Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (45 page)

Garrett's eyes narrowed. "In the trunk of Saxon's car."

"Yes. And—"

"And you noticed right away that the tiara and the emeralds were missing."

Sara hesitated. "No. Well, not exactly. Peter was the one who noticed. And he told me. And—"

The chief threw up his hands. "For heaven's sake, can you just hear me telling that to a judge?
‘My secretary says Saxon told her some of the pieces were missing, your Honor. And he told her he knows where they are.’" He shook his head. "Sara, for pity's sake—"

"Suppose—suppose I said I
had
noticed  right away? I mean, what if I'd realized that some of the jewels weren't there the first time I saw them?"

Garrett lowered his head. "Do you know what you're saying?"

Her chin rose in defiance. "Would it make a difference? Would you be able to get a warrant if—"

"No." Her boss's voice was sharp. "It wouldn't be worth a damn. For one thing, Saxon could have had the missing jewels in his pocket."

"But he didn't. He—"

"For another," Garrett said coldly, "I would know you were lying, because that's not the way you told me the story every other time we talked." He stared at Sara until her cheeks colored. "So," he said finally, "you would even lie for that creep, would you?"

"Peter is innocent."

The chief shook his head. "I just can't believe it, Sara. You, of all people. Why? I always thought you could spot a phony—" He shook his head. "Look, why don't you come to stay with Alice and me for a while? Alice thinks—"

Sara turned away. "I know what she thinks. She thinks that Peter Saxon made a fool of me."

"No, Sara. Nothing like that."

She drew a deep breath. "I don't want him to be locked up for a crime he didn't commit. Anything else is my business and no one else's."

Garrett ran his fingers through his hair. "Saxon doesn't deserve this kind of loyalty. He won't even see you."

She laughed bitterly. "I'm not the most popular woman in town, am I? Winstead won't see me, either."

The chief's head rose sharply. "What?"

"Don't lecture me, please. I know I shouldn't have done it."

"Done what? For heaven's sake, if you've made insane accusations about Simon
Winstead, he'll have your job and mine so fast that it'll make your head spin."

She sighed and rose from her chair. "Don't worry," she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "I didn't accuse him of anything. I drove to his house last night. His butler announced me, and
Winstead came to the door just long enough to tell me not to show my face there again."

Garrett put his hand to his forehead. "Sara,  that wasn't bright at all. The man's got lawyers and—"

The shrill ring of the telephone cut him off. Sara reached for it but he waved her away. She sipped her coffee as he lifted the receiver and mumbled his name into it. He listened for a moment, his face darkening, and then he slammed down the phone.

Sara looked at him. "Bad news?"

The big man shrugged. "Just a minor set-back. That was the state cops. They took Indian Lake Lodge apart, looking for the jewels that weren’t in the backpack we found in Saxon’s motel room.'' His eyes met hers. "They didn't find them."

Sara nodded. "I told you they wouldn't. I told that to
Winstead last night, too. Not that he wanted to hear it."

Garrett sighed. "I thought he didn't talk to you."

"He didn't. Not really. I told him Peter Saxon was no thief. And Winstead laughed and said he
was,
that honest people didn't drive around with boxes of jewels in the trunks of their cars."

Jim Garrett got to his feet. "What? What did you just say?"

Sara looked at him, her expression puzzled. "I said I told Winstead that Peter wasn't a thief."

He shook his head impatiently. "Not that. The other part."

"The other...? Winstead said only a thief would have a box full of jewels tucked in the trunk of his car." She stared at her boss's face, and her pulse suddenly began to race. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

Garrett's meaty hands clasped her shoulders. "Are you sure that's what he said? I mean, about the jewels being in the trunk?" Sara nodded. "That's very interesting," he said softly. "
Very
interesting. You see, nobody but you and Saxon knew the jewels were in that trunk."

Her heart turned over. "Are you sure?"

The chief nodded. "Saxon hasn't made any statement at all. And you haven't spoken to anybody but me."

"Jim." Sara's voice was a whisper. "The only way Simon
Winstead could have known that..."

"...
is if he put the jewels there himself." Garrett took a long breath. "All right," he said after a minute, "let's hear your crazy story again, Sara. From the top." He looked out of the window to the snow that had begun falling, and a quick smile flashed across his face. "What the hell? It's going to be a long afternoon. What have I got to lose?"

It was amazing, Sara thought, how easily euphoria could change to despair.

Only a few hours ago, she'd been filled with hope. She'd told Jim Garrett the details of her flight with Peter over and over but this afternoon had been the first time she had done so with an eagerness that even she could hear in her voice.

The chief listened closely, interrupting only after she'd described the moment she'd first seen the jewels in the trunk of Peter's car, heaped in a simple box and gleaming like dime-store spangles under the beam of her flashlight.

"You're sure, Sara?"

Her eyes had met Garrett's. "Yes." She'd waited for her boss to say something more but he hadn't, and finally she had cleared her throat. "Are you convinced now?
Winstead put the jewels there himself. He would never have known about them otherwise."

The chief had shrugged. "Maybe."

