Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (40 page)

His words trailed away. Sara waited for him to begin again. Finally, she put her hand lightly on his arm.

"What happened?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't know all the details. Something came up—some deadline that had to be met if my father's grant was to be renewed. My parents had to fly back but I had a cold or the flu or some damned thing." He drew in his breath slowly, then let it out. "My grandfather convinced them to take Johnny and go on without me. He said he would send me along when I was better."

"And?" Sara asked in a whisper. She could see a knot of muscle move in his jaw. His hands spread on the mantel, the fingers white with tension.

"And they died," he said in a flat voice. "My grandfather called me into his office one morning. I can still see him, sitting behind his big desk, his eyes cold behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "I have unpleasant news for you, boy," he said. And then he told me they were dead."

"Just like—just like that?"

He turned towards her. "Exactly like that. I remember I started to cry and he told me to stop, that men didn't behave like sissies. And then he said he had work to do, that I should go to my room and read my Bible, and later he and I would talk about how I could best live my life."

"But you were just a little boy, Peter! How could he—?"

"When he sent for me again, he told me it was important I understand that my parents' deaths were their own fault. He said he would tell the same thing to Johnny, just as soon as he arrived. My father had no business being in a place like the rain forest, he said. He told me my father had always been selfish and irresponsible but he would see to it my brother and I grew up to be different."

Sara looked at him in horrified disbelief. "How cruel," she whispered. "You must have been heartbroken. You must have felt abandoned and deserted and..."

He nodded again, his eyes dark with memory. "All of that and more. I grew up hating my parents for their deaths—and yet, each time the old man talked about them, each time he said I was turning out just like my father, I felt this strange kind of—of joy."

"And your brother? Did he feel the same way?"

Peter's mouth twisted. "Yes, I think so. I remember the way we used to look at each other whenever Grandfather accused us of being just like our dad..."

"But why? Why was he so cruel?"

Peter shrugged his shoulders. "I think he was trying to make certain we would despise our father so much that we wouldn't want to be like him. You see, our father had been a great disappointment to Grandfather. He was an adventurer, not a businessman. He refused to follow the old man into the Saxon business empire; he wanted to study cultural anthropology instead."

"And your grandfather wouldn't let him?"

"That's right. So he worked his way through college. That was when he met my mother—she was a painter. They married, and my father got a small grant to study in Brazil." He drew a deep breath. "Grandfather never forgave him."

"How did you finally learn the truth? Did your grandfather tell you?"

"He never told me a damned thing, Sara. By the time I was in my teens, I had turned myself inside out, trying to please him, trying not to be what he said I was—a duplicate of my ne'er-do-well father—and it was hell. I was like two people: one who wanted to climb mountains and do something exciting with my life, and one who felt obligated to make up for my father's sins. It was the same for my brother."

Sara was almost afraid to breathe. The crystal moment seemed too fragile. She felt as if she were being handed a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that would only fit into a dimly perceived picture.

"What happened?" she asked finally, her voice barely a whisper.

"We read our father's journals. It was Johnny's twenty-first birthday—the journals were his inheritance. I remember he stayed locked in his room with them all day and then, that night, he handed them to me and he said, 'Welcome to manhood, little brother.'" He drew a deep breath. "It was all there—the quarrels, the bitterness, the attempts to force my father into line. And then came the entries about my mother, how much in love they were, and then my brother's birth and mine, and their joy in having us." He paused, then went on, "The journals—the last few—were filled with the spirit of life, Sara, the spirit of my father and my mother."

Peter reached for her hand and clasped it tightly. The room filled with silence.

"Peter?" He looked at her, and she cleared her throat. "What—what happened to your brother? I seem to remember something about an accident a few years ago—"

Pain lanced across his face. "Yes. He had gone skydiving. He'd been jumping for years, but this time—this time his chute didn't open. Grandfather said it was—he said it only proved Johnny was as selfish and irresponsible as my father. He said—" The pressure of his hand on hers increased, and then Peter laughed self-consciously. "You are some piece of work, Sara Mitchell. A certified, qualified, absolutely bona fide shrink spent sixteen months trying to dredge the story of my life out of me when I was in prison, and he didn't get past my date of birth."

