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On the other hand, that Cullen woman was giving him fits! He only realized how blackly he was scowling when the witness he was cross-examining began to blurt out details he hadn’t even asked for. The poor man had thought the scowl was meant for him, and he wasn’t taking any chances. Kilpatrick interrupted his monologue and asked the questions he needed the answers to before he went back to his seat. The black defense attorney, one J. Lincoln Davis, was laughing helplessly behind some papers. He was older than Kilpatrick—a big man with café au lait skin, dark eyes, and a ready wit. He was one of Curry Station’s richest attorneys, and arguably the best around. He was the only adversary Kilpatrick had been beaten by in recent years.
“Where were you in court?” Davis asked him in a whisper after the jury had retired. “God, you had that poor man tied in knots, and he was your own witness!”
Kilpatrick smiled faintly as he gathered his material into his attaché case. “I drifted off,” he murmured.
“That’s a first. We ought to hang a plaque or something. See you tomorrow.”
He nodded absently. For the first time, he’d lost his concentration in court. And all because of a skinny secretary with a mane of tawny hair.
He should be thinking about her brother. He’d had a long talk with his investigator at lunch, and there were some solid rumors that a drug-related hit was about to go down. Kilpatrick was working on a case involving crack peddling. He had two witnesses, and his first thought was that they might be the targets. The investigator had said that he was fairly certain Clay Cullen was involved somehow with the dealers because of his friendship with the Harrises. If the boy had that much crack on him, was it possible that he was starting to deal it?
Having to prosecute the boy wouldn’t really bother him, but he thought of Rebecca and that did. How would she react to having her brother in jail and knowing that Kilpatrick had put him there? He had to stop thinking like that. Prosecuting criminals was his job. He couldn’t let personal feelings get in the way. He only had a few months to go as district attorney. He had to make them count.
He went back to his office deep in thought. Would the drug dealers risk obvious murder to keep their territory intact? If they started blowing up people in his district, it was going to fall to him to get the goods on the perpetrators and send them away. He scowled, hoping that Rebecca Cullen’s brother wasn’t going to wind up back in his office as part of that fight over drug territory.
Rebecca was going through the motions of working herself. She typed mechanically, doing briefs on the electronic typewriter while Nettie fed precedents for another case into the computer. Nettie was a paralegal, qualified to do legwork for the attorneys as well as secretarial work. Becky envied her, but she couldn’t afford the training that was required for paralegal status, even though it would have meant a salary increase.
She was worried about Granddad. His silence at breakfast had been disturbing. She phoned Mrs. White at lunch and asked the widowed lady to go over to the house and check on him. Mrs. White was always willing to look in on the old gentleman when she was needed. Besides that, she was a retired nurse, and Becky thanked her lucky stars for such a good neighbor.
If only Clay would straighten himself out, she thought. It was enough work trying to raise the boys without having to get them out of jail. Mack adored his older brother. If Clay kept it up, it might be only a matter of time before Mack emulated him.
It was quitting time almost before she realized it. She’d had a busy day, and had been grateful for it. Slow days gave her too much time to think.
She gathered up her purse and worn gray jacket and said her good-byes. The elevator would be full at this time of day, she thought, her heartbeat increasing as she went down the hall. Probably, Mr. Kilpatrick was still upstairs working, anyway.
But he wasn’t. He was in the elevator when she got on it, and he smiled at her. She couldn’t know that he’d timed it exactly, knowing when she got off and hoping that he’d encounter her. Amazing, he thought cynically, how ridiculously he was behaving because of this woman.
She smiled back, feeling her heart drop suddenly, and not from the motion of the elevator.
He got off with her on the ground floor and strode along beside her as if he had nothing better to do.
“Feeling better?” he asked as he held open the door for her on the way to the street.
“Yes, thank you,” she said. She’d never felt so shy and speechless in all her life. She glanced up at him and blushed like a girl.
He liked that telltale sign. It made his spirits lift. “I lost a case today,” he remarked absently. “The jurors thought I was deliberately badgering a witness and threw their decision in the defense’s favor.”
“Were you?”
“Badgering him?” His wide mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. “No. My mind was somewhere else and he got in the way.”
She knew that black glare of his very well. She could certainly understand how a witness might feel under its pressure.
Her hands clutched her purse. “I’m sorry you lost your case.”
He stopped on the sidewalk, towering over her, and looked down at her thoughtfully. He hesitated, wondering what kind of chain reaction he might start if he asked her out. He was crazy, he told himself shortly, to even contemplate such a thing. He couldn’t afford to get involved in her life.
“How did your grandfather take the news?” he asked instead.
She was disappointed. She’d expected a different question, but it was probably just wishful thinking. Why would he want to take out someone like her? She knew she wasn’t his type. Besides, her family would raise the roof—especially Granddad.
