Night Fever (10 page)

“I'm not the liberated type,” she said quietly. “I'm very conventional. I was raised strictly, despite my father, and in the church. I suppose that sounds archaic to you…”

“Uncle Sanderson was a deacon in the Baptist church,” he interrupted. “I was baptized at the age of ten and went to Sunday school until I graduated high school. You aren't the only archaic specimen around.”

“Yes, but you're a man.”

“I hope so,” he sighed. “Otherwise, I've spent a fortune on a wardrobe I can't wear.”

She laughed with pure delight. “Is this really you? I mean, are you the broody man I met in the elevator?”

“I had plenty of reason to be broody. They moved me out of my comfortable office into a high-rise airport and took away my favorite coffee shop, flooded me with appeal cases—of course I brooded. Then, there was this irritating young woman who kept insulting me.”

“You started it,” she pointed out.

“I defended myself,” he argued.

She fingered her Styrofoam coffee cup. “So did I. I'll bet you're scary in court.”

“Some people think so.” He gathered up the remains of his lunch. “We have to go. I don't want to rush like this, but I've only got half an hour to get back to court.”

“Sorry!” She got up at once. “I didn't realize we'd been here so long.”

“Neither did I,” he confessed. He stood aside to let her precede him to the trash can and then out of the building. It was warming up, but still a cold day, and she pulled her jacket closer.

His eyes fastened on it. It was worn and probably three or four years old. Her dress wasn't new, either, and her black high heels were scuffed. It disturbed him to see how little she had. And yet she was so cheerful usually—except when her brother was mentioned. He'd known women with wealth who were critical of everything and everyone, but Becky had practically nothing and she seemed to love life and people.

“You've perked up,” he commented as they drove back to the office building.

“Everybody has problems,” she replied easily. “I handle mine fairly well most days. They're no worse than anyone else's,” she added with a smile. “Mostly I enjoy life, Mr. Kilpatrick.”

“Rourke,” he corrected. He glanced at her and smiled. “It's Irish.”

“No!” she said with mock surprise.

“What did you expect I'd be named? George Standing Rock, or Henry Marble Cheek, or some such outlandish thing?”

She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, my gosh,” she groaned.

“Actually, my mother's name was Irene Tally,” he said. “Her father was Irish and her mother was Cherokee. So I'm only one-quarter, not one-half Cherokee. All the same,” he said, “I'm pretty damned proud of my ancestry.”

“Mack keeps trying to get Granddad to say he's got Indian blood,” she mused. “His class is studying Cherokee Indians this semester, and he's gung-ho to learn how to use that blowgun they hunted with. Did you know that the Cherokee were the only southeastern tribe to hunt with a blowgun?”

“Yes, I knew. I am Cherokee,” he pointed out.

“Only one-quarter, you said so, and the quarter you are might not have known about it.”

“Stop splitting hairs.”

“
Au contraire,
I have never whacked a rabbit in half,” she assured him haughtily.

He did a double take. “My God.” He whistled through his teeth. “You're quick, lady.”

“Quick, but not fast, sir,” she drawled.

He chuckled. “I had that much figured out. Tell Mack that the Cherokee didn't use curare on their darts. Only the South American Indians knew about the poison.”

“I'll tell him.” She glanced down at the purse in her lap. “He'd like you.”

“Think so?” He wanted so badly to ask her out for an evening, to meet her family. It would work to his advantage, because Clay was close to the Harrises, and it would give him a pipeline. But he didn't want to hurt Becky, and he would if he played on her interest. It was better to let it ride, for now. “Here we are.”

She had to fight down disappointment. He'd taken her out to lunch, after all. She should be grateful for crumbs and not resentful because he hadn't offered her a banquet. So she gave him a brilliant smile when she wanted to cry.

“Thanks for the chili,” she said softly when they were standing beside the car.

“My pleasure.” His lean hand lifted to her face, and his thumb traced under her lower lip with expert deliberation. “If this weren't such a very public place, Miss Cullen,” he said, letting his dark eyes fall to her mouth, “I'd take your mouth under mine and kiss you until your knees gave way under you.”

