Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (37 page)

Sara fumbled to unfasten her belt. "I'll get out, too. I can look for whatever ran across the road."

Peter shook his head. "I'll do it. You stay put. There's no sense in both of us freezing our tails off."

The door closed after him. Sara shuddered, and dug her hands deep into her coat pockets. What a close call that had been! It was nice to know Peter was the kind of man who would...

She laughed and leaned her head back against the seat. He was the kind of man who stole for a living. He was the kind of man who thought nothing of playing with a woman, of making her look foolish and stupid. Anyone would try to avoid an animal in the road. That didn't prove anything at all.

She turned in her seat, watching as he walked slowly back along the road, checking it carefully, until finally the falling snow swallowed him up. When he reappeared, he was shaking his head.

"Nothing there!" he yelled, his voice barely audible through the closed windows.

He bent down, and she knew he was looking at the rear tires. After a few minutes, he walked to the front of the car. There was a thudding sound—he was kicking the tire, Sara thought—and then he straightened and walked towards her. She put her window down a bit and looked at him.

"The damned tire's flat. I'll have to change it."

She wound the window down a little further. His hair was wind-tossed and covered with snow; his nose and cheeks were red.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

He shook his head. "Nothing." He gave her a quick smile. "Just stay in the car and keep warm for both of us."

"Don't be silly. You have to jack the car up. I'll get out so that—"

"Stay put, Sara. It's as cold as the North Pole out here." He pulled off his gloves, stuffed them into his pockets, and smiled again.

"Peter, that's crazy. I—"

His smile fled, and his voice grew harsh. "Dammit, Sara, don't argue with me! Just stay where you are."

Color flared in her cheeks, and she hit the button harder than she to, glowering as the window slid closed. Fine. Let him play at being Superman! If he wanted to stand out there  and freeze, who was she to complain?

He moved to the back of the car and she heard the trunk open. The car bounced as he leaned on it. She drew up her collar, then reached out and switched on the radio. Music wailed into the silence, and she switched from station to station until she heard the drone of an announcer's voice.

"...eight inches already on the ground, and at least another four predicted. Winds from the west, gusts at thirty and forty  miles per hour. The best advice we can offer is to stay home. Driving conditions are very bad and worsening. Visibility is poor..."

Poor wasn't the half of it, Sara thought. She remembered how quickly Peter had faded from sight as he'd walked away from the car moments ago. If a car or a truck came along... They were parked on the verge, yes, but that didn't mean anything. How many times over the years had she dispatched Jack Barnes's tow-truck to pick up what was left of a car that had been smashed to pieces while it was "safely" parked on the shoulder?

Sara craned her neck and looked behind her. The trunk lid was still up. Did Peter keep flares in his tool-kit? Not many drivers carried them. But most had a flashlight. If she could find one, it would make sense to stand behind the car with it, so she could warn off oncoming traffic.

She leaned forward and opened the glove compartment. Maps. Loose coins. A pencil. And—yes, a flashlight.

She flicked the switch with her thumb and a narrow beam of light swept through the car. It wasn't as bright as it might have been but it would have to do. Quickly, she opened the door and stepped out.

Snow blew into her face, the flakes knife-sharp and cold. Sara ducked her head against the wind as she hurried towards the rear of the car. No, he hadn't set out flares. He hadn't done anything, in fact. He was simply standing there, leaning into the open boot.

Sara switched the flashlight on, and aimed it at him. His head came up sharply, and he sprang away from the boot.

"I thought I told you—"

"You did." She gave him a hesitant smile. After all, she thought, if it weren't for him, she might still be standing in the snow on top of Stone Mountain. "But I thought it would be a good idea if—"

Her hurried explanation broke off as the light shone on Peter's face. Sara saw his narrowed eyes, his down-turned mouth, even the muscle moving in his cheek.

"Turn that damned thing off," he snarled.

She gaped at him in surprise. The light swung in an arc as she pointed it away from his face.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was only trying—"

Everything seemed to happen at once. The car door swung wide—the wind, she thought hazily—and the dispassionate voice from the radio overrode hers.

"...
theft of the fabulous jewels of the Maharanee of Gadjapur. State police report that the daring robbery was the work of Peter Saxon, the society cat burglar..."

Sara drew in her breath. "What's he talking about? The jewels—"

Peter held out his hand. "Give me the flashlight," he said quietly.

