Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (35 page)

"Don't be ridiculous. I haven't any jewels—"

He smiled wolfishly. "Are you afraid I'll steal something else, then?" The taunt brought a rush of color to her cheeks. Saxon laughed. "You're the one who brought my nickname into the conversation, sweetheart." His eyes moved slowly, insolently over her, lingering on her unpainted lips, moving to her breasts, which were falling and rising rapidly beneath the bulky sweater. "Hell, it might be interesting, Sara." His gaze rose to meet hers; she saw a sudden blaze of light deep within the brown depths. "Very interesting," he said softly.

The breath caught in her throat. She felt her whole body begin to tremble, as if she were standing in the wind that blew with increasing strength outside.

"Stop it," she whispered. "You have no right..."

His hands tightened on her. "You
are
afraid, aren't you?"

What she was afraid of was that he’d hear her heart hammering.

"No," she said quickly. "Why should I be?"

Peter Saxon smiled crookedly. His eyes darkened until they were like brown velvet, and he drew her to him.

"I don't know," he said softly. "Suppose you tell me."

Sara cried out as his head dipped towards her. "Don't," she said, but it was too late. His mouth took hers.

His lips were cool, assured. She could feel his hands spread on her back, feel the heat of his fingers and palms burn through her heavy sweater. Her hands balled into fists as she raised them and forced them against his chest.

"You pig," she whispered against his mouth. "You—"

Later, Sara would wonder if everything that happened during the next endless days could be traced to that moment. If she hadn't fought him, if she had simply let him press his unwelcome kiss against her closed mouth, would it all have ended before it began?

She would never know. She would know only that her whispered curse gave him access to her parted lips, that when his mouth took hers again, she felt the sudden, silken brush of his tongue.

She froze for a moment, stunned, and then a heat so intense that it was beyond anything she had ever known, even in the privacy of her dreams, swept through her.

Her body seemed to become boneless. She trembled in Peter Saxon's arms; her hands opened and spread on his chest, her fingers curling into the leather jacket for support. She heard herself whimper softly, heard him make an answering sound deep in his throat, and then his arms tightened around her and he gathered her to him so closely that she could feel the muscled hardness of his body pressing against hers.

In that long, sweet moment, time stopped. Then, with a suddenness that left Sara gasping, his arms fell away from her.

She opened her eyes slowly and stared at him. His face was pale beneath its tan; she wondered if he was as staggered by what had happened as she was.

But then that lazy smile spread across his mouth and she knew that he was laughing at her, that he had been laughing all the time. "I'll pick you up at seven sharp, sweetheart." The smile widened until it was a grin. "Wear something pretty, hmm? Something blue, to go with those midnight eyes of yours." Before she could pull away, he reached behind her and pulled the clasp from her hair. It tumbled to her shoulders and he smiled. "That's better," he said. "I like my women with their hair down."

His insolence galvanized her. "
Your
women?" she said, pulling free of him at last. "Just who in hell do you think you—?"

But her taut, angry little speech was pointless. The door to the street opened, then closed again.

Peter Saxon was gone.

The
Winstea
d
house stood at the very top of Stone Mountain. Built of native fieldstone and oak, it had been designed so that it seemed a natural part of the mountain-top. The view it commanded of the valley below would be magnificent, Sara knew. As a child, she had often walked the dirt trail that snaked up the mountain's heavily forested slopes.

"It's too dangerous," her mother would have said, had she known of these little excursions.

But she never knew, and Sara had loved them. Alone, so close to the sky that she felt she might almost touch the clouds, her childish imagination had turned tree-tops into turrets and she had dreamed of being a princess in a far-away land. For a child as lonely and alone as Sara, the mountain-top had been a welcome refuge.

She hadn't walked the mountain in years—certainly not since the
Winstead house had been built and the dirt trail changed into a private macadam road. The curious and the uninvited—"the great unwashed," Alice Garrett called them with a wry smile—were not welcome at the Winstead estate. A lot of speculation had gone into trying to decide what the huge mansion behind the stone walls was like. Townsfolk who worked for the jeweler dropped tantalizing hints about Swedish crystal chandeliers, glove-leather furniture, even a greenhouse that contained an indoor pool as well as a jungle of exotic orchids.

"Just think, Sara, the next time the Women's Auxiliary meets, you and I will knock '
em dead with little tidbits about the house," Alice had said that afternoon when she had stopped by the office, and then she'd smiled wickedly. "Is Peter Saxon as good-looking as his photographs?"

Sara had stared at the older woman. "Doesn't it bother you that the man's a crook, Alice?"

Alice laughed and slipped her arm around Sara's shoulders. "You've been working for my husband so long that you're beginning to sound like him! The man works for an insurance company, dear. What could be more conservative?" She had given Sara a quick, affectionate hug. "You'll be perfectly safe—he's a thief, Sara, not a killer. Besides, there'll be lots of people at the party. What could happen to you?"

