Night Fever. Diana Palmer
way of looking at things. It wasn’t his fault that the law kept hounding him, no more than it’s Clay’s. That Kilpatrick man has it in for us.”
Becky started to speak and stopped. Granddad couldn’t admit that he’d made a mistake with Scott, so he certainly wasn’t going to admit that he’d made one with Clay. It wouldn’t do any good to have an argument with him over it, but it left her holding the bag and Clay’s future in her own hands. She could see that she’d get little help from Granddad now.
“Becky, whatever your father did or didn’t do, he’s still my son,” he said suddenly, clenching the chair hard with his lean old hands. “I love him. I love Clay, too.”
“I know that,” she said gently. She bent down and kissed his leathery cheek. “We’ll take care of Clay. They’re going to give him some counseling and help him,” she said, hoping she could make Clay go to the sessions without too much browbeating. “He’ll come through. He’s a Cullen.”
“That’s right. He’s a Cullen.” He smiled up at her. “You’re one, yourself. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”
“Frequently,” she said, and grinned. “When I get rich and famous, I’ll remember you.”
“We’ll never get rich, and Clay’s likely to be the only famous one of us—infamous, most likely.” He sighed. “But you’re the heart of the whole outfit. Don’t let this get you down. Life can get hard sometimes. But if you see through your troubles, think past them to better times, it helps. Always helped me.”
“I’ll remember that. I’d better get to work,” she added. “Be good. I’ll see you later.”
She drove to the office, inwardly cringing at the thought of the ordeal ahead. She had to talk to Kilpatrick. What Clay had said about Kilpatrick trying to put him in reform school frightened her. Kilpatrick might decide to pursue it, and she had to stop him from doing that. She was going to have to bury her pride and tell him the real situation at home, and she dreaded it.
Her boss gave her an hour off. She phoned the district attorney’s office on the seventh floor and asked to see the man himself. She was told that he was on his way down, to meet him at the elevator and they could talk while he got his coffee in the drugstore.
Elated that he’d deigned to at least speak to her, she grabbed her purse, straightened her flowery skirt and white blouse, and rushed out of the office.
Fortunately, the elevator was empty except for the cold-eyed Mr. Kilpatrick in his long overcoat, his thick black hair ruffled, and that eternal, infernal choking cigar in one hand. He gave her a cursory going-over that wasn’t flattering.
“You wanted to talk,” he said. “Let’s go.” He pushed the ground floor button and didn’t say a word until they walked into the small coffee shop in the drugstore. He bought her a cup of black coffee, one for himself, and a doughnut. He offered her one. But she was too sick to accept it.
They sat down at a corner table and he studied her quietly while he sipped his coffee. Her hair was in its usual bun, her face devoid of makeup. She looked as she felt—washed out and depressed.
“No cutting remarks about my cigar?” he prompted with a raised eyebrow. “No running commentary on my manners?”
She lifted her wan face and stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. “Mr. Kilpatrick, my life is falling apart, and I don’t care very much about your cigar smoke or your manners or anything else.”
“What did your father say when you told him about your brother?”
She was tired of the pretense. It was time to lay her cards on the table. “I haven’t seen or heard from my father in two years.”
He frowned. “What about your mother?”
“She died when the boys were young, when I was sixteen.”
“Who takes care of them?” he persisted. “Your grandfather?”
“Our grandfather has a bad heart,” she said. “He isn’t able to take care of himself, much less anyone else. We live with him and take care of him as best we can.”
His big hand hit the table, shaking it. “Are you telling me that you’re taking care of the three of them by yourself?!” he demanded.
She didn’t like the look on his dark face. She moved back a little. “Yes.”
“My God! On your salary?”
“Granddad has a farm,” she told him. “We grow our own vegetables and I put them up in the freezer and can some. We usually raise a beef steer, too, and Granddad gets a pension from the railroad and his social security. We get by.”
“How old are you?”
She glared at him. “That’s none of your business.”
“You’ve just made it my business. How old?”
“Twenty-four.”
“You were how old when your mother died?”
“Sixteen.”
He took a draw from the cigar and turned his head to blow it out. His dark eyes cut into hers, and she knew now exactly how it felt to sit on the witness stand and be grilled by him. It was impossible not to tell him what he wanted to know. That piercing stare and cold voice full of authority would have extracted information from a garden vegetable. “Why isn’t your father taking care of his own family?”
“I wish I knew,” she replied. “But he never has. He only comes around when he runs out of money. I guess he’s got enough; we haven’t seen him since he moved to Alabama.”
He studied her face quietly for a long time, until her knees went weak at the intensity of the scrutiny. He was so dark, she thought, and that navy pin-striped suit made him look even taller and more elegant. His Indian ancestry was dominant in that lean face, although he seemed to have the temperament of the Irish.
“No wonder you look the way you do,” he said absently. “Worn out. I thought at first it might be a demanding lover, but it’s overwork.”
She colored furiously and glared at him.
“That insults you, does it?” he asked, his deep voice going even deeper. “But you yourself told me that you were a kept woman,” he reminded her dryly.
“I lied,” she said, moving restlessly. “Anyway, I’ve got enough problems without loose living to add to them,” she said stiffly.
“I see. You’re one of those girls. The kind mothers throw under the wheels of their sons’ cars.”
“Nobody will ever throw me under yours, I hope,” she said. “I wouldn’t have you on a half shell with cocktail sauce.”
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked, lifting his chin to smile at her with pure sarcasm. “Has someone told you that I’m a half-breed?”
She flushed. “I didn’t mean that. You’re a very cold man, Mr. Kilpatrick,” she said, and shivered at his nearness. He smelled of some exotic cologne and cigar smoke, and she could feel the heat from his body. He made her nervous and weak and uncertain, and it was dangerous to feel that way about the enemy.
“I’m not cold. I’m careful.” He lifted the cigar to his mouth. “It pays to be careful these days. In every way.”
“So they say.”
“In which case, it might be wise if you stopped smearing honey over the mystery man who keeps you. You did say,” he reminded her, “that you were the kept woman of one of your employers?”
“I didn’t mean it,” she protested. “You were looking at me as if I were totally hopeless. It just came out, that’s all.”
“I should have mentioned it to Bob Malcolm yesterday,” he murmured.