Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (44 page)

"Peter? I was—I was thinking. Maybe we should go back."

"Go back?"

She nodded. "Yes. To Canada." She moved towards him quickly. "Maybe—maybe coming here wasn't such a good idea. Maybe—" Suddenly, the shrill wail of a police siren rent the air. The blood drained from her face. "Oh, hell," she whispered. "The police. Peter, they've found us. They—"

He moved to her quickly and took her in his arms. "Easy," he said, "easy, sweetheart."

She struggled against him. "What's the matter with you? Don't you hear the siren? The police—"

"Sweet Sara," he whispered, "it's just the TV in the next room." She stared at him, then pressed her face into his chest. His arms tightened around her, and he stroked her hair. "It's all right, love. It's all right."

When she had stopped shaking, she looked up at him and tried to smile.

"I'm sorry. I—I just keep thinking of what might happen." An image of Peter locked behind iron bars danced through her mind, and she shuddered. "I'm so afraid."

A muscle moved in his jaw. "Don't be," he said fiercely. "Don't ever be afraid, Sara. I won't let anything happen to you."

She leaned back in his embrace and looked up at him.

"It's not that. It's—" But he wasn't listening. He was looking at her with an intensity that made her heart stop beating. "What is it?" she whispered.

He answered by gathering her to him and kissing her, over and over, each kiss deeper and more passionate than the last. There was a desperation in his kisses that was almost frightening.

His hands cupped her face. "Sara," he whispered, "my sweet Sara."

He kissed her again, his mouth moving on hers with fierce hunger. There was something wrong, she could feel it, but as he touched her, as he stripped her clothing away with rough urgency, she felt her body take fire from his. Her doubts fell away as desire swept through her.

"Yes," she breathed, trembling against him. "Yes," she said again, and she reached to his shirt and began to undo the buttons, her fingers swift as they flew along the wool fabric.

Peter's mouth burned against her throat, against her breasts, and then he knelt before her and pulled her to him, his lips hot against her belly. Her head fell back and she moaned as he kissed the tender inner flesh of her thighs and, finally, the hidden flower of her womanhood. She cried out  and he rose and held her until she stopped trembling.

Then he took her hands in his. "Undress me, Sara," he whispered, bringing her hands to his belt.

She pulled away his clothing, pausing only to kiss his skin as she exposed it. He tasted of salt and desire; she savored him with her tongue as if he were fine wine.

When he was naked against her, he swung her into his arms, and they fell to the bed, locked together in a fierce embrace.

"Peter," she whispered. "Peter—"

"Shh," he said, "shh, sweet Sara."

He kissed her as she arched against him, her body seeking the impalement that would make her his.

And, as she found it, a single, crystalline realization pierced her heart.

I love you, Peter,
she thought, and the seedy motel room became paradise.

* * *

Sara awoke to sunlight and muted sounds of traffic. "Peter?" she murmured sleepily.

She was alone in the rumpled bed. She smiled and stretched lazily. Peter was in the shower; she could hear the sound of water running from behind the closed bathroom door.

Yesterday morning they had showered together, laughing beneath the warm spray, exploring with soap-slicked hands until the laughter became passion.

She smiled and pushed the blanket aside, imagining Peter's face when she drew back the curtain and stepped into the shower-stall with him. Afterwards, she would tell him what she'd started to tell him last night—that the scheme she had drawn him into was too dangerous.

Proving his innocence wasn't as important as keeping his freedom.

She padded silently to the bathroom door, and cracked it open an inch. The idea was to surprise him but if she let the cold air in, he would know she was...

Her smile faltered. He wasn't in the shower; he was standing with his back to her. And he had a cell phone to his ear.

"Yes," he was saying, "that's right, Eddie. I'll be in Chicago late tomorrow. I'll need papers."

Of course! She should have known Peter would be one step ahead of her. Apparently, he'd decided their plan was too risky, just as she had. And he was already making alternate plans.

Chicago, she thought. She had never been to Chicago. And then where? Europe? South America? Not that it mattered. Just as long as she and Peter were together.

