Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (36 page)

"Now you're playing games. What he does is legal. What you do—"

He smiled thinly. "I paid my debt to society. I'm a reformed thief, remember?"

"You don't sound like you're reformed at all. You sound as if you don't really believe theft is against the law."

"That's what they tell me."

"What they tell you? Don't you think that taking what isn't yours is wrong?"

He gave her a lazy smile. "There are times you see something, Sara, and you know in your gut that it’s been waiting for you to come along and take it." His eyes met hers, and a flame leaped to sudden life within their brown depths. "Only a fool would walk away when that happens."

Damn the man! He was having fun at her expense.

"Mr. Saxon," she said carefully, "I wish you would—"

"Do you address all your dates so formally?"

"Mr. Saxon," she repeated, "it's very late. I'd appreciate it if you would help me find Chief Garrett. Tomorrow's a working day for me. Perhaps he'd agree to spend the rest of the evening with you, so I can call a taxi and—"

"Sara." His voice was soft, as was his smile. He took her untouched champagne from her and set both flutes down on a table. "Has it really been so terrible? Spending the evening with me, I mean."

"I haven't spent the evening with you," she said, before she could think of how the words would sound.

Peter smiled and took her hand in his. "You're right. I've neglected you. And I apologize."

"I didn't mean it like that," she said quickly, trying not to feel the heat of his fingers against hers. "This is... it's business."

"Soft music. Flowers everywhere. A magnificent house and a spectacular view." He laughed softly. "Is your business day usually like this?"

She stiffened. What new game was this? What new embarrassment was he planning for her? She looked up at him warily, but the cynical smile was gone. He was looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face—one she found very disconcerting.

"You've passed up the lobster and caviar, you haven't had a sip of wine. It's obvious you don't like the people you've seen..."

"I'm not here for any of that, Mr. Saxon. I—"

"...and you don't approve of me, or the way I earn my living."

She looked at him as if he were insane. "Approve of you? Approve of someone who cheats and steals—"

Peter sighed dramatically. "That's what everyone says about insurance agents. That they steal from widows and orphans."

"You know damned well I wasn't referring to ins—"

"I mean, people approve of dentists and accountants. But not insurance agents. They tell jokes about us. They say we're stodgy."

"Mr. Saxon, I wasn't referring to—"

"I got this job because I, well, I just happen to have some expertise in an insurance-related field. You wouldn't hold that against me, would you?"

Despite herself, a smile twitched at the corners of Sara's mouth.

"Forgive me for asking, Miss Mitchell, but might I interest you in a policy? Is your house properly insured? Your car? What about that damned cat of yours that tried to rub itself bald against my leg?"

She had to smile; she couldn't help it. She'd seen what had happened, although she hadn't said anything. In the moment it had taken Sara to get her coat,
Taj had managed to deposit a lot of grey fur on Peter's black-gabardine-covered leg. At the time, it had seemed the least he deserved.

"I'm sorry about that," she said. "
Taj doesn't get to see many strangers. He—"

"Strangers or strange men?"

"Neither. I don't—"

The unexpected admission caught in Sara's throat, but it was too late. She swallowed hard, then raised her eyes almost defiantly, waiting for Peter Saxon to make some jesting remark.

Her breath caught. He was looking at her as he had earlier in the day, as he had when he'd kissed her. Her heart skidded, then began to race.

"Mr. Saxon—"

"Peter."

"Mr. Saxon, please..."

He smiled into her eyes. "Peter."

Sara swallowed again. "Peter. I'd be grateful if you'd—"

"Take you home. Yes, I know. I will, as soon as the party ends."

"No.
I...
I can't stay any longer. I just... A cab would be fine. Really."

He smiled again. "You're supposed to stay with me, Sara. Remember? You reminded me of
that just a little while ago."

Suddenly, the room was plunged into darkness. A collective sigh arose from the guests, there was a nervous giggle, and then the lights came on again.

"It's the storm, folks." Simon Winstead stood in the doorway, a reassuring smile on his broad face. "Don't worry about a thing. We've got lots of candles and lots of champagne. If one doesn't solve the problem, the other will."

Appreciative laughter and a light smattering of applause greeted the announcement. Beside her, Peter muttered something under his breath.

"The fool would be better off if he told everybody to go home," he said. "The roads will be hell soon."