She caught her breath. Those dark eyes were hypnotizing her, and she had to do something before she threw herself at his feet and begged him to do just that. “Do cheeseburgers often affect you like this?” she whispered, trying to salvage her pride.

He lost it. He burst out laughing and dropped his hand. “Damn you, woman!” he ground out.

She was proud of herself. She'd managed to regain her balance without denting his pride too much. She made him laugh. She wondered if it was as easy as it seemed.

“For shame, cursing a lady in public, Mr. District Attorney,” she said pertly. She smiled. “Thank you very much for lunch, and for the shoulder. I don't often get depressed, but lately, things have been rather hectic at home.”

“You don't have to explain anything to me,” he said gently. She made him feel protective. It wasn't a feeling he was accustomed to.

“I'd better go in,” she said after a minute.

“Yes.” His dark eyes held her hazel ones, and time seemed to stand still. He vibrated with the need to pull her against him and kiss her. He wondered if she felt the need, too, and that was why she'd countered his move with one of her own.

“Well…see you.”

He nodded.

She managed to get her feet to move, but she was sure they didn't touch the ground all the way back into the building. She didn't know that a curious pair of eyes had watched her leave with Kilpatrick and come back with him.

“Your sister is thick with the D.A., Cullen,” Son Harris said to Clay that night. “She had lunch with him. We can't let that situation develop. He might get to us through her.”

“Don't be stupid,” Clay said nervously. “Becky isn't interested in Kilpatrick—I know she isn't!”

“He and his investigator are getting too close. We may have to get rid of him,” Son said, his small eyes pinning Clay's disbelieving ones. “We've got a major load coming in here in the next few weeks. We can't afford any complications.”

“You don't think killing the D.A. would cause complications?” Clay laughed, because Son loved to exaggerate.

“Not if somebody else gets blamed for it.”

Clay shrugged. “Well, count me out. I can't shoot straight.”

Son stared at him levelly. “We were thinking about something a little less dangerous than that. You know, like wiring his car.” He smiled at Clay's dubious expression. “You're real good in science, aren't you, Clay? And you did that paper on explosives for the science fair last year. Not hard for a good investigator to dig out that information, you know. Not hard at all.” Son patted his arm. “So you be a good boy, Clay, and get to work on your brother. Or we may just have to bomb the D.A. and pin the rap on you.”

“Mack won't budge,” he said hesitantly. Son was high already. Maybe this was his idea of a drunken joke. Surely they didn't mean to do something that stupid. No, he assured himself. It was just talk. They were afraid Becky might say something to Kilpatrick, that's all. They were trying to scare him. God, they couldn't be serious!

“Mack had damned well better budge,” Son said in that soft voice that meant trouble. His dilated eyes met Clay's. “You hear me, Clay? He'd better budge, soon. We want that business at the elementary school and we're going to have it. So get busy!”

Becky went home floating on a cloud, her mind full of Kilpatrick, her problems far away. She didn't notice that Mack and Clay were missing for several minutes while she was working on supper, and Granddad was watching the news.

Mack came into the kitchen white-faced, but he didn't say a word. He mumbled something about not being hungry and he wouldn't look Becky in the eye.

She followed him into his bedroom, wiping her wet hands on a dish towel. “Mack, is something wrong?”

He looked at her and started to speak, then looked behind her and abruptly closed his mouth.

“Nothing's wrong. Is there, Mack?” Clay said, and smiled easily. “What's for supper?”

“Are you actually going to be here for supper?” Becky asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing better to do—not tonight, anyway. Thought I might play Granddad a game of checkers.”

She smiled with relief. “He'd like that.”

“How did you day go?” he asked as they went back to the kitchen and she checked on the homemade rolls she was baking.

“Oh, very nice,” she said. “Mr. Kilpatrick took me out to lunch.”