"Right, Eddie. A passport. A driver's license. Hell, no. Just for me. Yeah, yeah, I know what the papers say. But I'll be travelling alone. It's—it's safer that way."

She felt the clutch of a cold fist around her heart, and she stumbled back against the bedroom wall.

"I'll be travelling alone," he'd said. He was leaving her. How could he do that? How?

"It's safer that way," he'd murmured, Sara pressed her hand to her mouth. Was he right? She knew very little about evading the law, but...

She knew nothing about it. She was a handicap, a liability a man on the run could ill afford. Peter had to stop and explain everything to her; hadn't she gone to pieces last night, and all because of a siren on a stupid TV program?

The water stopped abruptly.

"Sara?"

She stiffened. Peter was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, she could feel his eyes boring into her. Quickly, she pulled on her clothes, her fingers trembling on the buttons and zips, and then she turned towards him.

He looked at her narrowly.

"I didn't realize you were awake."

She nodded. "I just got up. I heard the shower..."

They both looked at the telephone in his hands. Peter set it down carefully.

"I was on the phone," he said. "I thought you might have overheard me."

Don't cry,
she told herself fiercely. "No," she said, "no, I didn't. I—I just got up."

"Good. I mean, I'm glad I didn't disturb you. I—I had to call a hardware store."

Sara stared at him. "A hardware store?"

"Yeah." He gave her a quick smile. "I wanted to—to check on the things we'll need for
Winstead's tonight."

He wasn't going to tell her he was leaving. He was going to walk out of her life the same way he had walked into it.

"I—I found what I'll need," he said. "I have to go and get it."

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "At the hardware store," she said, and he nodded. "I see." Her voice trembled, and she pulled free of his hands and turned away. "When?"

His hand brushed against her hair. "Now."

Now.

"Sara." His voice grew husky. "I—I wish..." She heard the ragged intake of his breath. "There are things I haven't told you, things I'm not sure you would understand..."

But you have told me,
she thought. The reward wasn’t worth the risk. He couldn't face prison again. She wanted to say those things to him but she couldn’t.

She had to go along with the game. It was what he wanted, what her love for him demanded.

He shook his head, as if he were impatient with himself. "None of that matters now. I just wish—I wish there were some other way." He scooped a strand of her away from her cheek, tucked it behind her ear. "It's safer if I leave you here, Sara." He cleared his throat. ''While I—while I go to the hardware store.''

Sara closed her eyes.

Remember this,
she thought,
remember the feel of his hand, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his breath. Remember this, because it's all you'll have for the rest of your life.

Tears welled behind her eyelids. She couldn’t watch him leave. She couldn’t. She knew she would die, if she did.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, Sara stepped away and snatched up her jacket.

"Sara? What are you doing?"

She pulled a pair of dark glasses from her pocket, and jammed them on her nose.

"I—I noticed some vending machines near the office when we drove in last night. I thought they might sell coffee."

"Sara." His voice was rough. "Sara—wait a minute. Please."

"You go on, Peter. I'll just get the coffee and wait for you here and—and..." Her voice broke and she wrenched the door open. "Goodbye," she whispered.

Goodbye, my love.

"Sara, wait—"

She stepped out into the cold morning with the sound of his voice ringing after her.

Tears blinded her as she trotted across the parking lot. Was Peter watching? She assumed he was, and she continued in a determined line towards a shadowed archway that housed a decrepit phone booth and a cluster of  vending machines. This would have to be her hiding place, the place where she could give in to her pain.

She ducked into the archway and sagged against the nearest booth. Head bowed, she waited to hear the sound of the car door opening and slamming shut, the snarling whine of the engine as the Rover came to life.

She waited for the crunch of gravel that would tell her Peter Saxon was leaving her, leaving her, leaving her…

"Sara? Holy Christ,  thank heaven! Sara? Are you OK?"

A man's arm closed around her. Sara cried out in horror as she looked into the familiar face of Chief of Police Jim Garrett.

Peter, she thought, Peter…

"No!" she yelled, twisting against Garrett. "No, no—"

The chief held her closer. "It's all right, Sara. Take it easy. You're safe now."

