Night Fever Read online

  Granddad hesitated when he realized that anger wasn’t going to work. “Listen, sugar, you need to stop and think what you’re doing. I know you need to go out occasionally, to get away from housework and your job. But this man…he might actually be using you to spy on Clay.”

  He’d said something of the sort before, but this time Becky was ready for him.

  “I’ve had lunch with him every day this week. He hasn’t even mentioned Clay, not once.”

  Grandad looked outraged, but he camouflaged it. He started to speak again, but Becky got up and started gathering the dishes together.

  “Oh, go ahead,” he said angrily. “I can’t stop you. But mark my words, you’re going to regret this.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said firmly. She took the dishes into the kitchen, her cheeks blazing with bad temper. Oh, lord, I hope I’m not, she amended before she started filling the sink with soapy water.

  Clay came in just as she was finishing up in the kitchen and about to lock up for the night.

  “It’s after midnight,” she told him. “Have you been working?” she asked flatly.

  “Yes,” he blurted out. Of course he was, but not at the kind of job Becky thought he had. It wasn’t a total lie, he reassured himself.

  “Exactly where?” she asked.

  He arched his eyebrows. “Why do you want to know—so that you can have me checked out? As long as I’m working and going to school, what business is it of yours?”

  Her jaw clenched. “I’m legally responsible for you, that’s what business of mine it is,” she said icily. “I don’t like this cocky attitude of yours, and from what I hear of your new girlfriend, I don’t think much of her, either.”

  His hands clenched at his sides. “I don’t care what you think of her, or me,” he said. “I’m tired of having you try to run my life. Why don’t you find yourself a man?”

  “In fact, I have,” she said hotly. “I’m going out with Rourke Kilpatrick tomorrow night.”

  He paled. “You can’t,” he began, thinking of the hell he was going to catch when his friends found out that his sister was dating their worst enemy. “Becky, you can’t!”

  “Oh, yes, I can,” she returned. “I’ve had enough of being everybody’s mother and keeper. I’m going to have a little fun of my own for a change.”

  “Kilpatrick’s my worst enemy!” he shouted.

  “He isn’t mine,” she replied quietly. “And if you don’t like it, that’s just tough. I’ve worn myself out trying to get you to see what kind of people you’re associating with. You won’t listen, so why should I? Your friends won’t like having me go out with the district attorney, will they?” she asked him flatly. “Well, that’s just tough. You can’t stop me, can you, Clay?”

  He looked, and was, shaken. She didn’t sound or look like his easygoing sister. She looked…different.

  “Well, you’ll be sorry,” he said, backing away. “You hear me, Becky? You’ll be sorry!”

  “So everybody says,” she murmured to herself after he’d slammed into his room. She closed her eyes. “Oh, lord, if I thought I had fifty more years of this to look forward to, I’d throw myself under a truck.”

  She contemplated that for a minute and decided that, given the way her luck was going, Clay would be driving the truck and it would be full of illegal drugs. She began to laugh almost hysterically. Life, she thought, was getting too complicated. Despite her attraction to Kilpatrick, and her hunger to be with him, just the fact of dating him was going to make things so much worse at home. But as she’d told her family, she was entitled to a little pleasure, even if she had to fight tooth and nail to get it. And she would, she promised herself. She would!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Becky didn’t see Clay at all the next day. Well, let him sulk, she thought angrily. It was about time he faced the fact that she had rights, too. But she was on pins and needles all afternoon, worrying that something was going to go wrong and spoil her one big evening. But Granddad managed not to have a sick spell and Mack didn’t give her any trouble. Both of them brooded, naturally, but it looked as if they weren’t going to try to stop her from going out with Kilpatrick.

