Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (33 page)

‘I—I didn’t go back to Vitale willingly
.’

She waited, her breath stilled. Something gleamed in his eyes, then was snuffed out. ‘As I said, fascinating.’ He turned away. ‘Let’s go. It’s getting late.’

Some new emotion swept through her. Pain. Yes. Desperation, of course.

But suddenly—suddenly anger rose inside her.

'Dammit, James Forrester…' Gabrielle took a step forward. 'Can you get down from that high horse long enough to listen?'

James folded his arms. 'I'm listening,' he said coldly. 'Why wouldn't I? You're one hell of an actress. I wouldn't want to miss this performance.'

‘That night—Vitale telephoned me after you left. He said if I didn’t come back to him, he’d—he’d kill you.'

'What the hell kind of fool do you take me for?’ he demanded. ‘The cop on duty at your front door told me how you’d called him inside to check on a noise, how

you’d sneaked out while he was upstairs…’

‘The cop lied. Vitale arranged it. He arranged for my plane ticket, for the cab that picked me up’

James’s mouth curled in disgust. ‘Stop it! It’s over. You’ve lost, don’t you see that? Just be grateful you still have the things he gave you, the furs and the jewels.’

That was what he believed, that Vitale had bought her. She thought back, remem
bering his bitter words when they first met, the questions about how she’d gotten the carriage house in New Orleans, the suggestions that it had been hard to turn away from the man who’d given her presents back in New York.

Nothing that had happened since would have con
vinced him that he’d been wrong. There’d been pictures of her everywhere, stories about the fortune in jewels and furs Vitale had lavished on her. Even now, as she pleaded with James to believe her, she was draped in Big Tony’s booty, wearing his silks and furs and gems.

Her glance fell to the ruby necklace lying on the floor, and a sudden hope was kindled in her heart.

She bent and picked it up, moved past him to the window and looked out. Far below, the river gleamed like black oil beneath the lights of New York City.

‘Do these windows open?’

'Yeah. They open. What's that got to do with—'

Gabrielle opened one of the windows. The necklace fell through the night, twinkling like hundreds of tiny suns as it rushed toward the water.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

Gabrielle smiled. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I’ve never loved anyone but you.’

James stared at her in disbelief, and she laughed a little.

‘Tiffany’s,’ she said. ‘Five hundred thousand dollars. Can you imagine that?’ Her eyes held his as she slipped a ruby and sapphire bracelet from her wrist. ‘
Bulgari. Twenty thousand, I think.’ She laughed again, this time at the look on his face. ‘Well, maybe just a little bit more.’ Her arm drew back, her hand flexed, and the bracelet soared out of the window, winked against the inky darkness, and vanished from sight.

James took a step towards her. ‘Gabrielle. What are you doing?’

‘And then, of course, there’s this.’ She pulled the diamond ring from her finger and held it before her. ‘I hated this most,’ she said with a shudder. ‘God, how I hated it!’ A quick toss, and the ring sailed after the bracelet, winking like a shooting star as it tumbled through the sky.

‘Are you crazy?' James’s voice was hoarse. 'I told you, Vitale’s never going to see daylight again.’

'I know. That's what you said. And—oh. I almost forgot these,’ she said, plucking the diamond clips from her ears. Ten thousand dollars—isn’t that obscene?’

The earrings caught the light as they hurtled out of the window, tumbling over and over like tiny planets rushing to oblivion.

James put out his hand, then let it fall to his side. ‘Listen to me. You’re throwing away everything. There won’t be any more, don’t you understand? Vitale--’

‘Will never get out of prison.’ She smiled. ‘That's what you said.’

‘Then what are you doing?’

‘Last, but certainly not least...’ She shrugged off the sable coat, stepping free of it as it fell gracefully to the floor. James stared at it, and then his eyes met hers. She smiled. ‘Actually, I hate to send the coat to a watery grave. I mean, why should all those little animals have died in vain?’

James shoved his hand through his hair. The look on his face brought a bubble of laughter to her throat. ‘All right, that’s enough. Tell me what's going on here.'

She cocked her head, and her hair slipped across the silk of her nightgown. ‘What do you think—the coat, I mean. If we took it to a charity, could they find a use for it?’

