Night Fever by Diana Palmer Page B

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!
    â€œHow 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.

CHAPTER SIX
    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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œWho?” Maggie asked with lifted brows.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œNo,” 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.”
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œI don’t know him