That was when her euphoria had begun to fade. "Maybe? But you said he did. You said—"

"I said it was an interesting possibility."

"He put them there, Chief. You know he did."

Her boss had given her a non-committal smile. "Maybe. And that's the best I'm going to do right now. I'll check it out, and if I can come up with something—"

"What do you mean, you'll check it out? I just gave you all the proof you need!"

Garrett had shoved back his chair, risen heavily to his feet, and strolled to the window.

"The snow's picking up. Why don't you go on home before the roads get any worse?" When he turned towards her and saw the look on her face, he'd sighed. "If I come up with something, I'll let you know.
If,
Sara. Do you understand?"

Sara had nodded without enthusiasm. "Sure. I understand."

Now, hours later, sitting on her sofa with her cat curled in her lap, she was sure that she did. Simon Winstead was a clever man. He had probably come up with some reasonable explanation for what he'd said about the jewels being in the trunk of Peter’s car. Actually, now that she thought about it, all he had to do was deny ever having made the remark.

It was only her word against his. And considering the way she had behaved over the past few days, her credibility was hardly better than Peter's.

Sara sighed deeply and stared out the window, into the dark night.

There had to be a way to prove Peter's innocence, just as there had to be a way to convince him that she hadn't betrayed him.

At first, she'd wondered which pained her the most—remembering the way he had looked at her as the troopers took him away or knowing he was in jail.

But, as the days went by, she knew which was the worst. It was that Peter was behind bars, caged like an animal.

I thought I'd die in there
.

She could still hear him telling her that, still see the darkness in his eyes.

She lifted the cat from her lap, got to her feet and pulled her fleecy robe more closely around her body. She would confront Winstead again tomorrow, and find a way to get him to make the damning admission again.

Only this time she would be ready.

She would bury a tape recorder in her bag. Or she would beg Chief Garrett to go with her. Or she would... she would...

Sara let out her breath. There had to be a way. She was just too tired to think of it now. It seemed days and days since she'd slept.

She sighed and looked at the grey cat curled on the couch. "Come on, Taj," she murmured. "It's bedtime." The animal looked up, yawned delicately, then put its head down again and closed its eyes. Sara smiled. "I don't blame you. I guess I've been keeping you awake at nights, haven't I?"

She stroked the silken little body, then switched out the light. The house was plunged into darkness, and she felt a sudden unpleasant chill, as if there were a draught blowing in through an open window. No, she thought suddenly, it wasn't that. It was as
if
someone were out there in the dark, watching and waiting.

She made a quick circuit of the rooms, checking that all the windows and doors were securely bolted. They were—and yet the uncomfortable feeling remained.

"You need a good night's sleep, Sara Mitchell," she said with determination, and she scooped up the cat and started up the stairs. The cat protested softly, meowing its displeasure at being disturbed. "Sorry, pussycat," Sara said, stroking the soft grey fur. "I just don't feel like being alone."

She shivered when she reached her bedroom. It was cold in here, too, which was strange because she had the heat turned up. But there was a lack of warmth in the house tonight. Everything seemed foreign and out of kilter.

She shook her head impatiently. That was all she needed now—an over-active imagination to add to everything else. She put the cat on the bed. It meowed, leaped off, and disappeared into the dark hall.

"OK," Sara called after it, "go on, be a cat. Assert your independence. See if I care."

She paused beside the window, and stared out into the night again. The snowfall was thick and heavy, lying over the gently sloping hills and skeletal trees like a white blanket. Above, the moon cast a cold light across the sky.

Peter had carried her off on a night like this. There had been no moon then but the snow had fallen all around them, enclosing them in a soft cocoon. Would she ever be able to look at snow again without this terrible pain in her heart?

She bowed her head and pressed it against the window. The glass was cold; ice flowers bloomed on it, the chill fruit of  winter.

"I love you, Peter."

Her whispered words trembled in the silence. If only she hadn't talked him into coming back to the States. If only he would see her, and let her explain what had happened...

Impatiently, she pulled the heavy curtains closed. What did it matter now? You couldn't go back and undo what was; you could only work to change the future.

And that, Sara thought, as she slipped off her robe and climbed into bed, was what she would do.

She switched off the bedside-light and lay back on the pillow. Somehow, she would find a way to free Peter. She would tell him she loved him. She would tell him she had not betrayed him. She...

Her lashes fell to her cheeks. The wind moaned softly through the skeletal trees.

Sara slept.

* * *

No man had ever touched her like this before. No man had ever kissed her in this way, or whispered these things to her. She was blooming like a desert flower under the sweetness of a sudden
rain shower, alive and eager for what Peter offered. Her mouth was filled with the taste of him, her breasts swelled beneath his caress, her body arched against his.

Peter's calloused fingers brushed the smooth column of her throat, and his hand slipped into her hair, his fingers tangling in the blonde strands as he drew her head back. He bent to her again, and she moaned as she felt the silken slide of his tongue against hers. Her senses blazed with the heat of his love...