“Getting chummy with the D.A.?” Clay asked, his eyes narrowing.

“It was nothing to do with you,” she said firmly. “He's a nice man. It was just lunch.”

“Kilpatrick, nice?” He laughed bitterly. “Sure he is. He tried to put Dad in jail, now he's after me. But he's nice.”

She went red. “This has nothing to do with you,” she repeated. “For God's sake, I have the right to some pleasure in my life!” she burst out. “I cook and clean and work to support us. Don't I even have the right to go to lunch with a man? I'm twenty-four years old, Clay, and I've hardly ever been out on a date! I—”

“I'm sorry,” he said, and meant it. “Really, I am. I know how hard you work for us,” he added quietly. He turned away, feeling small and ashamed. There was so much he couldn't tell her. He'd meant to bring in some extra money, he'd told himself, to help out. But he'd known he couldn't show Becky any of it because she'd want to know where he got it. He'd made a god-awful mess of everything.

Son Harris had him over a barrel. He didn't want to go to jail, either. He sighed and looked out the window at the night sky. Maybe there was another kid he could work on—somebody with fewer scruples than his little brother.

Clay glanced at Becky. She liked the D.A. He didn't. But to think the Harrises had talked about killing him….

God, what a mess! He went back into the living room while she worked on supper. He could always call Kilpatrick and warn him. But what if it was a joke? Son made sick jokes. He couldn't be sure that the hit wasn't one. After all, he rationalized, where would Son Harris find a hit man? Right. He was getting worked up over nothing. He relaxed then, because without a hit man, Son wasn't going to do anything. It was all just a sick joke, and he'd fallen for it! What a laugh on him!

“How about a game of checkers after supper, Granddad?” he asked the old man on the couch, and forced a smile.

Becky fed them quickly and went to bed, determinedly not noticing Mack's despondency, Clay's unnatural cheeriness, and Granddad's lack of enthusiasm for life. It was time she had a life of her own, even if she had to harden her heart to get it. She couldn't go on sacrificing forever. She closed her eyes and saw Rourke Kilpatrick's face. She'd never wanted anyone enough to fight her family before. Until now.

K
ilpatrick wondered sometimes why he kept Gus around. The big German shepherd climbed into the Mercedes and leaped back out. It took him five minutes to get the big animal settled, and he was already running late. He'd planned to drop Gus off at the kennel for some remedial obedience training. He would be lucky if he reached his office before lunch at this rate.

“You blessed troublemaker,” he grumbled at the dog.

Gus barked. He was oddly restive, as if he sensed something. Kilpatrick didn't see anybody else near the car.

He felt for his cigar case, couldn't find it, and with a frustrated sigh, got out of the car to go back for it. He slammed the door, leaving Gus inside. As he reached the front door the bomb went off, turning the sleek Mercedes into twisted metal and charred leather.

Becky could tell something was wrong by the hectic rush of people in the building. She saw policemen coming and going, and the sound of sirens was almost constant.

“Do you know what's going on?” she asked Maggie as she tried to peer down to the street below through the curtained window. It was lunchtime and the lawyers were all out, along with the paralegals. Maggie and Becky were alone in the office, since the other secretaries and the receptionist were taking an early lunch.

Maggie joined her, small and dark and curious. “No. But something is, I know that,” she asserted. “That's the bomb squad. I recognize the vehicle.” She frowned. “What would the bomb squad be doing here?” she wondered.

Mr. Malcolm came into the office at a dead run. He was preoccupied and unsettled. “Have they been here?” he asked.

“Who?” Maggie asked with lifted brows.

“The bomb squad. They're going all over the building. My God, haven't you two heard yet? Somebody tried to kill the district attorney this morning! They set a bomb in his car!”

Becky fell back against the wall, her face white. Rourke! “Is he dead?” she asked, and stopped breathing while she waited for the answer.

“No,” Malcolm replied, watching her curiously. “Got his dog, though.” He went toward his office. “I've got to make a couple of calls. Don't worry, I don't think there's anything to worry about in the building. It's better to be safe than sorry, though.”