She looked up at him. "Didn't you hear that news report? It said-—"

"The flashlight, Sara."

His hand closed around hers, as cold and hard as his voice. Sara tried to jerk free and the narrow beam of light danced inside the dimly lit trunk. It fell on an open tool-box, and a thousand tiny suns blazed to life.

"Ohmygod…!"

An incredible tumble of jewels were caught in the wavering beam of the flashlight.

Emeralds. Diamonds. Sapphires. Rubies.

The
Maharanee's jewels.

Sara forced her eyes from the tool-box to Peter Saxon's face.

“The jewels,'' she whispered. You stole them. You—"

He slammed the trunk lid shut, took the flashlight from her nerveless fingers and switched it off. Darkness settled around them.

"If only you had listened to me, Sara," he said softly.

There was an undercurrent in his voice that chilled her far more than the wind and the steadily falling snow. She took a step back.

"What—what are you going to do?"

"I asked you to stay in the car, didn't I?"

"No. Don't—"

She struck out at him as he reached for her but he brushed her hands away. His arm clamped around her waist like steel. Then, half lifting her from her feet, he drew her to the car and shoved her inside.

"I'm going to change the tire," he said softly. His face was almost against hers; Sara felt the warmth of his breath on her skin. "You're not to move while I'm doing it."

"You can't do this," she whispered. "You can't—"

His hand closed on her chin and he forced her face to his. "Do you understand me, Sara? If you try and run..."

The unspoken threat hung in the air between them. Sara's heart skipped erratically.

"What—what are you going to do with me?"

A smile twisted across his mouth. "I'll think of something," he said.

He looked into her eyes. Terror twisted through her; she knew what he was going to do just before he bent to her but there was nothing she could do to stop him. His fingers were like steel clamps on her jaw.

"No," she whimpered, and then his mouth was on hers, his kiss swift and passionate. Something darker and more powerful than fear swept through her, and she made a quick, soft sound deep in her throat.

Peter lifted his head, and ran his thumb lightly across her parted lips. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.

"I promise, sweet Sara," he whispered, "I'll think of something."

His hand fell away from her, and he stepped back into the darkness.

The car moved swiftly through the dark night, the heavy silence broken only by the rush of heated air from the defroster and the sibilant hiss of the windshield wipers as they struggled against the steady snowfall. Sara looked at the speedometer. The needle stood at sixty, much too fast for the icy road conditions. Peter Saxon had to know that: the skid that had sent them spinning off the road, that had led to her seeing the fortune inside the trunk of his car, was all the warning he should have needed.

Sara's glance flew to his face, then away. In the glow of the dashboard, his profile was implacable. He looked cold and dangerous and cunning.

A knot of fear lodged in her throat. It was difficult to swallow, much less to breathe. The man beside her was a criminal, far stronger than she. And she was at his mercy, trapped in a nightmare with no end in sight. What did Peter Saxon want of her? It was the single thought that tormented her as the minutes passed.

I'll find something to do with you, sweet Sara.

A tremor raced along her skin, and she shuddered. No. He wasn't like that. Even after his arrest, two years before, when the newspapers had been filled with columns about the man they had dubbed the "Thief of Hearts, "there had never been even the suggestion that he used violence. His victims were always away or asleep when he stole from them—and it was always jewels he'd stolen, nothing else.

I never took anything from a woman that she didn't gladly offer.

She took another quick look at him. A man like Peter Saxon wouldn't have to force himself on a woman. His rugged good looks and the aura of danger that surrounded him were a magnetic combination.

Sara bit down on her lip and stared ahead of her. But the situation was different this time. He wasn't a cat burglar in a darkened bedroom, and she wasn't a society beauty asleep in her bed. She was the woman who had spoiled his plans. He'd pulled off an incredible theft, and she had ruined it.

If only she hadn't got out of the car. If only she hadn't pointed the flashlight at the trunk. If only...

"How much money do you have with you, Sara?"

His voice startled her as it cut through the silence she'd wrapped around herself.

"Money?"

"That's what I said. How much do you have?"

She fumbled her bag open, and peered into her purse. "Twenty—no, thirty dollars."

His eyes went to the rear-view mirror, then to the road ahead. "Is there an ATM around here?"

"There are lots of ATMs. But—“

''Not one in an all-night convenience store. One that’s outside a bank."

Money. Of course, he needed money to get away.