James swallowed hard. ‘If this is a game…'

Gabrielle moved slowly towards him, stopping when she was a hand’s distance away.

‘No game,’ she said softly. She lifted her arms slowly and put them around his neck. His body stiffened beneath her touch. ‘I love you, James. I’ve loved you from the beginning.’ A smile tilted at her mouth. ‘Well, not that morning in the alley. You scared the life out of me then.’

James’s arms rose, then fell to his sides. ‘You’re only saying that because Vitale’s going to be locked up for the rest of his life.’

Gabrielle nodded. ‘That’s absolutely right.’ His eyes grew dark, and she sighed and put her hand to his face, smoothing away the lines in his forehead. ‘It wouldn’t be safe to tell you otherwise.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he growled.

‘Vitale said he’d kill you if I didn’t go to him.’ She watched his face, waiting for some sign that he believed her, but it was like watching a mask. She rose on tiptoe and pressed her mouth lightly to his. ‘I love you, James.’ Still, he said nothing. Tears filled her eyes and gleamed on her dark lashes. ‘I even loved you the night I thought you’d been sent to kill me.’

James groaned softly. ‘Gabrielle.’ His arms closed around her with a ferocity that drove the breath from her lungs. ‘My love,’ he whispered. ‘How could you have thought such a thing?’

A dizzying rush of happiness swept through her. She laid her head against his shoulder, reveling in the feel of him in her arms.

‘How could you have believed I’d leave you for Tony Vitale?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘Equal parts stupidity and blindness, I guess.’

She leaned back in his arms and smiled. ‘You see? We were both dumb.’

James smiled, and then his mouth narrowed to a thin line. ‘That bastard,’ he said. ‘Forcing you to go to him, imprisoning you...’

‘Hush.’ She kissed him lightly on the mouth. ‘I’d have gone to the ends of the earth for you, James. I’m just glad there was a way to keep you alive.’

He drew her close to him. She could feel the race of his heart against hers.

‘Can you forg
ive me for ever doubting you?’

‘I told you, we were both foolish.’ She drew back and smiled at him. ‘But people in love aren’t known for logic.’

‘Sometimes they are,’ he said, and then he kissed her, gently at first, then with a passion that dazzled her senses. When he raised his head, he was smiling. ‘For instance—only a logical man would interrupt this long enough to ask for your hand in marriage.’

Gabrielle laughed softly. ‘And only a logical woman would take time to accept.’ She kissed his neck, then leaned back in his arms and looked into his eyes. ‘Alma would approve of that proposal, sir. It was very sweet and old-fashioned.’

James’s eyes darkened. ‘I like old-fashioned things,’ he murmured. ‘Like this nightgown you’re wearing. How do these buttons open?’

She sighed as she guided his hands. ‘Easily,’ she whis
pered. ‘Let me show you.’

High over the East River, the sun rose blazing into the morning sky.

T

by

SANDRA MARTON

Copyright 1989, 2012  by Sandra Marton

The house was dark and silent, windows and doors locked against intruders
.

Against him, Peter Saxon thought grimly.

But there had never been a lock that could stop him and these were no different. He was inside the house in less than a minute, his shadow flowing from room to room like a wolf stalking its prey.

He found her easily enough, Sara the innocent, Sara the treacherous, asleep in her bed, hair spread over her pillow, lashes dark against her cheeks.

His throat tightened.

He had trusted her. He had—he had cared for her.

And she had betrayed him.

She made a soft sound in her sleep. A moan. It reminded him of what had been between them, of her sighs when they’d made love…

Except it hadn’t been love.

It had been a game.

She’d played him for a fool.

And tonight, he would get even.

Slowly, he drew back the duvet that covered her. She wore a nightgown but he knew, God, he knew every curve, every inch of her body.

Like a man in a dream, he brushed his calloused fingers over the smooth column of her throat. Bent to her, brushed his lips over hers.

He slipped his hands into her hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he drew her head back. He kissed her again, parting her lips with his, and then he groaned and drew back.

He would not let her deceive him again.

"Sara."

She sighed in her sleep.

"Sara." His voice was harsh. So were his hands, clasping her shoulders. "Wake up."

