunday, Kate.” Bittle eyed the dogs warily. “Detective Kusack indicated that he intended to speak with you today, and I asked to come along.”

“Your lawyer said I would find you here,” Kusack put in. “You're free to call him, of course, if you want him here.”

“I thought—I was told I was no longer a suspect.”

“I'm here to apologize.” Bittle kept his solemn eyes on hers. “May we come in?”

“Yes, of course. Nip, Tuck, no jumping.”

“Nice dogs.” Kusack held out a beefy hand, and it was duly sniffed and licked. “Got me an old Heinz 57 hound. She's getting up in years now.”

“Please, sit down. I'll just put them out.” That task gave
her time to compose herself. When the dogs were racing maniacally over the yard, she turned back. “Would you like some coffee?”

“There's no need for you to trouble,” Bittle began, but Kusack leaned back in the ancient recliner and said, “If you're making it anyway.”

“I'll make it,” Byron volunteered as he came down the stairs.

“Oh, Byron.” Relief rippled through her. “You know Detective Kusack.”

“Detective.”

“Mr. De Witt.”

“And this is Lawrence Bittle.”

“Of Bittle and Associates,” Byron said coolly. “How do you do?”

“I'll say I've done better.” Bittle accepted the formal handshake. “Tommy's mentioned you. We had an early round of golf this morning.”

“I'll put the coffee on.” He sent a look to Kusack that said as clearly as words that anything of import would wait until he came back.

“Nice place here,” Kusack said casually. Kate stood where she was, twisting her fingers together.

“It's coming along. Byron takes his time. He just settled on it a couple of months ago. He's, ah, having some things sent out from Atlanta. That's where he's from. Atlanta.” Stop babbling, Kate, she ordered herself. Couldn't. “And he's looking for things out here. Furniture and things.”

“Hell of a spot.” Kusack settled into the recliner, thinking it was a chair that knew how to welcome a man. “House just down the road has a putting green right on the front lawn.” He shook his head. “Guy can walk right out his front door and sink a few. Used to drive the kids down here. They got a kick out of the seals.”

“Yes, they're wonderful.” Gnawing her lip, she glanced toward the kitchen. “Sometimes you can hear them barking. Detective Kusack, are you here to question me?”