Wildly, Sara looked around her. The motel lot was alive with cars, with police and state troopers. Guns and rifles bristled everywhere; a helicopter hovered overhead.

"No," Sara said desperately. "Jim, listen to me, you don't understand—"

"We had a damned lucky break. I gambled on Saxon doubling back. It’s the kind of thing he’d do, to throw us off his trail, so I peppered the area with posters. The night clerk spotted one on his way home this morning and called my office."

"Jim, you have to listen. Peter isn't—"

"How the hell did you get away? We were worried about what the bastard might do to you when we made our move."

Sara's voice rose in panic. "Dammit, Jim, you have to—"

"Here we go. The troopers are bringing him out now." Garrett's arm tightened around her as she began to tremble. "Don't be afraid, Sara. He's never going to hurt anybody again."

The door to the room she and Peter had shared opened. Two troopers stepped outside with Peter between them: Peter chained and shackled like a wild beast, Peter with a thin streak of blood smeared beside his mouth.

Sara reached out as he walked towards where she stood, in the curve of Jim Garrett's arm.

"Peter," she whispered.

His eyes met hers, and she knew that she would remember the ice in their depths for the rest of her life.

The snowstorm that had blanketed the northeastern United States had ended almost two weeks before but remnants of it still remained. Huge drifts of snow, sculpted by the wind into a white-waved sea and preserved by sub-freezing temperatures, lined the narrow roads that led into Brookville. The streets of the town still bore traces of the storm in the icy ramparts that separated the pavement from the street.

The weather had remained cold and overcast for the past week. The sun that had appeared on the morning of Peter's arrest had sunk behind a heavy cloud-bank and that was how each day had been ever since.

Seated at her desk in the police station, Sara stared blindly out the window. There was a bread-truck parked across the way, outside the ShopQuick Market just as it was every morning. She could see the postman walking his route, hurrying his steps a little so he could finish before the predicted new snowstorm began.

Nothing had changed in Brookville. It was a realization that had come to her again and again throughout the past days. The town looked exactly as it had all the years of Sara's life—which was, of course, as it should be.

It was only she who had changed, she who would never be the same again.

She had fallen in love with Peter Saxon and lost him, all in four short days. In the week since his capture she had thought of little else except Peter and what he believed about her.

The look in his eyes as they had led him away tormented her by day and haunted her at night, plucking her from dreams in which Peter held her in his arms and kissed her, hurling her into the cruel reality of her cold and lonely bed.

She hadn't seen Peter since the morning of his arrest. Jim Garrett had driven her back to town, then led her from his car and into the police station. Reporters and photographers had been clustered outside; what had seemed like hundreds of questions had been shouted at her. Sara had turned away from everyone, burying her face in the police chief's protective shoulder, and never looking up until the door to his private office had swung shut after them.

Then, with surprising gentleness for a man his size, Garrett had eased her into the swivel-chair behind his desk and squatted beside her.

"Sara? Are you all right?"

It had taken all the strength she had to nod her head. "Yes," she had whispered.

"Are you sure? I can send for the doc if you think—"

"Chief," Sara's eyes had met those of her boss, "Peter didn't hurt me. I keep telling you that."

Garrett had risen to his feet. "He sure as hell did something," he had said, his voice flat. "All I've heard for the past hour is how I've arrested the wrong man."

"That's right. Peter is innocent. He's not a thief. He—"

"Sara, for heaven's sake, take it easy, will you?"

Sara drew a deep breath. "I want to see him. I
have
to see him. He thinks I turned him in, Chief. He thinks I—"

Garrett squatted beside her again, and took her hands in his. "It doesn't matter what he thinks, Sara. He can't hurt you
anymore. You don't have to worry."

Sara snatched her hands away. "Damn," she said, anger roughening her voice, "I
want
to see him." Suddenly, tears filled her eyes and began to spill down her cheeks. "Please," she whispered, "take me to him."

Her boss looked at her as if he had never seen her before. "You've been under a lot of strain," he said finally. "I'm going to call Alice. I'll need a statement from you but it can wait until you've calmed down and gotten some rest."