  She put on the black dress and arranged her hair in an elegant coiffure. She drew on dark hose to wear with the spiked heels, and transferred the contents of her handbag to Maggie’s evening bag. It was a good thing, she thought, that Kilpatrick wouldn’t see what was under her dress. Her slip was several years old and white, not black. It had faint stains that wouldn’t even bleach out, and her underwear, while clean, was hardly exciting—cotton, with raveled lace. Thank God she wouldn’t have to take any of it off. It would be just too embarrassing to have him see how poor she really was.

  The dress was an extravagance, and she felt slightly guilty. But that only lasted until Kilpatrick came to pick her up and saw how it looked on her. His eyes said enough, even without the faint whistle and the husky exclamation.

  “Will I do?” she asked breathlessly.

  “You’ll do just fine,” he murmured, and smiled warmly.

  He was wearing a dinner jacket, and the white shirt looked even whiter against his dark skin.

  “Come in,” she stammered, embarrassed by the shabby furniture and the tattered rug as much as by Clay’s furious glare. He’d shown up at the house only minutes before, and he looked as if he would like to shoot Kilpatrick on the spot. He didn’t even bother with a greeting. He turned on his heel and left the room.

  That didn’t seem to bother Kilpatrick. And he didn’t stare, or seem to really notice his surroundings. He shook hands with a reluctant Granddad and a nervous Mack with careless ease.

  “I’ll have her home by midnight,” he assured Granddad.

  Granddad allowed Becky to kiss his cheek. “Have a good time,” he said tersely.

  “Thanks, I will.” She winked at Mack, who managed a reluctant smile and went back to watching television.

  Kilpatrick closed the door behind them. Becky could have burst into tears. She knew that it was Clay’s lead that had influenced Granddad and Mack; they were trying to show their support for him. But Mack had been withdrawn and moody all day, and he hadn’t even spoken to Clay when his brother had come in. In fact, she realized, his behavior toward Clay was more hostile than his attitude toward Kilpatrick.

  “Stop brooding. I didn’t expect fireworks and flags waving,” he said dryly as he helped her into the front seat of his car—a new one. It was not a Mercedes, either, but a Thunderbird turbo coupe. It was white with a red interior—a streamlined beast of a machine. “Well, how do you like it?” he asked impatiently.

  “I love it,” she said gently. He walked around to the driver’s side. “I’m sorry, anyway, about my family,” Becky added when he was in the car and they were driving away.

  “No apology needed.” He glanced at her in the glare from the streetlights and smiled. “Is that a new dress, and for my benefit?” he asked.

  She burst out laughing. “Yes, it is, and I hope you aren’t going to get conceited.”

  “Child, a man who looks like I do, and with my obvious charm and modesty, has a hell of a lot to be conceited about,” he informed her with a wicked grin.

  She felt as if she were floating, dreaming. “Oh, you’re so different from what I thought you were!” she said, thinking out loud. “You’re not stern and unapproachable at all.”

  “That’s my public face,” he informed her. “I have to keep the voters convinced that I’m one step down from public enemy number one. A good D.A. should look worse than Scarface.” He scowled thoughtfully. “Maybe I could get a makeup kit and work on myself. Of course, I’m not too thrilled at the prospect of a third term in office.”

  “How in the world did you get to be a district attorney?” she asked, really interested.

  “I got tired of seeing victims who suffered more than the criminals,” he said simply. “I thought I could do something about it. And I have, in a small way.” He glanced her way.
“There’s a lot wrong with the world, little one.”

  “I’ve noticed.” She leaned her head back on the headrest, her eyes searching over his hard, lean face in the glare of overhead streetlights. “You look tired,” she said, aware of new lines in his face.

  “I am tired,” he said. “I spent most of last night in a hospital emergency room.”

  “Why?” she asked gently.

  All the lightness went out of his expression. “I was watching a ten-year-old boy die of a drug overdose,” he said with brutal candor.

  “Ten?!”

  “Ten.” He bit off the word, his face hardening even as she watched. “He was a fifth grader at Curry Station Elementary. He overdosed on crack. It seems the boy’s parents are well-to-do and he got a substantial allowance. He wasn’t making good grades, and the other kids were giving him a hard time. It’s amazing how kids seem to be able to find any weakness in another child and attack it.”