Her hands shook as she opened her wallet and pulled out the bills. "You can have my thirty dollars," she said, holding the banknotes out to him. "And I have credit cards. Visa. MasterCard. Take them. I—"

"And do what with them? Do
I
look like Sara Mitchell?"

She stared at the cards in her hand. "There must be a way—"

"I have my own cards. They're useless—unless I want to tell people who I am and where I am." He glanced at her, and a cold smile curved across his mouth. "Or was that what you were hoping, sweet Sara?"

"No," she said quickly, "I never thought—"

"How many years have you worked for the police?" His eyes moved to the rear-view mirror, then to the road ahead. "Long enough to know all the tricks, I bet."

Sara shook her head. "I wasn't thinking. Really. I was just trying to find a way to... to..."

"I spent sixteen months in prison," he said roughly. "Believe me, Sara, you learn a few tricks there, too." He looked at her, then back at the road. "And I promise you, I'm a damn sight better than you'll ever be."

She ran her tongue over her lips. "All I meant was that you could take my money and let me go."

He laughed. "Such a generous offer. Would you want me to drop you off at a phone booth so you can call your boss and tell him where to find the jewels?"

"He already knows you have them, Mr. Saxon. He—"

"He
assumes
I have them," he interrupted curtly. "And it's a hell of a long way from assumption to fact."

"But you
do
have them," Sara said, before she had time to think. "They're in the trunk. I saw them."

The words were out before she could stop them. Peter Saxon laughed coldly.

"Exactly.
You
saw them, Sara. Only you."

Icy fingers seemed to dance along her spine. "What... what do you mean? You can't—"

"You and I are going on a little trip, Sara." His head swiveled towards her; she saw the gleam of his teeth. "A vacation, if you like. But we need some cash first— which brings me back to the question I asked you. Is there an ATM nearby where there won’t be eyes on us?"

A fear unlike any she had ever known wrapped its cold tendrils around her.
A trip.
You and I are going on a little trip.

Sara drew a long, shuddering breath.

"You're making a terrible mistake," she said quickly. "So far, all they want you for is theft. You—"

His leather-gloved fingers tightened on the wheel. "Theft is enough," he said grimly. "Where the hell is that ATM?"

"Please, just listen to me—"

His hand shot from the wheel to her lap, and he caught her wrist so tightly that she cried out.

"The cash machine, damn you! Where is it?"

Tears of pain and frustration rose in her eyes. "Get out at the next exit," she said stiffly. "There’s a bank on the right, with an ATM out front."

The pressure of his hand eased. "Thank you," he said.

Sara didn't answer. She blinked back her tears and stared out of the window. After a second or two, he put his hand back on the steering wheel.

What was he going to do? she thought. Rob an ATM? Rob a bank? Why not? A man who would steal a fortune in gems and kidnap a woman wouldn't be choosy about where he got his money.

Manic laughter rose in her throat, and she forced it back. What was it Alice had said this afternoon? Something about the excitement of going to the biggest party of the year with a celebrity—and now, here she was, going to a bank with a robber. That had to rate even higher on the excitement scale. And to think—to think she'd planned to spend tonight reading, with
Taj curled in her lap...

The way you've spent every night for the past seven years, Sara. The way you'll spend the next fifty. Instead, you're racing into the night beside a man more exciting than any you've ever dreamed of.

She blinked in surprise. What kind of thinking was that?

The car skidded gently as they took the exit ramp. "Is that it?" Peter Saxon asked, nodding towards a low glass and steel building barely visible through the curtain of snow.

"Yes." Her voice was hoarse. "Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Saxon? You'll just be adding crime to crime—"

He stared at her, and then he gave a short bark of laughter. "I hate to disappoint you, Sara, but your imagination is working overtime. All I want to do is use their cash-machine with my bankcard."

His bankcard.
The terrible laughter bubbled up in her throat again and she swallowed past it. Of course! This was the age of the computer. Peter Saxon, ex-convict, jewel thief, kidnapper, wanted to make a withdrawal, but he didn't need a gun for that. All he needed was a thin plastic card.

The tires squealed as he turned into the parking lot beside the deserted bank. The wind had swept across the open space, playfully depositing the snow in uneven drifts. The area nearest to the road was relatively clear, but the bank itself, and the looming cash-machine, were tucked behind a knee-high drift.

He pulled as close to the drift as he could, then switched off the lights and engine. The sudden silence and darkness seemed ominous.