"I'm so sorry, Peter. I wish there were something I could do."

"You have done something." He looked deep into her eyes. "I've never wanted to tell any of that to anyone, Sara. I never even wanted to think about it, even though I know I have to if I'm ever going to get on with my life."

Sara shook her head. "I—I don't think I understand, Peter."

He smiled at her. "Never mind," he said softly. "I only wish—I wish we'd met some other way. I wish I'd walked into that little police station with a traffic ticket in my hand instead of an invitation to the Winstead party."

Sara's heart seemed to stand still. She wanted to tell him it didn't matter how they had met. What mattered was that fate had brought them together, that he had changed her life in less than a day, that she had never felt so happy and complete.

But how could she say any of those things? None of them made sense. He was running from the law and she was his captive. That was reality, that was what she had to remember, that was...

A burning ember sprang from the fire, and landed with a hiss on the carpet at their feet. Sara jumped back as Peter picked it up, juggled it from hand to hand, and tossed it on the hearth. When they looked at each other again, the moment of magic had ended.

"Damn!" he said, and then he laughed. "Well, burning down the mausoleum is one way to warm it."

Sara smiled. "A little extreme, though, don't you think?"

He grinned. "Absolutely. Especially when there's an easier way to solve our problem." He cocked his head to the side and looked at her. "What size do you wear, Sara? A ten? An eight?"

She looked at him as if he were crazy. "Why?"

"Never mind. The only size I'm probably going to come up with is "too large"." He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. "Give me five minutes, Miss Mitchell, and I'll bring you some warm clothes. Not the height of fashion, maybe, but warm."

"Warm is what matters," Sara said lightly.

Peter laughed. "Just remember that when you see what I turn up."

What he turned up was a motley assortment of
woollens and corduroys that he dumped on the couch beside her.

"There you go," he said. "Take your pick."

Sara plucked a plaid wool shirt, a navy sweater, navy cords and two pairs of heavy wool socks from the pile.

"The most beautiful stuff I've ever seen," she declared, and she got to her feet and took a limping step towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To change. I—"

The words caught in her throat. Peter had already tossed aside his jacket and tie. He shook his head as he unbuttoned his frilled shirt and pulled it out of his trousers. Firelight laid a golden sheen on his muscled chest and the dark hair that curled over it.

"You'll freeze," he said matter-of-factly. He kicked off one shoe, then another, reached to the top button of his trousers, and said, very gravely, "I won't peek if you won't."

Sara looked into his eyes and saw the repressed laughter in them. Something wild and exciting leaped within her blood, and she nodded.

"Deal."

She thought she saw surprise register in his eyes before she turned away and began undressing. Her hands shook as she took off her coat and tossed it aside. She undid the buttons that ran the length of her dress and hesitated. He wasn't watching—she was certain of that. Whatever else he might be, he was a man of his word.

"I won't peek if you won't," he had said.

Still, his very presence was—it was—

"Ready?"

"No!" Her hands flew as she peeled away the rest of her clothes. She had one quick moment of panic when she realized she had no bra to put on—she'd worn a long slip beneath the dress with a bra built in—and then she tossed her head. She'd always wanted to see how it felt not to wear an bra but her courage had always failed her.

Well, she thought, pulling on the clothing Peter had brought her, now was the time.

"Ready," she called, and she turned to face him.

She had expected almost anything: his laughter, perhaps, when he saw how the clothing hung on her slender frame, some teasing remark about her fashionable outfit.

But she hadn't expected the sudden darkening of his eyes, or the way his breath caught at the sight of her. She hadn't expected him to look so handsome, either. Somehow, she had assumed the clothing he'd found wouldn't fit him any better than it fitted her.