She managed a smile. “He took it on the chin,” she said. “We’re a tough lot, we Cullens.”
“Make sure you know where that boy is for the next few days,” he said suddenly. He took her arm and drew her to the wall, wary of passersby. “We’ve had a tip that something is going down in the city—a hit, maybe. We don’t know who or when or how, but we’re pretty sure it’s drug-related. There are two factions fighting for dominance in the distribution sector. The Harris brothers are involved. If they tried to use your brother as a scapegoat, considering the trouble he’s already in...” He left the rest unsaid.
She shivered. “It’s like walking a tightrope,” she said. “I don’t mind looking out for my kin, but I never expected anything like drugs and murder.” She shifted, wrapping her coat closer around her. Her eyes lifted to his, briefly vulnerable. “It’s so hard sometimes,” she whispered.
His breath caught. She made him feel a foot taller when she looked at him that way. “Have you ever had a normal life?”
She smiled. “When I was a little girl, I guess. Not since Mother died. It’s been me and Granddad and the boys.”
“No social life, I guess.”
“Something always came up—a virus, the mumps, chicken pox. Granddad’s heart.” She laughed softly. “There wasn’t exactly a stampede to my door, anyway.” She looked down at her handbag. “It isn’t a bad life. I’m needed. I have a purpose. So many people don’t.”
He felt that way about his work—that it was necessary and fulfilled him. But with the exception of his German shepherd, he felt no real emotions except anger and indignation. No love. His whole work experience was based on moral justice, protection of the masses, and conviction of the guilty. A noble purpose, perhaps, but a lonely calling. And until recently, he hadn’t realized how lonely.
“I suppose,” he murmured absently. His eyes were on her soft mouth. It was a perfect bow, palest pink, with a delicate look that made him ache to feel it under his mouth.
She glanced up, puzzled by his frank stare. “Is it my freckles?” she blurted out.
His thick eyebrows lifted and he met her gaze with a smile. “What?”
“You seemed to be brooding,” she murmured. “I thought maybe my freckles made you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have them, but there’s just a hint of red in my hair. My grandmother was a flaming redhead.”
“Do you take after your parents?”
“My father is blond,” she said, “and hazel-eyed. We look a lot alike. My mother was small and dark, and none of us favored her.”
“I like freckles,” he said, catching her off guard. He checked his watch. “I’ve got to get home. The Atlanta Symphony is doing Stravinsky tonight. I don’t want to miss it.”
“The Firebird?” Becky asked.
He smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Most people hate it.”
“I love it,” she said. “I’ve got two recordings of it—one avant garde and one traditional. I have to listen to it with earphones. My grandfather likes old Hank Williams records and both my brothers are into hard rock. I’m a throwback.”
“Do you like opera?”
“Madame Butterfly and Turandot and Carmen.” She sighed. “And I love to listen to Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti.”
“I saw Turandot at the Met last year,” he remarked. His dark eyes searched her face warmly. “Do you watch those specials on public television?”
“When I can get the television to myself,” she said. “We only have one, and it’s small.”
“They made a movie of Carmen with Domingo,” he said. “I’ve got it.”
“Is it good?”
“If you like opera, it’s great.” He searched her eyes slowly, wondering why it was so difficult to stop talking and say good night. She was pretty in a shy kind of way, and she made his blood sing in his veins.
She stared back at him, weak in the knees. This happened so quickly, she thought, and even as she was thinking it her mind was denying her the chance of any kind of relationship with him. He was the enemy. Now, of all times, she couldn’t afford weakness. She had to remember that Kilpatrick was out to get her brother. It would be disloyal to her family to let anything happen. But her heart was fighting that logic. She was alone and lonely, and she’d sacrificed the best part of her youth for her family. Did she deserve nothing for herself?
“Deep thoughts?” he asked softly, watching the expressions cross her face.
“Deep and dark,” she replied. Her lips parted on unsteady breaths. He was looking at her just as she imagined a man might look at a woman he wanted. It thrilled her, excited her, and scared her to death.
He saw the fear first. He felt it, too. He didn’t want involvement any more than she did, and now was the time to cut this off.
He straightened. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Keep an eye on your brother.”
“I will. Thanks for warning me,” she said.
He shrugged. He pulled out a cigar and lit it as he walked away, his broad back as impenetrable as a wall.
Becky wondered why he’d bothered to stop and talk to her. Could he really be interested in a woman like her?
She caught a glimpse of herself in a window as she walked toward the underground garage where her car was kept. Oh, sure, she thought, seeing the thin, wan-looking face that stared back at her. She was just the kind of woman who would attract such a devastatingly handsome man. She rolled her eyes and went on to her car, putting her hopeless daydreams behind her.
