Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (34 page)

He looked as if he’d stepped out of a movie, Sara thought crazily, a movie about a sexy outlaw
.

Somehow, she managed a polite smile. "Good morning. May I—"

He slammed the door shut, cutting her off in mid-sentence. His glance fell on her, then swept past her with insolent ease. She felt the quick rise of color to her cheeks. He’d dismissed her as readily as if she were a piece of furniture.

"Yes," he said, moving towards her, "you may. Tell the chief that I'm here."

His voice was low-pitched, its tone as arrogant as the expression on his face. Sara drew in her breath.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked coolly.

A brilliant question, Sara. Of course he hasn't; you make all the appointments here. What in heaven's name is wrong with you? And why—why does this man look so familiar?

A cool smile curved across his lips. "I don't need one," he said carelessly. "Just tell him—"

Sara's eyes narrowed. "I hate to disappoint you, but you do, indeed, need an appointment. Chief Garrett is very busy. He—"

The man laughed. His teeth, Sara noticed, were very white against his tanned skin.

"Look, sweetheart—"

"My name is Miss Mitchell," Sara said, even more coldly. "I'm the chief's secretary."

His eyes lit with amusement. "And a formidable one you are, Miss Mitchell," he said, as his gaze moved slowly over her.

For an instant, Sara saw herself as she knew he must—the pale hair neatly clasped at the nape of her neck, the shapeless wool sweater, the tweed skirt. She felt the heat rushing to her cheeks again, and anger flooded through her.

"What is it you want, Mr....?"

The man grinned. "Do you always guard your boss's door with such determination, Miss Mitchell?"

Sara's blush deepened.
I'll guard your door with my life,
she'd told Jim. Why was it that, when
she
had said the words, they had sounded like a joke, but when this... this stranger said something similar, it sounded almost pathetic?

"Are you always so rude?"

The words were out before she could stop herself. The man laughed.

"Touché,
Miss Mitchell. Look, why don't we begin again? I'll go outside, open that door, step into the office, and—"

"And we'll be nowhere unless you tell me your name."

"Saxon. Peter Saxon. General Casualty sent me. I'm here to check on the Winstead security arrangements."

Sara stared at him. Some four-eyed whiz-kid, the chief had said, but that hardly described Peter Saxon. In fact, it was impossible to picture him working for something so conservative as an insurance company. The outlaw image flashed into her mind again. Ridiculous. Why did she keep thinking that? And where had she seen this man's face before?

"When you've finished committing my features to memory, Miss Mitchell, I'd appreciate it if you would buzz your boss and tell him I'm here."

Her cheeks turned scarlet, and she pushed back her chair and rose to her feet.

"Just have a seat," she said stiffly. "I'll see if the chief—"

Peter Saxon rolled his eyes skyward. "Hell, it's got to be easier to get into the Oval office!"

"Chief Garrett is busy. I'll tell him—"

Peter Saxon moved towards her. "I'll tell him myself," he said impatiently. His hands closed on her arms and he lifted her out of his way as easily as if she were weightless.

"Mr. Saxon! What do you think you're—?"

The door to the chief's office sprang open. Jim Garrett glowered at Sara, then at the man beside her.

"Is there a problem out here, Sara?"

Sara swallowed. "This man—this man is from the insurance company. His name is——"

"My name is Saxon. General Casualty asked me to drop by and see you before I went out to the Winstead house."

Garrett's eyes narrowed speculatively, as if he, too, were trying to place Peter Saxon's face, and then he shrugged his shoulders and turned towards his office.

"Well, come on in and we'll talk."

"Jim," Sara said quickly, "I'm sorry. I tried—"

A lazy smile eased across Saxon's mouth. "That's all right, sweetheart," he said softly, touching his hand lightly to her cheek, "I'll tell your boss you fought like a tiger. Don't worry about a thing."

She watched in stunned silence as the door swung shut. Her hand rose slowly to her face, and she put her fingers against her cheek. The skin seemed to burn where Peter Saxon had touched it.

She was trembling when she sat down at her desk. Half a dozen angry retorts sprang into her mind and she wished she’d thought of them a moment before but Saxon had caught her by surprise. Anyway, she wasn't used to that kind of thing, that teasing she knew went on between men and women. Saxon had to know it; that had to have been why he had done it, just to make her feel uncomfortable.

Voices drifted from behind the closed door. Jim's voice was loud and angry, which surprised her. In the seven years she had worked for him, she'd rarely seen him lose his temper. Now, she could hear Peter Saxon's voice, too. The laughter had fled it, and he sounded as angry as Jim.

Sara pushed back her chair, uncertain as to what to do, just as the door to the chief's office flew open. Her boss stalked towards her, his normally florid face almost purple with rage.

"Get me Dick Parker at General Casualty," he demanded.

She stared past him to the doorway where Peter Saxon stood, arms crossed. The lazy, insolent smile was gone. That firm mouth was narrow with anger; his eyes were dark coals. There was, Sara thought suddenly, a look of closely controlled violence about him.

It made the breath catch in her throat.

"Dammit to hell, Sara, get me that number!"

Her hands shook as she punched it in, then handed Jim the phone. She heard him snarl into it, but his words didn't penetrate. Her eyes were locked on Peter Saxon's face. Of course she had seen him before. In a newspaper? A magazine? Yes, in both places. But why? Why...?

Garrett cursed, snarled something into the phone, then slammed it down. His breathing was rapid and loud.

"Terrific," he said. "That's terrific. Just what I need."

Saxon shrugged his shoulders. A smile curved across his mouth, but his eyes remained dark and cold.

"The company thinks so."

"So they just said. And that stupid S.O.B. Winstead thinks so, too, I suppose."

Saxon nodded. "He says it will bring in a lot of publicity. More tickets. More money for the charity."