Sara nodded. "Yes, it's going to be almost impossible to get down the mountain. You would think he'd know that."

"He knows it. But this is a big event for him. You don't expect something like a little common sense to intrude on his plans for tonight, do you?"

"Why don't you talk to him? Maybe he'd listen to you."

"Winstead? Not very likely."

"Yes, but suppose you told him how hard it would be for police cars to get here if there were some kind of trouble? That would impress him, wouldn't it?"

Peter cocked his head to the side. "Well," he said softly, "at least you don't try and hide that quick mind of yours." He smiled, and his fingers threaded through hers. "I'll make a deal with you, Sara. You dance with me, and I'll tell Winstead to shut down for the night. How does that sound?"

Dangerous.
The answer came to her so quickly that she thought, at first, she'd said it aloud. But she hadn't; Peter was still smiling at her, waiting for her response.

"That's—that's silly. Why not just tell him now? Find him and—"

"You're wasting time. While we stand here arguing, the road's icing over."

"Then what's the point in—?"

"One dance, Sara." He slipped his arm around her waist and began walking her towards the adjoining greenhouse, where the indoor pool had been covered with a parquet dance-floor. "What have you got to lose?"

"I...
I'm not a very good dancer," Sara said. "I—"

The music reached out to them from the greenhouse. It was warm here, moist and fragrant with the breath of hundreds of orchids and frangipani. The lights were dim; she could see through the glass walls to where the snow lay like moonlight on the mountainside.

Peter drew Sara into his arms and smiled into her eyes.

"Just relax," he said softly. "Let yourself feel the music."

"I told you, I'm not very good at this. I—"

His arms tightened around her. "Let
me
be the judge of that, okay?"

She knew she was moving stiffly within his arms. She had told him the truth—she'd never been much for dancing. When she was thirteen, she'd closed the door to her bedroom, turned the radio on low, and practiced the dances she'd seen in the movies and on TV but there had never been a chance to put her self-learned steps into practice, except once in a great while.

The last time she'd danced was two years ago, at the Garretts' anniversary party. It was the last time she'd worn this dress, too. It was an unbecoming dress—she'd known it when she bought it. She still remembered that day, how she' d stood in Macy's, looking at a blue chiffon dress with a low neckline and full skirt, longing to try it on but knowing it was foolish to want something so frivolous.

She'd had a good time at the Garrett party. They treated her as if she were family. She'd danced more that night than she had in years, with Jim and the men she worked with—even with Jim's uncle, a white-haired old gentleman who smelled of oil of wintergreen.

Sara inhaled and drew in Peter Saxon's scent. He smelled of snow and heat, of champagne and the night. It was a heady combination, and very, very male. Her heart stumbled; her feet did, too, and his arms tightened around her.

Feel the music, he'd said, but what she felt was the strength of the arms that held her, the heat of the body pressed to hers. What she felt was that same, sweet weakness she'd felt this morning, when he had taken her into his arms and kissed her.

"Sara."

His voice was a soft caress in the shadowed room. Sara closed her eyes and willed her heartbeat to slow, her body to cease the sudden trembling that had seized it.

"Sara."

He wanted her to look at him. She could hear the unspoken command. But she couldn't look at him. She couldn't. If she did—if she did...

"Look at me," he demanded.

"No," she whispered.

He put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face to his. She drew in her breath as he bent his head and brushed his lips lightly over her mouth. He whispered her name and his hands spread on her back, the fingers of one splaying over her hips to her buttocks, and now she felt the hungry message of his body against hers.

"Sara," he murmured, "sweet Sara."

"Please..." she said, but she no longer knew what she was pleading for.

Peter kissed her again, his mouth moving over hers. She felt the touch of his tongue on her lips, and a flame sprang to life deep within her. Her hands touched his chest, moved up his shoulders to his neck; her lips parted beneath his.

Suddenly, he clasped her shoulders and held her away from him. She swayed as she opened her eyes and focused blindly on his face. He smiled, and put his hand against her cheek.

"The lights," he said softly.

Sara blinked. The lights. Of course. They had gone out again. And this time they hadn't come back on.

"The storm's getting worse," he whispered. "Wait here for me while I find
Winstead and tell him the party's over." He bent to her, and brushed his mouth over hers. "Then I'll take you home, sweet Sara."