But it did. Peter was wearing a white, cable-knit, turtleneck sweater that clung to his broad shoulders and muscled chest, and a pair of faded jeans that fit his lean hips and long legs closely. He looked—he looked—

"Beautiful," he said softly, and she wondered how it was that he had read her mind—until she realized he was talking about her.

"Don't be silly," she said with a nervous smile. "I'm not—"

"How come women look so damned sexy in men's clothes?"

Sara blushed. "I look messy," she said, running her fingers through her hair. "I need a comb. And a barrette."

"Leave your hair loose," Peter said quickly. He walked towards her, his eyes riveted on hers. "You're a beautiful woman, Sara Mitchell. Why not let the world see it?"

"I'm not," she said, and then she cleared her throat. "Don't—don't look at me that way, Peter. It embarrasses me."

He reached out and cupped her face in his hands. "That's the last thing I want to do to you." His gaze dropped to her mouth, the heat of it like a kiss, and then he raised his eyes to hers. "Welcome to my house, Sara," he said, "and thank you."

It was hard to speak. "For what?" Sara whispered.

Peter's smile made her heart soar. "For making this mausoleum finally feel like home."

The glow of the fire danced on the shadowed walls as Sara placed a sterling silver soup spoon into an oyster-white Limoges china bowl, touched a creamy Irish linen table-napkin to her mouth and smiled at Peter sitting cross-legged beside her on the parquet floor.

"That," she said, "was the strangest breakfast I've ever eaten." A smile curved across her mouth. "And the best."

Laughter gleamed in his brown eyes. "You mean to say this is the first time you've had consommé with sherry, champagne biscuits and smoked turkey at eight in the morning?"

She smiled. "If it had been
my
pantry we'd raided for breakfast, we'd have had to settle for oatmeal and jam."

Peter grinned as he collected their dishes and rose to his feet.

"Remind me to thank Cook for having left such a motley assortment of canned foods behind." He pulled on a heavy wool shirt. "And now,
madame,
I think some coffee would do nicely, don't you agree?"

Sara nodded. "I'll make it," she said. "You did all this..."

"And hard work it was, opening all those cans." He smiled as he buttoned the shirt and put on leather gloves. "You stay put, Sara. I'm going to have to go out and get a bucket of snow for the coffee. There's no sense in both of us freezing." He picked up their dishes and looked down at her. "How's that ankle?"

"Much better."

"Good." He started towards the door, and then turned to look at her. "Coffee doesn't keep you awake, does it?"

Sara looked at him. "Why?"

"I want to be on the road by late afternoon. We only have time to nap for a few hours." A quick smile curved over his mouth. "I wouldn't want to keep you from getting your rest," he said, as their eyes met.

She felt a blush rise to her cheeks but the door closed after him before she could come up with an answer. And the teasing glint in his eyes had invited one—she knew that, even though she had no idea how to frame it.

She thought suddenly of the beautiful women who had flung themselves at him at the Winstead party. One of them would have been quick to reply to that kind of remark. Unfortunately, flirting was an art for which she had no talent at all.

Not that she wanted to flirt with Peter Saxon. There had been a subtle change, yes. She wasn't really afraid he would hurt her, but that didn't mean she'd lost her fear.

Now, her fear was not so much about what
could
happen to her but about what had
already
happened to her. It was a very private, very dark fear. She had yet to put a name to it but somewhere along the way, Peter Saxon had stopped being the enemy.

And that, of course, made no sense at all.

Sara stood and jammed her hands deep into her trouser pockets.

He hadn't even existed in her life less than a day ago. Now, she felt as if she'd known him forever. Last night, she'd known he was a hard and dangerous felon. Today, she knew he was a man. A handsome man. A passionate one. A man who made her senses come alive in a way they never had before.

He was also a man who had kidnapped her. And he didn't trust her any more than she trusted him.

"The line is disconnected," he had said softly, almost conversationally, when he saw her glance at the telephone. "Cell phones won’t work up here. And we're more than ten miles from the nearest house."