"I'll give you a statement right now. Peter's been framed. He didn't take the jewels. He—"

The look on Garrett's face was made up of equal parts of compassion and distaste but his voice gave nothing away.

"Just take it easy until Alice gets here, OK? What you need is to talk to another woman. Maybe then we can make some sense out of all this."

Sara nodded numbly. She watched as Garrett telephoned his wife. It was impossible to hear what he said—he turned his back to her and cupped his hand around the phone—but when Alice arrived she had a sympathetic look in her eyes and a determined set to her mouth.

"Sara and I aren't going to talk in your office, Jim," she said, and she slipped a comforting arm around Sara's waist. "You come with me, dear. My car's out back. We'll go have ourselves a nice cup of tea and chat a little."

As soon as they were outside, Sara turned to the older woman. "Alice, please, take me to Peter."

Chief Garrett's wife spoke to her as if she were soothing a child awakening from a bad dream.

"They're probably still doing all the paperwork. You know how long these things take." She smiled and opened the car door. "There's plenty of time. We'll go to your house, and you can take a shower and change while I put the kettle on." She glanced at Sara meaningfully. "And then we'll talk."

The two women had talked until Sara was hoarse, Alice listening so sympathetically that at first Sara thought she believed her.

"Do you understand now?" Sara finally asked. "Peter Saxon is innocent. You have to make the chief listen to me, Alice. Maybe you could talk to him while I go to Peter."

Alice patted Sara's hand. "Drink your tea, dear. It's good for you."

"Didn't you hear me? I have to see Peter. He thinks I turned him in. I can't go on letting him believe that."

Alice's face twisted, shattering the illusion of compassion. "That rat! What kind of man would put a woman through such an ordeal? And all to save his own neck! No wonder you're confused."

Sara stared at the older woman in disbelief. "Haven't you heard anything I said? I love Peter." Her voice cracked with anguish. "How could he have thought I would call the police?"

"Let him think it. It's the only way you can salvage your pride." Alice sighed. "Don't you see? He played on your sympathies for his own protection. It's like the time they arrested him—that woman he stole from wouldn't say anything against him either."

Sara shook her head. "The papers said she didn't see anything."

"Maybe she just didn't
want
to see anything, the same as you." Alice marched to the sink and filled the kettle with fresh water. "Saxon was running out on you when Jim caught him. Do you really think he'd have done that if he cared anything for you?"

Sara bit her lip. "He—he couldn't face prison. Put yourself in his place."

"It's you I'm interested in," Alice said, slamming the kettle down on the electric stove. "A man like that ought to be horsewhipped. I hope they lock him up and throw away the key—and so will you, once you get some rest and come to your senses."

Alice Garrett had been on the phone to her husband, her back to the kitchen, when Sara rose quietly and slipped out of the door. Her car had been sitting in the cold all week but it started up easily. She had glanced in the mirror just in time to see the chief's wife running down the road after her, yelling at her to come back.

Sara had driven straight to the county jail only to be told that Peter Saxon refused to see her. He had refused her calls, too, the next day and the day after that.

The whole thing was like a nightmare. And there seemed nothing she could do to change it. Nothing...

"Sara?"

She blinked and looked up. The postman was standing before her desk, the morning's mail clutched in his hand.

"Sorry, Mr. Pemberton. I didn't hear you come in."

The man nodded. "Snow in the air," he said laconically.

"That's what the weather report says."

The postman looked at her through eyes red-rimmed by the wind. "Heard a rumor you refused to testify against that Saxon fella, Sara. Is that true?"

"Heard a rumor you're not gonna finish your route by nightfall, Eddie." Sara looked behind her. Jim Garrett stood in the doorway to his private office, his grizzled eyebrows raised politely. "Is that true?"

The postman shrugged, and put the mail into Sara's outstretched hand. "Town runs on rumors, Chief." His eyes slid to Sara. "We all know that." He smiled and pulled up his collar. "Have a good day, folks."

"Same to you, Eddie." Garrett stood behind Sara until the outer door had opened and closed. Then he sighed, and came around to the front of her desk. "Maybe you shouldn't have come back to work just yet," he said.

Sara shook her head. "No," she said quickly, "no, I'd much rather be here than at home. The days were endless..."