The husky promise in his voice sent a tremor through her. "I'll go with you," she said. "Peter—"

He laughed softly. "Like this?" His hands touched her hair, her lips, and she realized suddenly how she must look. Her hair had come loose from its clasp and lay in silken disarray on her shoulders. And her lips were swollen, hot with his kisses.

"I won't be long." He cupped her face in his hands and lifted it to his. "Will you wait for me, sweet Sara?"

Sara ran her tongue across her lips. She felt as if one of her dreams had come to life and she were living a fantasy. She looked into Peter Saxon's eyes and took her courage in her hands.

One night. Just this one night…

"Yes," she breathed. "I'll wait."

His teeth flashed whitely in the dark room. "Give me five minutes."

She watched as he hurried through the greenhouse. Matches flared in the darkness; she saw the flicker of candles, heard the murmur of voices but every fiber of her being was concentrated on Peter's retreating figure. Five minutes, he'd said. Five minutes, and then he would take her home.

Her mouth went dry. There was no pretending she didn't know what he had meant by that. He was going to make love to her. His kisses, his hands, everything he'd done had carried the message. He would stay with her tonight, and then...

Sara put her hand to her mouth. Was she crazy?
I've never taken anything from a woman that she didn't gladly offer.
His words rang in her head.

Peter Saxon had tried every way possible to humiliate her. Moments ago, he'd finally found the one that worked.

Quickly, cloaked by the darkness, Sara hurried through the greenhouse towards the little room just off the foyer where she'd left her coat. Tears of anger rose in her eyes and she brushed them away.

It was a pity she could never tell her boss the truth, she thought, as she pulled on her coat and hurried to the front door. He had been worried about Peter Saxon stealing the
Maharanee's jewels, but it wasn't the jewels Peter Saxon had been after tonight.

The jewels were much too well-protected. Wasn't it unfortunate that she couldn't say the same thing about herself?

Sara stepped through the front door and slammed it shut behind her. Snow, driven by a cold wind, stung her cheeks and eyes, but she paid no attention to it. Anger burned within her like a flame, directed as much at herself as at Peter Saxon.

How could she have been so stupid? To think she'd let someone like that make a fool of her—to think that she'd... she'd almost...

But she hadn't. That was what counted. If only she could step back into the house for a minute—just long enough to see his face when he came hurrying back to the greenhouse and realized his naive little conquest had fled the trap. She could at least imagine it, and that was almost satisfaction enough. That was...

A sudden gust of wind d
rove into her with such force it almost took her breath away. Sara pulled her gloves from her pockets, and pulled them on her already numb hands. Lord, but it was freezing! And the snow was falling so heavily that she could hardly see past the end of her nose. Hank and Tommy had been at work—the long, circular driveway had been recently plowed and sanded—but at this rate the snow would soon obliterate their efforts.

Sara drew up her coat-collar, then carefully made her way down the wide brick steps to the driveway. Cars hulked its length like silent, white-coated beasts.

She took a tentative step forward, and clutched wildly at the air as her feet almost slid out from under her. Terrific! The packed snow was as slippery as glass. But there was nowhere else to walk—on the unplowed lawn, the snow lay in knee-high drifts.

Now what, Sara?
she berated herself.
You don't really think you can walk down the mountain, do you?

No. Not in these thin-soled, high-heeled shoes; not on a night like this. She looked over her shoulder at the
Winstead house. The windows were alive with the soft glow of candlelight. It looked warm and inviting, but she wasn't about to go inside. When Peter Saxon saw her, that damned cynical smile of his would turn to insolent laughter. He would probably say something witty that would make a fool of her in front of everybody—if she hadn't already done that herself. She didn't even want to think about how many people had probably seen the way she'd behaved on the dance-floor.

And just why did you act that way? You never have before.

Impatiently, she pushed the thought aside and burrowed deeper into her coat. What mattered now was finding a way down the mountain. She could always wait out here for Jim and Alice to leave.

You could always wait out here and turn blue.

There had to be another choice. There had to be some other way.

Far down the long driveway a car engine coughed, then roared to life. Headlights blinked in the darkness and a dark shape began to move slowly towards the distant gate.