Chapter Four
It was a beautiful spring morning. Kilpatrick stared out the window of his elegant brick home on one of the quieter streets of Curry Station, feeling a little guilty about spending a Saturday morning in his house, instead of at the office. But Gus needed some exercise and Kilpatrick had just shaken a bad headache. No wonder, because he’d had a late night going over briefs for upcoming trials.
Gus barked. Kilpatrick reached down to ruffle the big German shepherd’s silver-and-black fur.
“Impatient, are you?” he asked. “We’ll walk. Let me get dressed.”
He was in jeans and barefoot, his hair-covered chest and stomach bare. He’d just finished a Diet Coke and a stale doughnut for breakfast. Sometimes he wished he’d kept Matilda on, instead of giving his former housekeeper notice when she’d started leaking news out of his office to the press. She was the best cook and the worst gossip he’d ever known. The house was very quiet without her, and his own cooking was going to kill him one day.
He slipped on a white sweatshirt, socks and his sneakers, and ran a comb through his thick black hair. He stared at the reflection in the mirror with a raised eyebrow. No Mr. America there, he thought, but the body was holding its own. Not that it did him much good. Women were a luxury these days, with his job taking up every waking hour. He thought about Rebecca Cullen suddenly, and tried to picture her in his bed. Ridiculous. In the first place, she was almost certainly a virgin, and in the second, her family would come between her and any potential suitor. They had every reason not to want him around, too. No, she was off-limits. He was going to have to keep telling himself that.
He looked around at his elegant surroundings with a faint smile, thinking how odd it was that the illegitimate son of a socially prominent businessman and a Cherokee Indian woman should wind up with a house like this. Only someone as gutsy as his uncle, Sanderson Kilpatrick, would have had the nerve to push Rourke out into society and dare it to reject him.
Uncle Sanderson. He laughed in spite of himself. No one looking at the portrait over the fireplace of that staid, dignified old man would ever suspect him of having an outrageous sense of humor or a heart of pure marshmallow. But he’d taught Rourke everything he knew about being wanted and loved. His parents’ deaths had been traumatic for him. His childhood had been a kind of nightmare—school, especially. But his uncle had stood behind him, forced him to accept his heritage and be proud of it. He’d taught him a lot about courage and determination and honor. Uncle Sanderson was a judge’s judge, a shining example of the very best of the legal profession. It was his example that had sent Rourke to law school, and then catapulted him into the public eye as district attorney. Get out there and do some good, Uncle Sanderson had said. Money isn’t everything. Criminals are taking over. Do a job that needs doing.
Well, he was doing it. He hadn’t liked being a public figure, and the campaign after he’d served one year of his predecessor’s unexpired term had been hell. But he’d won, to his amazement, and he liked to think that since then he’d taken some of the worst criminals off the street. His pet peeve was drug trafficking, and he was meticulous in his preparation of a case. There were no loopholes in Kilpatrick’s briefs. His uncle had taught him the necessity of adequate preparation. He’d never forgotten, to the dismay of several haphazard public defenders and high-powered defense attorneys.
Uncle Sanderson had shocked Rourke by cultivating in him a sense of pride in his Cherokee ancestry. He’d made sure that Rourke never tried to hide it or disguise it. He’d pushed Rourke out into Atlanta society, and he’d discovered that most people found him interesting rather than an embarrassment. Not that it would have mattered either way. He had enough of Uncle Sanderson’s spunk not to take insults from anyone. He was good with his fists, and he’d used them a few times over the years.
As he grew older, he began to understand the proud old man a lot better. Sanderson Kilpatrick’s Irish grandfather had come to America penniless and his life had been one long series of disasters and tragedies. It had been the first-generation American, Tad, who’d opened the small specialty store that had become the beginning of the Kilpatrick convenience store chain. Sanderson had been one of only two surviving Kilpatrick children.
And then Sanderson had learned that he was sterile. It had been a killing blow to his pride. But at least his brother’s only son had produced an heir—Rourke. The convenience store chain had slowly gone bankrupt. Uncle Sanderson had squirreled enough away to leave Rourke well-fixed, but the Kilpatrick name and generations of respect were about the sum total of his inheritance. And since Rourke was closemouthed, that family secret didn’t get much airing. He made a comfortable living and he knew how to invest it, but he was no millionaire. Uncle Sanderson’s Mercedes-Benz and the elegant old family brick mansion, both unencumbered by debt, were the only holdovers from a more prosperous past.
Gus barked just before the doorbell rang. “Okay, hold your horses,” he said as he returned to the living room, his bare feet landing silently on the luxurious beige carpet.
Kilpatrick opened the front door to Dan Berry, who grinned at him through the screen. “Hi, boss,” his investigator said cheerily, flashing him a smile. “Got a minute?”
“Sure. Let me get Gus’s lead and we’ll walk and talk.” He glanced at the heavyset man. “A little exercise wouldn’t hurt you.”