"Nothing," Sara had said quickly, trying not to remember the way she had reacted to Peter Saxon's unwanted kiss. "But—"

"But nothing, Sara. You're going to the party of the year with someone famous. What could be bad about that?"

Now, staring at the dresses hanging in her wardrobe, Sara gave a deep sigh. Alice had made it sound as if she and Peter Saxon were going out on a date, but the bald truth was that this was a command performance, brought on as much by her own stubbornness as by Jim Garrett's instructions. She couldn't have refused to go with Peter Saxon—not after the challenge he had thrown down.

"Are you afraid of me?" he'd asked, with that damnable grin on his handsome face, and then he'd kissed her and embarrassed her and...

Sara reached into the wardrobe, deliberately pushing aside the one blue dress she owned. She pulled a beige dress from its hanger and looked at it critically. She'd bought it two years ago, to wear to Jim's and Alice's twenty-fifth anniversary party. It wasn't dressy enough for tonight, but that was fine with her. This was an assignment, nothing more.

Peter Saxon had made a fool of her this morning. Well, tonight she would show him the stuff she was really made of. Nothing he did or said would ruffle her. He could tease her all he liked: she would simply do her job, which was to watch him as he watched the jewels.

She looked into the mirror as she smoothed down the skirt of the beige dress. The color was too pale for her, the lines too severe. But, with her hair loose and curling from the shower, it looked almost attractive.

"I like my women with their hair down."

Peter Saxon's voice was as clear as if he were standing in the room beside her. Sara drew in her breath, snatched a tortoiseshell barrette from the dresser, and clipped her hair at the nape of her neck.

If she had anything to say about it, he was in for a long, unsatisfying evening. She would, indeed, stick to him like glue, and even if the insurance company and Simon Winstead were right, even if it weren't necessary for her to keep him from theft, she would certainly keep him from something else.

Peter Saxon might have given up stealing gems but instinct told her he'd not given up stealing hearts. But not tonight, Sara thought with grim satisfaction. Tonight, he would have her beside him. And she would be a visible reminder to everyone in that house perched on top of Stone Mountain that Peter Saxon was nothing but an ex-convict with a taste for danger and women. If that didn't cramp his style, nothing would.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Sara wondered how she could have been so naive. No, she thought, standing beside Peter Saxon like a moth beside a butterfly, not naive. Stupid was a much better word to use. The
Winstead party was in full swing, the brightly lit rooms crowded with the rich and the famous, and she'd learned, over and over again, that all of them, men and women alike, wanted to meet Peter Saxon and shake his hand.

No, that wasn't quite accurate. The men wanted that. But the women—the women wanted something very different. The ones who already knew him—and there were many of those—threw their arms around his neck, squealed his name with delight and touched their glossy mouths to his. The ones who'd never met him before smiled into his brown eyes, and wordlessly offered him everything a man could possibly desire. Tall, handsome, dressed in a black dinner-suit and ruffled shirt that only emphasized his masculinity, he was, as Jim had said, a celebrity who stood out even in this famous crowd.

Sara's presence was no detraction at all. She might as well be invisible, she thought, as yet another Buffy or Muffy with artfully windblown hair and the scent of four-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume drifting after her called out Peter's name and launched herself into his arms. The girl glanced at Sara and then away, the look telling her more clearly than words that she wasn't worth worrying about. The man with her looked at Sara almost kindly, and she stiffened.

Don't feel sorry for me, she thought angrily. This wasn't like that long-ago, terrible night of her high-school dance.
She was as out of place now as she had been then, but tonight she didn't give a damn. There was no agonizing knot in her breast, no lump in her throat. Not even the cool, cynical smile Peter Saxon had given her when she'd opened the door to him could pierce her armor.

"Miss Mitchell," he'd said with a mocking bow, and he'd handed her a nosegay of flowers. Wild flowers, she'd noticed, beautiful and perfect, and even as she shook her head in rejection she'd wondered where he'd managed to find them in the dead of winter.

"I don't want them, Mr. Saxon," she'd said curtly.

"Surely you wouldn't condemn them to death, Miss Mitchell," he'd said, laughter in his voice.

Sara had said nothing, and finally he'd shrugged and dropped the little bouquet into the snow, where it lay like a crimson and blue stain.

"It doesn't matter," he'd said carelessly. "They don't match your dress, anyway."

"No," she'd said sharply. "You didn't really think I would wear blue, did you?"

His smile had been almost weary. "No," he had said softly, "I suppose I didn't."

They had said little after that but then, what would they have had to talk about? Peter Saxon had been impatient to reach the Winstead house. He'd checked the security systems that afternoon, Sara knew, but he said he wanted to make one last surveillance before the guests arrived.

She had watched as he checked the sensitivity parameters of the display cases in which the
Gadjapur jewels had been placed—whatever that meant—and then he'd checked the safe into which they would be put after midnight.