Sara took a step forward, then another. "Hey... hey, wait!" She broke into an awkward run, trying not to fall, waving her hands over her head in a desperate bid for the driver's attention. But the car picked up speed, slid gently as it negotiated a long curve, and was swallowed up by the falling snow.

Her breath puffed whitely as she tottered along the drive. There was still a good chance she could catch the car. It would have to slow when it reached the gate—there was a hairpin turn just past it that would be impossible to negotiate at speed on a night such as this. The electronic gate itself had been left open so that party-goers could come and go with ease. Peter Saxon had grumbled about how poor an idea that was while they'd waited for the guard who was checking invitations to pass them through.

Yes, she could see the car now. The gate was just ahead, and the car was slowing as it eased into the turn.

"Wait. Please wait!"

Sara ran faster, but not fast enough. And there was no way the occupants would hear her with the windows closed and the defroster going. Her footsteps slowed and she finally stumbled to a halt, watching helplessly as the vehicle reached a straight stretch of road and picked up speed. The tail-lights winked in the dark, and then they were gone.

Silence, punctuated only by the moan of the wind and the rasp of her own breath, settled around her. Sara peered over her shoulder. The house was somewhere far behind her, invisible in the storm. She would have to walk back, much as she hated the thought. But there was no choice. The snow was...

Headlights materialized in the darkness, glowing like the great eyes of a jungle-cat. Another car was coming, this one moving far too rapidly for the icy road. But she could stop it. All she had to do was step in front of the lights.

The car skidded as the driver slammed on the brakes. The sound of the tires vainly trying to grip the icy surface was a sibilant hiss. She watched, horrified, as the rear end began to fish-tail in lazy arcs. An eternity seemed to pass until, finally, the car came to a stop diagonally across the road.

Sara lifted her skirt and ran towards it, as the driver's door opened and a figure stepped out.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "I didn't mean to—"

The words caught in her throat. Peter Saxon stood before her, glaring at her in fury.

"What kind of stupid stunt was that? Were you trying to kill us both?"

Sara stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm the one who's supposed to ask that question, Miss Mitchell."

Her chin lifted. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm—I'm walking. I—"

"Walking," he said in an expressionless voice.

"That's right. So if you'll just—"

"Get in the car."

She shook her head. "Thanks, but I'd rather—hey! Hey, what do you think you're doing? Let go of me. Did you hear wh—"

"Get in the car," he said through his teeth. His hand tightened on hers as he pulled her towards the passenger door.

"No, I certainly will not. I—"

Her protests were useless. Peter yanked the door open and shoved her into the seat. A second later, he was seated beside her. "Buckle your seat-belt," he ordered. Sara reached for the door-handle, and his hand closed around her wrist. Pinpoints of light glowed in his eyes as he looked at her. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and cold.

"If I were you, Miss Mitchell, I wouldn't do anything to provoke me."

She stared at him, and then she sank back against the seat.

"Good girl," he said. "Now, go on—buckle your belt."

"I don't need you to tell me what to do," Sara said, the bravado of her words a screen for the sudden fear beating in her blood.

The car shot forward. "Then, use your head," he said unpleasantly. "I don't want you killed if we skid off this mountain." He looked over at her, and his teeth flashed in the darkness. "I'm saving that pleasure for myself."

The light from the car's dashboard had joined with the snow's reflection to cast an eerie illumination on his face. She could see the gleam of his eyes, the narrowed hardness of his mouth, the tic of a muscle high in his cheek.

"That was a neat bit of fancy footwork you pulled."

It was safer to deliberately misunderstand him. "If you hadn't been driving so quickly—" she began, and he laughed coldly.

"Please, let's not waste each other's time. You know damned well what I'm talking about."

"Listen, Mr. Saxon, I don't have to explain—"

"I spent a hell of a lot of time peering into corners, asking people if they had seen you, before I figured out that you'd conned me."

"A charming choice of words," Sara said. It was amazing, she thought, that her voice could sound so cool and calm, even while her heart threatened to leap out from under her ribs.

"Is that why you set me up? To teach a lesson to an ex-con?"

"I told you, I don't have to explain myself to—"

"I wouldn't have thought a woman like you would make a fool out of a man."

A woman like you.
Yes, she was right about him. He'd been playing with her all the time. But two could manage the same game.

"It wasn't difficult," she said. "You didn't need much help at all."