Her lashes fluttered
. Her eyes opened. "Peter?" Her voice was soft with sleep, disbelieving. "Peter," she said again, "oh my God, Peter…”

“In the flesh,” he said with a quick, icy smile.

"I can't believe it," she whispered. "How did you—what are you doing here?"

"Did you really think you were safe from me, Sara? You should have known I would find a way to reach you."

"You escaped," she said again, and her eyes lit with alarm. Quickly, she pushed the blankets aside and swung her legs to the floor. "You've got to hurry! They're sure to come here. And when they do…"

"I've been waiting for this moment, Sara. It's what kept me from going insane inside these last few days."

Dark wings of fear fluttered in Sara’s breast. In the eerie, ice-blue wash of moonlight that filled the room, she could see his face clearly. There was a coldness in his eyes she had only seen once before, in the car park outside the motel as the troopers led him away.

"Peter, listen to me. It's not what you think—

"Listen to you? I did listen to you, and look where it got me." His lips drew away from his teeth. "I never had a chance to pay you back for your advice." Again, he smiled that terrible smile. "But I will, Sara. I promise I will… tonight."

Sara Mitchell
looked up from her desk as the outer door to the Brookville police station opened. The pages of the calendar on the wall behind her lifted as the frigid breath of January blew into the already chilly room. Sara shivered dramatically and dipped her head in greeting to the heavy-set man standing in the doorway.

"Good morning, Chief. Welcome to Siberia."

Jim Garrett grunted as he shouldered the door shut. "Don't tell me," he said grumpily. "The heat's gone off again, right?"

Sara sighed as she pushed her chair back and rose from her desk. "No, it's working. I guess the furnace just can't keep up with the cold." Her dark blue eyes lit with amusement as the chief of police began struggling out of his sheepskin jacket.

"You look just like a bear in that thing."

Garrett grinned as he hung the jacket on a rack beside the door. "And it's not police issue. Yeah, I know. But it keeps me warm." He shuddered and rubbed his hands together. "What's the weather forecast for tonight? Do you know?"

Sara nodded. "Yes," she said, reaching for the coffee-pot near her desk. "I caught it on the radio about an hour ago. Believe me, you don't want to hear it."

Her boss groaned softly. "More snow?" he muttered.

She nodded again. "More snow. And freezing temperatures. And sleet. And—"

Garrett shook his head. "Spare me the details, Sara." He smiled gratefully as he reached for the steaming mug of coffee she held out to him. "Thanks," he said, wrapping his meaty hands around it. "The thought of your coffee's the only thing that got me here this morning."

Sara smiled. "I'll bet. I don't suppose Alice's pancakes had a part in it, hmm?"

Her boss grinned. "Well, sure they did. But my wife's only responsible for getting me out the door. My secretary's responsible for getting me through the day." His good-natured smile vanished. "Damn," he said, staring out of the window at the snow falling steadily from a leaden sky. "I wish to hell the
Winstead party wasn't tonight."

Sara's eyebrows rose. "Or any other night."

"Yeah,” Garrett said, taking a cautious sip of the hot coffee, "but you can't much blame me, can you? Baby-sitting three million bucks' worth of jewels isn't my idea of police work."

"Five million," Sara said with a teasing smile. "According to today's paper, the
Maharanee of Gadjapur's jewels are worth five million dollars. The diamond tiara alone—"

"Spare me the details! I am positively, absolutely overdosed on those damned jewels. I've been listening to Simon
Winstead prattle on about them for weeks. Diamond tiaras, emerald necklaces, rubies and pearls and sapphires..." He made a face and held out his empty mug. "Don't look at me like that, Sara. I know one cup's all I'm supposed to have but on a day like this, what does it matter? I'm gonna have an ulcer the size of New York City by the time this damned party's over."

"It's all in a good cause," she said mildly. "The paper says—"

"I know what it says. It says Winstead Jewelers bought the Maharanee of Gadjapur's jewels; it says they're loaning them to the Fine Arts Museum for exhibit; it says that tonight the
crème de la crème
of New York society will pay a hundred bucks a head to crowd into Winstead's fancy house up on Stone Mountain, so they can stand on each other's toes and gawk at the jewels close up, before the museum gets 'em tomorrow." Jim swallowed a mouthful of coffee. "It's what the paper doesn't say that worries me."