Jim slammed his hand against Sara's desk. "And you, friend, probably love every minute of all this. Hell, I'll bet you're eating it up."

Peter Saxon raised an eyebrow.

"It's—interesting."

The police chief laughed unpleasantly. "Interesting? Giving you this job is like asking a fox to guard a henhouse."

Saxon's eyes met Garrett's. "Their reasoning precisely." The cold, quick smile came and went again. "What better way to protect the chickens than to ask the fox's opinion of the henhouse?"

Jim's lip curled in disgust. "Listen, Saxon, you may have conned General Casualty, you may have conned
Winstead, you may have conned your parole officer..."

Sara drew in her breath. "Parole officer?" she whispered.

"...but I wasn't born yesterday. And if you think I'm going to turn you loose in that house tonight—"

"It's not your decision, Garrett.
Winstead and the company want me there. I'm the man who chose the security systems."

Jim laughed coldly. "Right. The icing on the cake.” He turned to Sara.
"Anybody needs me, call me on my mobile. I'm going to accompany Mr. Saxon while he checks out the Winstead house."

"You have appointments later. And—"

"Mr. Saxon's my only appointment today.  I'm going to stick to him like glue. And tonight—" The chief's eyes narrowed. "Damn," he muttered. "Tonight's impossible. How am I going to supervise my men and those private cops Winstead hired, and still stay with Saxon?"

Saxon's smile was icy. "You can spare me the hospitality, Garrett. I don't need an escort."

Jim stabbed his finger at Sara. "You're working tonight," he said curtly.

Sara blinked. "What?"

"You're going to that damned party."

She shook her head. Nothing that was happening made any sense—this least of all.

"I told you, I'm not. Thank you for asking, but—"

Jim Garrett slammed his hand against her desk so hard that she jumped. "Dammit, this isn't an invitation, it's an order. Give Saxon your address."

Her eyes widened with bewilderment. "What? What are you talking about? I don't—"

Saxon laughed softly. "What a nice guy you are, Garrett. You're fixing me up with a date."

"Chief..." Sara's voice caught; she cleared her throat and began again. "Chief, please, what's going on? What are you talking about? I don't understand—"

"Mr. Saxon is General Casualty's idea of a security expert, Sara." Jim's voice was thick with displeasure. "Would you like to tell her your credentials, Mr. Saxon?"

Peter Saxon's brown eyes narrowed. "No," he said softly, "I wouldn't want to spoil things for you, Garrett. Why don't you tell her yourself?"

Jim put his hands on his hips. "He's a con."

Sara stared at Peter Saxon in disbelief. He made her a mocking bow.

"An ex-convict, Miss Mitchell. I paid my debt."

The chief of police snorted. "He served sixteen months on a four-year term, Sara. Hell, they should have locked him away forever. He's got a list of thefts as long as your arm."

"I was charged with one count of burglary. The rest is all conjecture."

Sara let out her breath. "Yes!" she whispered. "Your face—I remember now." She looked at him and swallowed. "The papers called you—they called you the "Thief of Hearts". They said you—you stole jewels from women you—you'd..."

Saxon laughed. "Hearsay, Miss Mitchell." A quick, sexy smile curved across his mouth. "Believe me," he said softly, "I've never taken anything from a woman that she didn't gladly offer."

Sara's heart stumbled against her ribs. It had all come tumbling back. The gushing headlines, the swirl of gossip—Peter Saxon, born to wealth and power, had been caught making his way across the dark rooftop of a Sutton Place townhouse with a fortune in emeralds in his pocket. The circumstances of the theft had convinced the police he was the man who had committed a series of breathtaking thefts.

But they could prove nothing. It had even been difficult to get the woman whose emeralds he had stolen to testify against him. She was a well-known society beauty; she and Saxon had moved in the same circles. She'd claimed that she had been in bed, asleep, when the thief entered her bedroom, that she knew nothing the prosecution could use. The papers had made much of that.

Peter Saxon's voice was a purr. "You have such an open face, Miss Mitchell. I can tell everything you're thinking."

Sara blinked, met the laughter in his eyes, and looked at her boss.

"You're crazy, Jim," she said flatly. "I'm not—"

"Are you afraid of me, Miss Mitchell?"

Her chin lifted and she turned towards Saxon.

"No," she said coldly.

Jim Garrett nodded. "That's my girl. Just don't let him out of your sight, Sara. Wherever he goes, you go."

Saxon grinned. "Ah, the possibilities, Miss Mitchell."

The police chief's face hardened. "I don't want this creep out of your sight."

The smile fled from Saxon's lips. "Don't push me, Garrett," he said softly. "I'm here on business. Legitimate business. If you don't like it, take it up with
Winstead and the insurance company."

The portly chief of police stared into Peter Saxon's hard eyes for what seemed forever, and then he swallowed and looked away. A chill raced along Sara's spine, and she knew that what he had seen in those smoky brown irises frightened him as much as it had frightened her.

"Give him your address, Sara. He'll pick you up at seven."

"Jim, please, you can't ask me to do this. I—"

Garrett waved his hand in dismissal, stepped into his private office, and slammed the door closed. In the sudden silence, Sara and Peter Saxon stared at each other.

"I'm not going with you," she said.

"You're going." His voice was flat, as sharp as the snap of a whip. "I'm supposed to be in the Winstead house tonight. If you're not with me, stuck to my side like glue, as your boss so graciously put it, I'm going to have him sauntering after me, and that’s going to make my job twice as difficult."

Sara's chin lifted. "I don't give a damn, Mr. Saxon. Your problems are not my—"

She gasped as his hands closed on her shoulders. The sudden press of his fingers was like steel.

"Are you afraid I'll steal your jewelry, Miss Mitchell?" His voice was soft, his words a teasing caress.