  “My little brother goes to Curry Station Elementary,” she said in a stunned voice. “And he’s in fifth grade.”

  “He’ll hear all about it Monday, I’m sure,” Kilpatrick said angrily. “It’s going to be a media holiday, and guess who’s on the hot seat?”

  “You and the police,” she made a shrewd guess.

  He nodded. “He was an only child. His parents were pretty torn up. I promised them I’d find the perpetrators if it was the last thing I did. I meant it, too,” he added coldly. “I’ll get them. And when I do, I’ll send them up.”

  She clenched her hands in her lap, refusing to think that Clay might somehow have been involved. Her eyes closed. “Ten years old.”

  He lit a cigar and cracked a window for Becky’s benefit. “Mack doesn’t do drugs, does he?” he asked, glancing at her.

  She shook her head. “Not Mack. He’s much too sensible. He’s more like me than Clay ever was. I never did drugs in my whole life. In fact, I only ever had a drink once and I hated it.” She smiled wistfully. “I’m a real square. I guess it comes from living out in the sticks and having little contact with the modern world.”

  “You aren’t missing much,” he murmured as he executed a sharp right turn out of the growing weekend night traffic. “From what I see every day, the modern world is going straight to hell.”

  “You must think there’s hope for it, or you’d have quit your job long ago.”

  “I still may,” he informed her. “The political powers-that-be are leaning on me to go for a third term, but I’m sick of it. I take criminals to court and the judges and juries turn them loose. The first drug supplier I prosecuted was sentenced to life and he got out in three years. How’s that for having your eyes opened?”

  “Does it always work that way?”

  “It depends on the perp’s connections,” he replied. “If he works for some drug lord who considers him valuable enough, there are always political strings that can be pulled and palms that can be greased. Nothing is black and white these days. Corruption is more widespread than you’d ever believe. I’m tired of politics and plea-bargaining and overcrowded jails and courts.”

  “They say the courts are backed up really bad,” she mentioned. “I know it sometimes takes months for us to get a case calendared.”

  “That’s true. I average several hundred cases a month, of which only about twenty or thirty ever get to trial. No joke,” he said when he saw her expression. “The rest are plea-bargained out or dropped for lack of evidence. You can’t imagine how frustrating it gets when you’re trying to handle so many cases without adequate manpower. And then, when I finally get a case together and get it into court, two out of three times the defense attorney or the public defender is called away or we can’t get a crucial witness to show up for court, and we have to have the trial put off again. I’ve had one case get to the bench three times and the man I’m prosecuting is still in jail waiting to be tried.” He gestured angrily with the hand that was holding the cigar. “What hurts the most is having to send off a first-time offender and having him land in stir with older criminals. He gets an education money can’t buy, and that isn’t the worst of it.” He stopped for a traffic light. “I suppose you know that some men are used like women in prison?” he added, glancing at her.

  She nodded. “Yes. The juvenile officer mentioned that when I picked up Clay.”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “Trying to frighten him, I suppose. I hope it worked. He wasn’t telling lies.”

  “Clay’s something of a hardcase,” she murmured, her hands tightening on the evening purse Maggie had loaned her. “He doesn’t scare easily.”

  “Neither did I, at his age,” he replied. “It’s a shame that your father wasn’t more of a father, Becky. What that boy needs most right now is a man he can look up to.”

  “If Granddad was the man he used to be, he might have been able to do something with Clay,” she said. “But he’s been in bad health for the past year, and I’m just not up to coping with a boy bigger than I am. I can’t very well put him over my knee and spank him.”

  He chuckled softly as the light changed and the powerful car sped off. “I can imagine that. But at his age, spanking is hardly the answer. Can he be reasoned with?”

  “Not since he started hanging out with his new friends. I have no influence over him at all now. He’s even stopped going to counseling.” She studied her hands in her lap. “He’s got a job, at least. Or so he says.”