...but not as endless as the nights, she thought.

Jim Garrett nodded. "Yes, I guess you're right. Besides, in a town like this, there's not much you can do to stem gossip." He gave Sara a sharp look. "You do know people are beginning to talk, don't you?"

She smiled faintly. "People always talk in Brookville, Chief. It's how they get through the winter."

"I'm not joking, Sara. There are all kinds of rumors floating around. And it's only going to get worse. I can't put people off forever. They're full of questions."

Sara shrugged her shoulders. "I appreciate your concern, Chief, but I haven't asked you to protect me. Besides, everyone will know how I feel when the case comes to trial."

Garrett perched his bulky haunches on the edge of her desk. "I'm hoping you'll come to your senses long before then. The prosecutor is going to subpoena you. You'll have to go into a courtroom and testify under oath."

"Peter Saxon didn't steal those jewels."

"The judge won't solicit your opinion," Garrett said sharply. "He'll be interested in facts."

"I'll tell what I know. Peter is innocent."

Her boss sighed. "Sara, listen to me. I don't know what happened between you and Saxon—"

Sara flushed. "I told you what happened. We figured out the truth about the jewel theft."

Garrett waved his hand in the air. "I know, I know. Saxon was framed by Simon
Winstead. You've been telling me that all week." His eyes met hers. "But the prosecutor's not going to buy that without proof, Sara. He's going to rake you over the coals if you try that story on him."

Sara tossed down her pencil. "What would you like me to do? Lie? Say that—that Peter stole the jewels? That he beat me? That he—that he—"

"I only want you to tell what you know. Saxon kidnapped you. He threatened you. He restrained you forcibly. He stole a car—"

Sara shoved back her chair and got to her feet. "He had no choice. He was forced into doing those things, because he knew no one would believe him."

Garrett's eyes narrowed. "What the hell does that prove?"

"What it proves," she said furiously, "is that he was right. I kept telling him to turn himself in. I said he would get a fair hearing from you, that you would put aside your prejudices and really listen to him."

The chief scowled. "Listen to him? I wish to hell I
could
listen to him. But he won't talk to me. The way I hear it, he's even refused to talk to his attorney. The only thing I know about this case is the crazy story I keep hearing from you—that Winstead set Saxon up, and that the missing jewels are in his safe."

"It's not crazy," Sara insisted. "And I don't know why Peter hasn't said anything. He knows
Winstead did it—it just doesn't make any sense,"

Jim Garrett sighed. "None of this makes sense."

Sara sank down at her desk. "And it won't," she said wearily, "not unless you look in Winstead's safe."

"Back to square one," the chief said. He watched her for a moment and then he cleared his throat. "Alice and I were talking last night. We wondered, well, Alice thought—the thing is, we know you must have had a pretty bad time of it with Saxon. And people get turned around when they're under a lot of stress—"

Sara looked at him coldly. "And?"

Garrett shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe you should see somebody. I was talking to Doc Ronald, over at the hospital, and he says he knows somebody on staff there—"

Sara's eyebrows rose. "Somebody? Don't you mean a psychiatrist?"

"What if he is? He's an expert on this kind of thing, the doc says. He can help you. He—"

"Dammit, I'm not crazy! I don't need a doctor—I need somebody to believe me." Suddenly her anger dissolved, and was replaced by a bone-draining weariness. "Chief, I beg you, get a search-warrant for the Winstead house. Open the safe."

The police chief rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "I wish to hell I could! I'm beginning to think that's the only way to make you see the truth."

"Then why don't you?"

Garrett snorted. "There's not a judge in the state who would grant me a warrant, Sara. You've been in this business long enough to know that."

"But if you tell him..."

"Tell him what? That my secretary says Peter Saxon told her New York's classiest jeweler's got three million bucks' worth of stolen jewels stashed in his safe?" The big man made a face. "Hell, Sara, just listen to yourself. I don't know how that S.O.B. got you to believe a story like that but it's so full of holes, it couldn't hold a thimble full of water."

Sara drew in her breath. "I saw the jewels," she said softly. "I told you that."