For a moment, she thought she'd pushed him too far. His head swung towards her and the coldness in his eyes made the chill of the winter night seem warm. Then he looked back at the road and laughed.

"You've got guts, sweetheart. I'll give you that much." He leaned forward and wiped his hand over the rear-view mirror. "Just where were you going when you walked out of the house?"

Sara stared straight ahead. "Home."

"So you decided to sneak out the door—"

"I didn't sneak out of the door. I simply—"

"You skulked out of the house so you could hike a mile down Stone Mountain in the middle of a blizzard. That was really very clever." His voice was thick with sarcasm. "With a little luck you would have frozen to death and really done a number on me. I can see the headline now: "Con Kills Cutie." That would sell a million bits of supermarket trash!"

"You're talking nonsense," Sara said sharply. "Nothing would have happened to me. I know this mountain—"

"...and you always walk it in the dark, in the midst of a storm, with your skirts dragging in the snow and your shoes frozen to your feet. Yes, I'm sure."

Sara shifted uncomfortably. Her feet were like lumps of ice. And the wet hem of her dress was sticking to her legs. The car's heater was on, but she was shivering anyway. However, if Peter Saxon expected her to thank him...

"I'd have gotten a ride," she said stubbornly. "After all, the party's over."

The car slowed as they neared the foot of the mountain. "Not by a long shot, it isn't. That damned fool Winstead says he won't call it a night until the champagne's all gone." He peered into the swirling snow as they reached the road's intersection with the highway, then accelerated. The car skidded delicately, then shot forward into the night. "Which means they'll still be partying some time tomorrow."

Sara looked at him. "And you left anyway? I thought you said you would stay until the party ended."

He glanced at her, and then at the road. "There was no point," he said curtly.

"Yes, but—"

"Which exit do we take to your house, Sara? The one coming up or the next?"

"The next," she said. "But what about the jewels?"

He laughed. "Stop worrying about them. Believe me, they're fine."

"I'm sure they are. I just don't understand why you said—"

The shrill wail of a siren cut through the night. Lights flashed in the oncoming lane, and a state police cruiser sped past them. Sara twisted around in her seat, staring after the car as it vanished into the darkness.

"I wonder what that's all about?" she said slowly.

Peter glanced in the rear-view mirror. "There's probably an accident behind us somewhere. There'll be a dozen before the night's over."

She nodded. "I suppose so. This is a bad road under the best of conditions, and—"

Lights flashed ahead of them again. This time, a pair of police cars flew past, their tires spewing snow and ice as they skidded through a curve. Sara peered over her shoulder and watched them until they disappeared.

"Do you think they went up Stone Mountain Road?"

"If they did, it's because some fool went off that curve at the gate."

Sara looked at him. "The jewels—"

"The jewels are fine. If you want to worry about something, worry about this road."

"Yes, but—"

Peter's voice was harsh. "Dammit, Sara, I could use another pair of eyes."

"You're taking this awfully calmly, aren't you? Those jewels are your responsibility. I should think—"

"You're letting your imagination run wild, Sara. Besides, they're the museum's responsibility now. Their representative is satisfied with the arrangements." He glanced at her and then at the road. "For heaven's sake, relax! The safe won't even be opened until the jewels are transferred to the museum for exhibit."

"I just don't understand you at all," she said. "This morning—"

A dark shape bolted from the brush and streaked across the road.

"Hang on!" Peter yelled, and he spun the wheel hard to the right.

The car floated gracefully across the icy road, the tires spinning uselessly against the frozen surface. Trees loomed darkly through the heavy snowfall; there was the blare of a horn as a truck sped by them. Sara watched in stunned silence as Peter struggled to bring the car under control. Finally, with a crunch, it lurched heavily on to the verge of the road, then came to a shuddering halt.

"Hell," Peter whispered. Quickly, he put the car in
neutral, unfastened his seat-belt, and swiveled towards Sara. "Are you all right?"

She nodded and took a deep breath. "Yes," she whispered. "Fine. I... What was that in the road? Did we hit it?"

"A dog. Or a fox, maybe. We missed it." He laughed shakily. "I hope the little beggar appreciates the sacrifice we almost made. That was one hell of a skid. We hit the shoulder pretty hard." He wrenched open the door, and a blast of frigid air swept into the car. "I'd better check and make sure we didn't blow a tire."