She was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming, the message filtering through some separate, clear-thinking part of her mind. But the dream was so wonderful. If only it could last forever. If only...

"Sara."

She sighed in her sleep. Peter's voice was soft; she could even feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.

I love you, Peter...

"Sara." Hands clasped her shoulders and lifted her. "Sara. Wake up." She felt the brush of fingers against her skin.

Her eyes flew open. "Peter?" Her voice was soft with sleep, disbelieving. "Peter," she said again, and her heart filled with a rush of joy.

This was no dream. He was here. Peter was here in her room, sitting on the bed beside her. He had opened the curtains; in the pale glow of moonlight, she could just make out his shadowed features, the strong line of cheek and jaw.

He drew back as she reached out to him. "Hello, Sara."

"I can't believe it," she whispered. "How did you—what are you doing here? You—" Her heart thudded wildly. "You escaped from jail. Oh, Peter—"

His face hardened. "Did you really think you were safe from me, Sara? You should have known I would find a way to reach you."

"You escaped," she said again, and her eyes lit with alarm. Quickly, she pushed the blankets aside, and swung her legs to the floor. "You've got to hurry," she whispered. "They're sure to come here."

His hands closed tightly on her shoulders. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Sara stared at him. "There's no time to waste," she said. "They'll come here, Peter. And when they do—"

She winced as the pressure of his fingers increased. "That's not going to save you," he growled.

"Peter, please—"

"You sold me out, Sara."

"No," she said quickly, "no, that's not true. I know you think I did, but—"

"Don't play games with me, dammit." His voice was cruel with anger. "You sold me out, and now you're going to pay for it. I've been waiting for this moment, Sara. It's what kept me from going insane the past days."

Dark wings of fear fluttered in her breast. She could see his face clearly in the eerie, ice-blue wash of moonlight that filled the room. There was a coldness in his eyes she had only seen once before, outside the motel as the troopers had led him away.

"Peter, listen to me. It's not what you think—"

His lips drew away from his teeth. "Listen to you?" he said coldly. "I
did
listen to you, and look where it got me."

"If you would just let me explain—"

"I never had a chance to pay you back for your advice, Sara." Again, he smiled that terrible smile. "But I will, tonight."

The unspoken threat sent a chill along her flesh. There was a dark side to Peter—how had she forgotten that? She remembered how he'd run after her and caught her outside the bank the night he'd kidnapped her, how easily he had become part of
Frenchy Nolan's world in that sleazy bar in Montreal.

He had spent sixteen months in prison, experiencing things she had never even dreamed of.

He could be ruthless when he had to be.

He was a man on the run and he thought she'd betrayed him. It was a combination that might lead to almost anything.

"How the hell could you have sold me out?" His hands tightened on her. "I've gone through it a thousand times—"

Her fear took a new focus as she looked past him to the face of the bedside clock over his shoulder. It was just past two in the morning. How long had he been here? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Had they discovered his absence from the jail by now?

How long did he have before the manhunt for him began? How long would it be before her house was surrounded by car-loads of troopers and men with dogs straining at the ends of their leads, their muzzles flecked with foam?

"Peter." Her voice cut through his. "Peter, please, there's no time for this. You have to get away. They'll look here. They'll come here first."

"Don't count on it, Sara."

She shook her head. "They will. Garrett knows how I feel about—about you. He knows what I'll do. He—"

She cried out as his hands clasped her more tightly. "Yes," he growled. "I'll bet he does."

Something wailed thinly, far in the distance. Sara caught her breath and listened. Was it a police siren? No, she thought, closing her eyes with relief, no, it was a train, whistling mournfully into the night.

There was still time.

"Listen to me,'' she said, her voice harsh with urgency. ''My car is in the garage. The gas tank is full.  I have—I  don't know—I have fifty or sixty dollars in my wallet. I'll bring my car around, get my wallet—"

He laughed. "Terrific. The last time you trotted off to buy coffee. This time you're going off to get the car." His fingers bit into her flesh. "Don't waste your time, sweetheart. There aren't any telephones handy tonight—and I've cut the line to yours."

Sara stared at him. "Is that what you think? That I want to turn you in?"

"Again." His lips drew back from his teeth. "You left that out, sweet Sara."

A slow flush of anger heated her blood. She was dizzy with schemes to save him and all he could think of was her supposed duplicity.

"Listen," she said softly, "this isn't the time. But you're wrong about me. And I'm beginning to resent—"

"You're damned right I was wrong about you!" Peter's jaw shot forward. "Damn, but you had me fooled. It was just kicks, wasn't it? Little Sara Mitchell got the chance to spread her wings for the first time in her life and she liked the feeling. And then—"

"What are you talking about? I—"

Peter's eyes darkened, and his hands slid down her flannel-sleeved arms. "You really got through to me, Sara. Isn't that a laugh?" His fingers curled around her wrists. "For the very first time, I almost regretted what I'd done. I found myself wondering what it would be like if I could go back and undo—"

Sara stared at him. "There was nothing to undo, Peter. You didn't steal the jewels of the Maharanee of Gadjapur—we both know that."