“Yes, of course,” Maggie said. She put a thin arm around Becky when the boss was in his office and the door closed. “Well, well,” she said with a gentle, knowing smile. “So that's how things are.”

“I don't know him really well,” Becky hedged. “But he was kind about my brother, and I've…seen him around the building.”

“I see.” Maggie hugged her gently and then moved away. “He's indestructible, you know,” she said with a smile. “Go fix your face.”

“Yes. Of course.” Becky went to the rest room in a daze, and stayed there while the bomb squad combed through the office. They found nothing. By the time they finished, it was time for Becky and Maggie to go to lunch. Becky held back, making excuses. The minute Maggie was out of sight, Becky went up to the next floor and straight to Kilpatrick's office.

He was talking to some men, but when he saw her white face and huge, frantic hazel eyes, he dismissed them and, taking her arm without a word, pulled her into his private office and closed the door.

She didn't think or pause to consider the consequences. She went into his arms and clung to him, shivering with reaction. She didn't make a sound, not a sob or a gasp. She held him close, rocking against him, her arms under his jacket, her eyes tightly closed, and inhaled the exquisite scent of his cologne in the silence that kindled around them.

Kilpatrick, never lost for words, was without them for the first time in recent memory. Becky's headlong rush, the horror in her soft eyes, humbled him. His arms contracted. “I'm all right,” he said softly.

“That's what they said, but I had to see for myself. I only just found out.” She pressed closer. “I'm sorry about your dog.”

He drew in a steadying breath. “So am I. He was a damned pest, but I'll miss him like hell.” His jaw clenched as his dark head bent over hers. He hugged her close and his lips pressed into her soft neck. “Why did you come?”

“I thought…you might need someone,” she whispered. “I know it was presumptuous, and I'm sorry I came barreling in like that…”

“I don't think you have to apologize for caring,” he replied, his voice deep and slow. He lifted his head and searched her soft, worried eyes. “My God, it's been years since anyone worried about me.” He scowled and brushed her long hair away from her face. “I'm not sure I like it.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I'm a loner by nature,” he said simply. “I don't want ties.”

She smiled sadly. “And I can't have any. My family is all the responsibility I can handle. But I'm sorry about your dog, and I'm glad you weren't hurt.”

“Those damned cigars you hate so much saved me,” he murmured, finding bitter amusement in the thought. “I'd gone back inside to get them. Apparently the mechanic who wired my car wasn't very expert. There was a loose connection on the timer.”

“Oh. It wasn't connected to the door or the gas pedal?”

He glowered at her. “You don't know beans about C-4 plastic explosives and electronic timers, do you?”

“Actually, I've never wanted to do anybody in, so I neglected to learn,” she replied.

“Pert miss,” he murmured. His dark eyes fell suddenly to her mouth. He bent without thinking and kissed her, hard. His mouth left hers seconds later, long before she had time to savor the warmth of it, and he was back to normal. He put her away from him with firm, strong hands. “Go away. I'm up to my knees in investigators and federal agents.”

“Federal agents!”

“Terrorist acts,” he replied. “Organized crime. It's federal in this instance. I'll explain it to you one day.”

“I'll go. I hope I didn't embarrass you,” she began, a little shy now that she'd recovered from her blatant fear.

“Not at all. My secretary is used to hysterical blondes bursting in here to throw their bodies at me.” He chuckled, the first ripple of humor he'd felt since the grief and anguish of the morning. His eyes were still sad, even though he smiled down at her. “Softhearted little scrap. Go back to work, Miss Cullen. I'm not bombproof, but somebody up there likes me.”

“I'm inclined to agree.” She moved away from him reluctantly, and paused in the doorway. “Good-bye.”

“Thanks,” he added gruffly, and turned away. It had touched him all too much that she cared if he lived or died. It had been a damned long time since anyone had cared like that about him. In fact, no other woman ever had. It was a sobering thought.