Sara sighed and sat down at her desk. "The house is like a fortress. You said so yourself. An electronic gate. An electronically controlled safe. Private guards. The state police have been notified. And you'll be there—"

"Yeah. Me and Brookville's five other cops." The chief grimaced. "Well, at least the weather's on our side. A thief would have to be out of his mind to try anything when the roads are clogged with snow. Which reminds me--you'd better call Hank and tell him to sand the Stone Mountain road just before this thing's due to start. Half the people coming to this shindig are from the city; New Yorkers don't have the damnedest idea how to drive on ice or snow. Call Tommy, too. Tell him to get his plow out here and—"

"I already have."

"And give Jack Barnes a ring. See if you can talk him into keeping the garage open late. Tell him—"

"I called him a few minutes ago. He says he'll have the tow-truck on stand-by."

Jim Garrett raised his grizzled eyebrows. "You're as good at this job as I am, Sara Mitchell." He smiled as he put down his empty mug. "And you make a mean pot of coffee. What am I going to do if the good people of Brookville find out it's really you who's running this department?"

Sara laughed softly. "We just won't tell them," she said. "Let them go on thinking I'm only your secretary. Which reminds me—I typed up the final guest-list you wanted. It's on your desk."

The chief nodded. "Fine. I'll take a look at it first thing." He started towards his office, then paused and looked at Sara speculatively. "You sure you don't want to come to this damn fool party tonight? Alice and I would be happy to take you with us."

Sara had a sudden vision of herself in a brightly lit ballroom, surrounded by elegantly gowned women and handsomely dressed men. The thought was as frightening as it was exciting, and she shook her head.

"No, thank you, Jim." She gave him a quick smile. "You can tell me all about it tomorrow."

Her boss sighed as he opened the door to his office. "Right. Well, maybe the bad weather will keep the crowd down." He looked at Sara's raised eyebrows. "You don't think so, hmm?"

She shook her head again. "I wish I could say I did, Chief. But there's been too much publicity about this party—it's turned into the charity event of the season."

"The advertising gimmick of the season, you mean. Our little department's
gonna work itself silly providing security so that Winstead can get himself and his store a load of free publicity."

"The ticket proceeds are going to the children's home."

"Yes, yes, that's what Winstead keeps telling me. But that doesn't mean I have to like him or his party. If anything should go wrong—"

Sara nodded, although she was barely listening. Her boss had been making the same speech every day for the past month. She couldn't fault him for worrying—he’d been chief of police in Brookville for as long as she could remember, and he was dedicated to his job. But his department's law-enforcement duties dealt mostly with family disputes, disorderly behavior, and the occasional drunk driver. There’d probably be more than one or two of those to deal with tonight, after the party, but nothing worse. Jim had inspected the
Winstead house the week before, and pronounced its electronic security systems a marvel. Even the insurance company...

"
OH! I almost forgot. General Casualty called a while ago. They said to tell you they're sending someone to represent them tonight."

The chief frowned. "Terrific. What's the guy going to do? Sell insurance to
Winstead's society pals?"

Sara grinned. "He's some kind of security expert. They said he was their consultant when the electronic devices were installed."

"Just what I need. Some four-eyed whiz-kid underfoot tonight. All right, what's the guy's name?"

"I wrote it down right—here it is. Saxon. Peter Saxon. They said he'll be here
sometime this afternoon."

Garrett's forehead creased. "Saxon, hmm? Hell, that name sounds familiar..." He sighed and shook his head. "Let me know when he gets here, Sara, but I don't want to see him until I've finished going through that guest-list one last time."

Sara nodded solemnly. "No one gets past me, Chief," she said, and she flashed him a quick smile. "I'll guard the door to the
sanctum sanctorum
with my life."

Her boss grinned as he closed the door to his private office behind him. Silence settled over the main room, broken only by the hiss of the overworked radiator and the occasional wail of the wind outside.

Sara turned on her computer. She had half a dozen e-mails to get out, mostly reminders to local merchants that they had agreed to a temporary no-parking zone along Main Street. Then there were a couple of bulletins to hang on the wall behind her desk, photos and descriptions of criminals that had been waiting in the fax machine this morning.