She'd nodded, as if he were simply telling her about the lodge, but she knew the truth was darker than that. What he'd been doing was reminding her that there was no way out, that no matter what had happened in those few moments after he'd told her about his childhood, their situation hadn't changed.

He was running from the law. And she was his prisoner.

Sara sank down on the couch.

She remembered a magic act she'd seen when she was a child. The magician hadn't been very good—even she had been able to see the cards he palmed and the bits of silk streaming from under his cuffs.

But for his last trick, he'd done something that left his audience gasping in awe. There'd been a rabbit sitting on the table during the performance, a pink-nosed bunny in a wire cage. The magician had taken the rabbit out of its cage and held it in his hand, high up over the audience.

"Presto
chango," he'd said. He'd passed a gossamer silk over the hand that held the rabbit, and suddenly the rabbit had become a dove that flew high into the air.

Wide-eyed, Sara had turned to her mother. "That was real magic," she'd whispered.

Her mother had smiled with all the wisdom of adulthood. "Illusion, dear. That's all it was. There's no such thing as magic."

Sara sat forward, propped her elbows on her knees, and put her face in her hands. Yet another of her mother's lessons…

And one that was true.

There was no such thing as magic, there was only illusion. It was illusion that dazzled the mind and awed the spirit.

Which was the real Peter Saxon, and which was illusion? Was he the hard, cold-eyed man who'd threatened her with violence? Or was he the man who'd held her in his arms and brought a spiraling heat to her blood?

He hated his grandfather, even in death. Yet he was concerned about her cat.

"Hell, Sara, I forgot about that fur-ball of yours. What's going to become of him?" he had said suddenly, as they ate their meal.

She had stared at him blankly. "What?"

Peter had lowered his soup spoon to the bowl. "Your cat," he had said slowly. "I'd hate to think of him starving—even though he deserves it, considering what he did to my trousers."

Sara had assured him that
Taj had lots of dry food and water on hand, that Alice Garrett had a key to the house and loved cats herself, and all the while she had been staring at Peter, wondering what kind of man thought nothing of theft and abduction but worried about an animal's welfare.

Illusion and reality.
A good magician could blend the two and create magic. He could make his audience see things that didn't exist, and believe things that weren't true.

The door opened, then slammed shut. Cold air swept into the room.

"It's cold as hell out there!" Peter walked to the fireplace and set a cast-iron pot filled with snow carefully on the grate. "At least it hasn't started snowing again." He pulled off his gloves and his outer shirt, then rubbed his hands together. "Coffee coming up, Sara. I couldn't find any sugar, and of course there's no milk, but—"

"I want to know what happens next, Peter."

He straightened and turned towards her. He looked  as surprised by what she had said as she was to have said it. The words had tumbled from her mouth without any plan. But that was just as well—if she'd thought it through, her courage might have failed her.

"I told you what happens," he said finally. "We have a cup of coffee, we catch some sleep, and then we leave."

"You know that's not what I meant."

His eyes narrowed. "What did you mean, then?"

Sara met his gaze. "What happens to me? Will you let me go?"

The expression on his face hardened. "I can't do that, Sara. I've explained that to you."

"Peter, listen to me. You can't keep running away. Sooner or later—"

He flung his hand up as if to silence her. "Forget the speeches," he growled. "I'm not interested."

Sara rose to her feet and took a step forward. He was angry—she could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. But so was she, she thought suddenly. He had no right to toy with her, to alternately frighten her and entice her.

Illusion and reality.

She was Peter's audience; he had been dazzling her with sleight of hand. How much easier it would be for him if she were his willing companion, not his hostage. And if she fell into his arms—into his bed—he could make her do anything he wanted. He could control her completely.

She was so dumb! She'd known the kind of man he was. When had she forgotten? When had she stumbled into his trap and fallen for his lies and his kisses and...?

"Let me go," she said, her voice shaking—and wasn’t that stupid just when she needed to sound tough. ''Let me go or when they finally catch you, I'll build the cell they lock you in with my own two hands."

"Damn you to hell, Sara Mitchell!"