He was still brooding over it when Dan Berry came in and pointedly closed the door.

“Wasn't that the Cullen boy's sister who just left?” he asked Kilpatrick. “Did she come to see if he scored?”

He stood very still. “Explain that,” he asked curtly.

“The Cullen boy's a whiz with electronic stuff,” Berry said. “He won a science fair last year with a timed explosive. I guess the Harris boys helped him set it up. We're sure they're involved, but we can't prove it.”

Kilpatrick lit a cigar and leaned back against his desk, feeling depressed and frustrated. Was that why Becky had come running? Had Clay perhaps confided in her? Did she know something? It took some of the pleasure out of her headlong rush into his arms, and now he had to ask himself if she was involved.

He looked up at Berry. “What have you found out?”

“It was a primitive timer. Nothing professional, that's a fact. If you'd had an out-of-town mechanic after you, you'd be dead. The whole thing was botched. It shouldn't even have gone off.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke, his dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his elegant length propped against the edge of the desk while he thought. “Work with the police and see if the detectives can trace any of the explosive materials. I want to keep an eye on the Cullen boy.”

“A wiretap?”

Kilpatrick swore. “We can't ask for that. Dammit, we don't have anything to go on except suspicions. Without some kind of evidence to back it up, we can't get a wiretap, or surveillance, or anything else. Not on Cullen, not on the Harrises.”

“Then, what do we do?”

“Let the feds handle it,” Kilpatrick said reluctantly.

“With their caseload? Sure. They've got all kinds of time to follow two amateur dope dealers around Atlanta.”

Kilpatrick glared at him. “I'll think of something.”

Berry shrugged. “Too bad you don't like the Cullen girl a little. She'd make a dandy source—especially if she liked you.” He glanced at the taller man knowingly. “Just a thought.”

“Get to work,” Kilpatrick said curtly, and without looking at the other man. He'd been thinking the same thing himself about Becky, but it was underhanded and dishonest. He'd lived his life by a rigid code of honor. This went against it. Did the end justify the means? Did he have the right to pump Becky for information that might put her own brother in jail? He turned back toward his desk with an exclamation of pure disgust.

Becky, blissfully ignorant of the conversation Kilpatrick was having with his investigator, went home that evening in a state of panic. She was worried now. If someone had tried to kill him once, wouldn't they try again?

Granddad and the boys noticed her somber withdrawal over supper.

“What's wrong?” Clay asked.

“Somebody tried to blow up Mr. Kilpatrick this morning,” she said without thinking.

Clay went a pasty white. He got up and made an excuse about having a stomach bug and left the table. Mack just sat there, all eyes.

“I can understand that his enemies might want him out of the way,” Granddad said. “But that's a pretty cowardly way to kill a man. And blowing up his pet—damned cowardly.”

“Yes,” Becky said quietly. She glanced toward the living room, where Clay had gone. “Clay looks bad. Do you suppose he's all right?” she asked slowly.

“Sure he is,” Mack said quickly. “I'll go check on him for you, okay?”

“Mack, you didn't eat your spinach…”

“Later!” he called back.

“Coward!” she called after him.

Granddad exchanged a speaking glance with Becky. “I wish we could keep Clay away from the Harris boys,” he said miserably.

“So do I, but how—tie him to the porch?” She put down her napkin and rested her face in her hands.

“You aren't going soft on Kilpatrick?” Granddad asked suddenly, his eyes sharp. “You sounded pretty upset about what happened to him.”

She lifted her head. It was the last straw. “I have a perfect right to like anyone I please,” she said. “If I like Mr. Kilpatrick, that's my business and nobody else's.”

Granddad cleared his throat and looked away. “How about passing me some more corn? It sure is good.”

Becky began to feel guilty because of what she'd said. But it was getting too difficult to make all the sacrifices she did and have them just taken for granted. She was brewing inside like a fermenting vat of grapes. She felt reckless and wild, and for once, she didn't really care if her attitude upset anybody.