"Listen carefully, Sara." His voice was soft, but there was an undertone in it that made the hair rise on the back of her neck. He took the keys from the ignition, undid his seat-belt and moved closer to her. "You're to sit perfectly still and wait for me. Do you understand?"

"They're probably looking for your car by now," she said breathlessly. "The state police will have your license-plate number, and the local cops, and Chief Garrett—"

He pulled off his glove and put his hand lightly over her mouth. The heat of his skin felt like flame against her cool lips.

"It's a rental car, Sara. With luck, it will take Garrett a while to figure that out and trace it, just as it’ll take him a while to learn I’ve made a withdrawal from this ATM. By then, we'll be somewhere safe." His hand lifted from her mouth but stayed against her cheek. "Don't waste your time hoping they'll catch me," he said softly. "It's not going to happen."

She stared at him while her mind spun in furious circles. It would be foolish to underestimate him. He'd planned all this—the theft, his escape, the "somewhere safe"—the only thing he hadn't counted on was her seeing the jewels.

Her part in all this, she thought suddenly, was to have ended later tonight, in her bed. She would have been an unexpected bonus, the naive, small-town spinster just ripe for the picking.

To a man like Peter Saxon, a man who lived on the edge, the risk of lingering for another few hours would have seemed minimal. It might even have added a sense of excitement to the theft. And there wasn't any reason to rush; no one was supposed to look at the jewels for another four days.

But something had gone wrong, something he hadn't planned on, that had led to the premature discovery of his crime. And now she was here, the unwilling captive of a man who would do whatever had to be done to make good his escape.

"Sara," his thumb moved lightly over her lips, "if you do as you're told, you'll be all right. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said, but it was a lie. She could hear it in her own voice, as he must have. His eyes grew dark, and his hand clasped her chin.

"Don't make me do anything we'll both regret," he whispered.

His mouth dropped to hers and he kissed her. Then, before she could catch her breath, he opened the door and stepped out of the car.

She watched as he ducked his head against the wind and started towards the drift that separated him from the cash-machine. Her heart was pounding erratically, and she put her hand to her lips, almost expecting to feel the heated imprint of his mouth against her fingertips.

God, what was happening to her? Even in her terror, there had been a swift second of something else, some spiraling excitement that had thickened her blood.

Hadn't she once read that fear did strange things to people? There had been an article in some police magazine in the office. Clever criminals could manipulate ordinary citizens, the article had said, when those citizens were caught in situations over which they had no control.

Sara drew a deep breath.

Peter Saxon was manipulating her. And she had reacted just as he'd expected.

How long would it take him to get the money? He'd reached the machine but he hadn't inserted his card yet. He was tucking his gloves into his pocket, taking out his wallet...

A minute to locate the card. Another to insert it and activate the machine, another to collect the money.

Three minutes,  if she were lucky. It wasn't enough. But it was all the time she had.

Sara drew in her breath, willing her pounding heart to slow. Carefully, quietly, her eyes never leaving Peter Saxon, she eased the car door open. He had found his card, he was leaning towards the machine...

Now!

She exploded from the car in a swirl of wool coat and flaring silk skirt, her feet slipping on the icy ground.

"Sara!"

His voice came after her like a gunshot, sharp in the cold air. She drew in a desperate breath as she raced across the snow-covered parking lot. Adrenalin pumped through her veins; she felt her heart thudding in her chest, heard her breath rasp, tasted the metallic bite of urgency on her tongue.

The muffled pound of his footsteps was close behind her. A sob broke from her throat. If only a car would come by...

Not in the middle of the night, Sara. Not in the middle of a blizzard. Not in a million years of hoping.

She cried out as his arms went around her, and they slipped, stumbled, and went down together, landing heavily on the snowy ground in a tangle of limbs. Sara's leg twisted beneath her, taking both Peter Saxon's weight and hers.

They lay stunned for a second, the vapor of their breath mingling in the cold air, and then tears of frustration and anger welled in her eyes.

"Damn you!" she cried, striking out at him with her free hand. "Damn you to hell!"

Peter Saxon caught hold of her wrist, then stood and pulled her roughly to her feet.

"What the hell kind of stunt was that?" he snarled.

The clip that held her hair had come loose when she'd fallen. Sara flung her snow-dampened hair back from her face, and stared at him defiantly.

"Did you really expect me to sit there and wait for you to come back?"