  “Good for him.” He took another draw from the cigar. “I hope he does well at it.” He didn’t push his luck. He wondered if Clay really had a job or if that was just what he’d told his sister to explain his nocturnal activities. It would be worth checking out.

  She laid her head against the headrest and stared at him openly, smiling. “I’m glad you asked me out.”

  “So am I. And you still haven’t told me what you want to do after we eat,” he reminded her. “What’s it going to be—a movie or dancing?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t care,” she said, and meant it. It was more than enough just to be with him.

  “In that case, we’ll go dancing,” he said. “I can watch a movie by myself, but dancing alone is rough. People stare, and it plays hell with my credibility.”

  She laughed with pure delight. “You’re a lunatic,” she told him.

  “Absolutely,” he informed her as he turned into the parking lot of one of the better restaurants in Atlanta. “No sane man would do my job.” He parked the car and cut off the engine, turning to study her with blatant interest in the light from the overhead streetlights. “I do like that dress,” he remarked. “But your hair would look better if you took it down.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” she protested with a laugh. “It took me the better part of a half hour to get it in this condition in the first place.”

  “It wouldn’t take half as long to take it down, now, would it?” he murmured dryly, his dark eyes mischievous as they held hers.

  “But…”

  He traced her mouth with his forefinger, creating havoc with her pulse and her makeup. “I like long hair,” he murmured.

  This wasn’t fair at all. Of course, she couldn’t have expected him to give up before he finally got his own way. He had a reputation for being worse than a bulldog in court. She sighed with audible defeat and reached up to take the pins out of her high coiffure. So much for trying to look elegant for him.

  “That’s better,” he said when she finished dragging her hairbrush through her long tresses so that they waved softly around her bare shoulders. His lean, dark fingers smoothed down it and tangled in its silky softness. “It smells like wildflowers.”

  “Does it?” she whispered. It was hard to get her breath with his face so close to hers. She looked up into dark eyes that seemed to see right through her and her heart skipped.

  He was doing some looking of his own. Becky had a quality that he’d never known in any other woman—an exaggerated empathy, a way of feeling the pain of people around her. She had sp
irit and she was strong, but it wasn’t those qualities that attracted him to her. It was her warmth, her soft heart, her capacity for opening her arms to the whole world. Love had been singularly lacking in Kilpatrick’s life. Except for his uncle, he’d never been really close to anyone. His one brief brush with being engaged had soured him on women for a long time, but Becky was opening doors in his heart. He scowled, a little uncomfortable at the thought of being vulnerable again.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked huskily, because she didn’t understand the scowl.

  He searched her hazel eyes with quiet discomfort, then smiled faintly and drew his hand away from her thick, silky hair. “Just thinking,” he said carelessly. He leaned forward and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “We’d better get going.”

  He helped her out and escorted her into the restaurant—one so fancy that the place setting had half a dozen assorted forks and spoons—and Becky ground her teeth together, hoping she wasn’t going to embarrass him.

  The menu, to add insult to injury, was in French. She blushed, and Kilpatrick, seeing her face, could have kicked himself. He’d meant to give her a special evening, not make her feel out of place.

  He plucked the menu out of her cold, nervous hands with a quiet smile. “Which do you prefer, fish, chicken, or beef?” he asked softly.

  “Chicken,” she said immediately, because it was usually less expensive in the restaurants she’d been to before and she didn’t want to strain his pocket.

  He leaned forward, staring at her. “I said, which do you prefer,” he emphasized.

  She colored delicately and dropped her eyes. “Beef.”

  “All right.” He motioned to the waiter, who came immediately, and he gave the order in what sounded to Becky like flawless French.

  “You speak French?” she asked.

  He nodded. “French, Latin, and a little Cherokee,” he said. “It’s a knack, I suppose—kind of like the ability to make a mouthwatering lemon pound cake.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you.”