“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