She always put them up. This was, after all, a police station, even though Brookville, which lay just north of New York City, was a quiet, peaceful town, home to what she always thought of as ‘regular’ people as well as the dozen or so rich New Yorkers who had built homes here, drawn to Brookville by its quiet charm.

The Winstead party, Sara thought glumly, was going to put that quiet charm to the test.

The famous jeweler's home stood on a mountain overlooking the town, an object of conjecture ever since it had risen above the valley a few months ago. And when
Winstead had announced that his world-famous Fifth Avenue shop had bought the Gadjapur's jewels and would show them at his home on this night, an almost palpable excitement had gripped everybody.

People had jockeyed for ways to attend. Except for the
Garretts, no one Sara knew had been invited. But there were other ways to get through the door—the caterer had recruited servers and cooks, maids and cleaners. Everyone wanted to see the Winstead house, the fabulous jewels and the "select few" invited to the party.

Sara smiled to herself as she sent out the last e-mail.

The "select few" was, apparently, going to number in the hundreds.

"Everyone who's anyone," Alice Garrett had said happily when she'd tried to convince Sara to come to the party. "You'd have such a wonderful time, Sara. Haven't you ever dreamed of going to a ball?"

Sara had. She had dreamed of lots of things—of leaving the town where she'd spent her life, of doing something more exciting than sitting at an out-of-date computer day after day…

Of meeting a man who would see beyond her quiet exterior to the woman trapped within.

But that had been long ago, before she learned that dreams were just flimsy creations of the imagination that collapsed when you tried to live them.

Sara had been a shy child; her mother, a widow, had talked about her father in such bitter tones, it was almost as if his early death had been a deliberate plot to get back at his young wife and daughter. She had raised Sara with a fierce protectiveness that had locked out the rest of the world.

And she'd been right to do so. Sara had learned that the hard way.

"Go on, make a fool of yourself," Beverly Mitchell had said, when a wistful Sara decided to go to her high-school graduation party.

No one had asked her to go, of course. She'd never had a date in her life—her mother didn’t approve of any of the boys who’d asked her out and after a while, boys had stopped asking.

But the prom was different. Sara was determined not to miss it. Some girls were going alone and Sara had taken her courage in hand and decided she would, too.

The party was years behind her but the agony of standing alone beside the dance-floor, a painful smile pasted to her lips while she waited for someone—anyone—to ask her to dance, was still as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

Sara had only tried to live one dream after that and the memory of where it had led was still almost more than she could bear. The day after high-school graduation, she'd told her mother that she wanted to look for a job and an apartment in New York City. Beverly Mitchell had been appalled.

"Leave me, Sara? Leave your home? Are you crazy?"

Sara had stood up to her mother. She’d sensed that if she didn’t start to live her own life now, she’d lose the chance forever. She had risen early each morning and caught the train into Manhattan, trying not to let her mother's tight-lipped silences erode her determination. And then—then there had been the day she'd come home, all excited about a job offer. She had been in the midst of telling a white-faced Beverly Mitchell about it when her mother had swayed and fallen to the floor.

The doctors had insisted that the terrible, wasting illness that had struck was something that her mother had been incubating for a long time.

"It has nothing to do with you, Sara," old
Dr. Harris had said impatiently.

Sara told herself he was right. But it didn't matter. By the time she had nursed her mother through the horrible years preceding her death, all her dreams had faded until they were like the corsage she'd bought herself the day of that long-ago high-school prom—pale and brittle, and only a faint reminder of what might have been.

Until the last few days. For some unknown reason, she had begun to feel a strange restlessness. She found herself awakening during the night, unable to recall the dreams that had made her twist in her narrow bed, knowing only that they left her with a strange feeling of discomfort, of something half-finished or, perhaps, not yet begun...

The outer door banged open and a sudden blast of frigid air swept into the room. Sara looked up in surprise.

A man stood in the open doorway, silhouetted against the leaden sky. He was tall and lithe, dressed in faded jeans, well-worn but obviously expensive boots, and a black leather motorcycle jacket. Flakes of snow glittered in his dark, thick hair and, as she watched, he raised his hand and ran long, tapered fingers through it. He had dark eyes, a straight nose and a wide, firm mouth.