"OK," he muttered. "The crash circuits are fine."

That was meaningless to her, as well, but he had seemed satisfied. One last walk around the grounds and he'd nodded and pronounced everything ready.

The guests had begun arriving shortly afterwards, until finally the huge house was filled with laughter and music. And all evening Sara had dutifully followed Peter Saxon from room to room and guest to guest, watching as he kissed every perfumed cheek and smiled into every pair of long-lashed eyes and...

"You're so quiet, Miss Mitchell. Aren't you having a good time?"

Sara blinked and looked up at him. He was smiling that cool, cynical smile she had come to think of as his.

"I was wondering how much longer you planned on staying, Mr. Saxon," she said calmly. "It's getting late. And your job is over, isn't it? The jewels have been back in the safe for two hours now."

His smile grew even cooler. "I thought we would stay until after they set dessert out, Miss Mitchell. Surely you can understand that?"

"No," she said, "I can't. I'm not interested in dessert. I—"

"But I am. How else will I be able to steal some teaspoons to add to the knives and forks I lifted earlier?"

Sara's chin lifted. "I'm sure your sense of humor is much appreciated in some circles, Mr. Saxon, but—"

"I'm staying until the party ends, Miss Mitchell. That's my job." There was no smile now, not even a taunting one. "You want to leave? Fine. I'll call a taxi."

"If you stay, I stay. As you say, that's my job."

His eyes narrowed. "Fine. When the evening ends, you can check my pockets."

"Your sarcasm doesn't mean a thing to me, Mr. Saxon. This wasn't my idea, remember? I'm as uncomfortable as you are, believe me."

His eyes moved over her slowly, and then came back to her face. "Oh, I do, Miss Mitchell. You sure as hell look uncomfortable in that dress. How can you breathe with those buttons closed all the way up to your chin?"

A flush spread over her cheeks. "That's not what I meant, and you know it!"

"And since you raised the subject of what you're wearing—"

"I did no such thing, Mr. Saxon. You—"

"I thought I told you to wear something blue. Don't tell me a woman with eyes like yours doesn't own a blue dress."

Now, he was laughing at her, damn him! She could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. Sara drew a breath.

"What I wear is none of your business."

He touched his hand to her cheek. "The woman I'm with is always my business, Miss Mitchell."

Sara felt her flush deepen. Seeing it made him grin.

"Easy, sweetheart. You're liable to draw attention to yourself, and you know you don't want to do that."

"You don't know anything about what I want or don't want, Mr. Saxon."

"Wrong, Sara. For instance, I know you'd fade into the wallpaper if you could. That's why you wear your hair in that awful knot, why you wear dresses that look as if your grandmother chose them."

"Thievery and cheap psychiatry," she said sweetly. "A man of many talents. How nice."

Saxon chuckled.

"See, that's the part I find fascinating. The icy exterior—"

"If you think you can insult me, Mr. Saxon—"

"...and beneath it a smoldering fire, just waiting to blaze." His hand closed around her wrist. "I keep thinking it might be interesting to be around when it happens."

The touch of his hand made her heart hammer. What was the matter with her?

"Thievery, cheap psychiatry, and an over-active imagination," she said evenly. "I'm sure there are women who find the combination intriguing."

His fingers moved against her skin. "But not you, of course."

She shook her head. "No, not me. I find you overbearing, insulting, irritating—"

He laughed softly. "Stop trying to sweet-talk me, Sara. I'm here on business, and nothing you can do will take my mind off my work."

"Is that what you call it? I hope General Casualty doesn't pay you much for what you do."

"Believe me, they don't pay me anywhere near what they should. If a man were bent on larceny, tonight would be worth a cool two or three million."

"If you stole the
Maharanee of Gadjapur's jewels, you mean?" She looked up at him as he drew her along beside him through the crowd. "I'd think a pro like you would get the value right. They're worth five million."

Peter laughed as he took two flutes of champagne from a waiter. "Retail," he said, holding a glass out to her. "Wholesale's different."

Sara took the glass without thinking. "Wholesale?"

"Jewels have to be fenced, Sara. You don't just take a handful, then walk into Tiffany's and offer them up for sale." He looked at her and smiled. "Still, a couple of million bucks isn't bad for a night's work."

"A night's work," she repeated flatly. "That's a strange way to describe something so—so criminal."

Peter grinned. "See that little man in the corner? The fat one, with his arm around the tall blonde? I hav
en't heard what he does called ‘criminal’."

Sara looked across the room. The man in question was not just fat, he was oily-looking. Her pulse leaped.

"You mean, you recognize him? From—from prison? Is he here to try and steal the jewels?"

"You've got a one-track mind, sweetheart. He manages a big Wall Street stock fund, one that its investors to the cleaners a couple of year ago, and he still makes millions. But he's not a crook, is he?"