He moved towards her quickly, kicking aside the cushions on which they had sat before the fire, his eyes blazing with rage.

"Don't you touch me," she gasped but he reached out and caught hold of her shoulders, his fingers pressing into her flesh with such determination that she felt each one mark her with his anger.

"Didn't anybody ever tell you not to play dangerous games, little girl?" He stared down at her, his chin jutting forward, his eyes as dark as the storm clouds that threatened outside.

"Me? Me, playing games?" She made a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You're a fine one to talk!"

"All that sweet solicitude a while ago." She stared at him blankly, and his mouth turned down in a grim line. "I underestimated you, Sara. It never occurred to me that you were setting me up."

"What are you talking about?
I
didn't set anybody up, it's you who—"

His eyes swept over her face with cold contempt. "Did you really think I'd let you go, just because you patted my head and said a few kind words?"

What kind of nonsense was this? He was looking at her as if
she
were the illusionist.

His hands spread on her shoulders, and he pulled her towards him with a roughness that made her stumble.

"Or was it just for kicks?" His voice thickened. "Was it fun, playing with fire?"

A new kind of terror raced through her. "You let go of me," she breathed, banging her fist against his chest. "Damn you, Peter Saxon—"

His eyes darkened until they were almost black. "Come on," he whispered, pulling her against his hard body. "Come on, Sara. Touch the flame and see if it'll burn your fingers." She cried out as his hands tightened, and he lifted her to her toes. "Touch the flame, Sara," he said, and his lips came down on hers.

She whimpered against his mouth, crying out as his teeth closed sharply on her lower lip. Her lips parted in pain and instantly his tongue thrust between them.

The heat of his kiss was like fire, searing her flesh.

Sara struggled against him, but his arms held her fast. It was impossible to escape the hard heat of his body, and panic grew within her, spreading dark wings in her chest. She dragged her mouth from his, and drew a shuddering breath.

"Please," she whispered, "please—"

"Sara," Peter said thickly, "sweet Sara."

Suddenly his kiss changed, softened, until it was all warm, honeyed sweetness, until he was giving as well as taking.

Sara's fists opened. Her fingers clutched at his sweater, bunching the heavy wool in her hands, and she pressed herself against him, trembling with a need so intense that it was almost pain. He whispered her name against her mouth, and she sighed and leaned into him.

All the fight and anger ebbed from her body, replaced by a melting sweetness.

"Sara." His hands moved in her hair, cupping her head, tilting her face to his. "Sara..."

There was something in the way he whispered her name that filled her with an ineffable sorrow. Tears rose in her eyes and trembled on her lashes.

"If only you hadn't stolen the
Winstead jewels," she said brokenly. Her hands spread on his chest, and she stared at him. His hands fell to his sides, and she took a step back. "I—I just don't understand you, Peter."

"Sara..."

She spun away from him, her arms outstretched in a gesture which embraced the entire room—the dusty Waterford chandelier, the Lalique figures on the mantel, the Aubusson rug that stretched pale across the floor.

"Why steal? Why would a man with all this become a thief? How much money can one man want?"

He looked at her incredulously. "Money had nothing to do with it."

Her eyebrows rose. "What, then? Why would someone break into people's homes in the middle of the night and risk everything, if not for the money? You stole hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of jewels—"

He shook his head. "They were all selective sorties, Sara, and not half as profitable as you might think."

Sara rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "How admirable! A fussy thief. What do you think you are, for heaven's sake? A modern Robin Hood?"

His smile hardened. "I don't suppose I can expect you to understand."

She laughed without humor. "No, I don't suppose you can. There's no excuse for theft, no matter how the papers romanticize it."

He moved towards her, silently and swiftly, and caught her by the wrists.

"Do you know what it's like to get in and out of places that are supposed to be impregnable?"

The dark intensity in his eyes frightened her. It took all her strength to hold his gaze.

"You—you almost sound as if you're proud of what you've done. You're a thief, Peter Saxon. You—"