Dan made a face. “I was afraid you’d say that. How’s the headache?”
“Better. Aspirin and cold compresses got rid of it.” He attached Gus to the lead and opened the door. Early mornings in the spring were cool, and Dan shivered. The trees still sported bare limbs that would be elegant bouquets of blossoms only a month or so from now.
Kilpatrick moved out to the sidewalk, letting Gus take the lead. “What’s up?” he asked when they were halfway down the block.
“Plenty. The sheriff’s office got a complaint this morning about Curry Station Elementary. One of the kids’ mothers called to report it. Her son saw one of the marijuana dealers having an argument with Bubba Harris at recess. It’s just been marijuana, so far—until now.”
Kilpatrick stopped dead, his dark eyes intent. “Are the Harrises trying to cut in on that territory with crack?”
“We think so,” Berry replied. “We don’t have anything, yet. But I’m going to work on some of the students and see what I can turn up. We’re organizing a locker search with the help of the local police, too. If we find crack, we’ll know who’s involved.”
“That will go over big with the parents,” he murmured.
“Yes, I know. But we’ll muddle through.” He glanced at Kilpatrick as they began to walk again. “That Cullen boy was seen with Son Harris at one of the dives in midtown Atlanta. They’re real thick.”
Kilpatrick’s face stiffened. “So I’ve heard.”
“I know you didn’t have enough evidence to go to trial,” Berry said. “But if I were you, I’d keep a close eye on that boy. He could lead us right to the Harrises, if we play our cards right.”
Kilpatrick was thinking about that. His dark eyes narrowed. If he got close to Becky, he could keep Clay Cullen in sight with ease. Was that it, he wondered, or was he rationalizing ways to see Becky? He had to think this through carefully before he made a decision.
“There’s another complication, too,” Berry went on, his hands in his pockets as he glanced up at Kilpatrick. “Your sparring partner’s getting ready to announce.”
“Davis?” he asked, because he’d heard rumors, too. Davis hadn’t said anything in court to him about it. That was like the big man, to pull rabbits out of hats at the most unexpected time. He grinned. “He’ll win, unless I miss my guess. There are plenty of contenders for my job, but Davis is pure shark.”
“He’ll be after your professional throat.”
“Only to make news,” Kilpatrick assured him. “I haven’t decided yet about running for a third term.” He stretched and yawned. “Let him do his worst. I don’t give a damn.”
“Want to round off your day?” Berry murmured with a dry glance. “One last tidbit of gossip. They’re releasing Harvey Blair on Monday.”
“Blair.” He scowled. “Yes, I remember. I sent him up for armed robbery six years ago. What the hell’s he doing out?”
“His lawyer got him a full pardon from the governor.” He held up his hand. “Don’t blame me. I don’t hide your mail. Your secretary is guilty as hell. She told me she forgot to mention it and you were too busy in court to read it.”
He bit off a curse. “Blair. Dammit. If ever a man deserved a pardon less...he was guilty as hell!”
“Of course he was.” Berry stopped walking, looking uncomfortable. “He threatened to kill you if he ever got out. You might keep your doors locked, just in case.”
“I’m not afraid of Blair,” Kilpatrick said, and his eyes narrowed. “Let him try, if he feels lucky. He won’t be the first.”
That was a fact. The D.A. had been the target of assassins twice, once from a gun by an angry defendant who’d been convicted by Kilpatrick’s expertise, and another time from a crazed defendant with a knife, right in court. Nobody present in the courtroom that day would ever forget the way Kilpatrick had met the knife attack. He had effortlessly parried the thrust and thrown his attacker over a table. Kilpatrick was ex-Special Forces, and as tough as they came. Berry secretly thought that his Indian ancestry didn’t hurt, either. Indians were formidable fighters. It was in the blood.
Kilpatrick waved Dan off and he and Gus continued on their daily one-mile walk. He was fit enough, physically. He worked out at the gym weekly and played racquetball. The walk was more for Gus’s sake than his own. Gus was ten years old and he had a sedentary lifestyle. With Kilpatrick away at the office six days out of seven—and occasionally, when the calendar was loaded in court, seven out of seven—he didn’t get a lot of exercise in his fenced-in enclosure out back.
He thought about what Dan had told him and grimaced. Blair was going to be back on the streets and gunning for him. That wasn’t surprising. Neither was the information about the Harris boys. A war over drug turf was just what he needed right now, with the Cullen boy in the middle. He remembered Cullen’s father—a surly, uncooperative man with cold eyes. Incredible, that he could have fathered a woman like Rebecca, with her warm heart and soft eyes. Even more incredible that he could have deserted her like that. He shook his dark head. One way or another, her life stood to get worse before it got better—especially with a brother like hers. He tugged at Gus’s lead and they turned back toward home.
* * *
