Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (43 page)

"Let go, just this once." His voice dropped to a velvet whisper. "Sweet Sara, let go and touch reality."

He held her face steady as he lowered his mouth to hers. Sara tensed herself for the demand of his kiss, but it was gentle and tender. He drew back and looked into her eyes for a long moment, and then he bent to her and kissed her again. When he drew away this time, she was trembling.

"Put your arms around me," he said softly.

"Peter." She whispered his name and closed her eyes. "Don't," she said, "please, don't."

"Do it."

Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her arms. She put her hands against his chest. The heat of his body was a cauldron against her palms.

"Put your arms around my neck, Sara."

She held her breath as she moved her hands slowly up his chest and linked them behind his neck. He made a sound she barely heard, something that was not quite a moan, and her lashes lifted from her cheeks.

The look on his face made her blood leap. Desire blazed in the darkness of his eyes and in her lonely heart.

"Peter." The word was barely a whisper. "Peter."

He bent to her, and touched his mouth to her throat. Her head fell back and she moaned.

"You smell like spring rain," he said thickly. "And you taste—you taste like honey." She felt the rasp of his tongue against her skin and her eyes fell closed again. "I'm going to taste you everywhere, Sara. Your mouth, your eyelids, your throat..."

The dreams of a hundred nights bloomed within her, dreams her mind had always rejected in the cool light of dawn. Peter's hands moved over her and her body sparked to life wherever his fingers stroked. She felt his mouth against her, heard him whisper words that were muffled by her skin, but she understood them just the same.

He wanted her, just as she wanted him. She had denied the truth to him and to herself from the beginning, but the time for denial was past.

Peter Saxon was the man she had waited for all her life. He was everything she had wanted, and everything she had feared.

He was life. He was reality. And she would not let this moment slip away.

She moved against him, and wound her fingers into the thick hair at the back of his head.

"Peter," she sighed.

The sound of her voice seemed to inflame him. He whispered her name as he buried his face in her hair and swept her up into his arms. In a few quick strides he crossed the room, and sank down with her into the softness of the canopied bed, drawing her into him as he bent over her and kissed her deeply.

Her lips parted beneath the pressure of his; his tongue stroked hers. His hand moved over her with tantalizing slowness, learning the length of her leg, the curve of her hip, the thrust of her breasts.

He was talking to her, whispering to her, but she couldn't understand him. Ablaze with a thousand new sensations, Sara could only feel.

But it was enough.

Peter's hands and mouth and body spoke more eloquently than words; she understood their message and answered with her own. Her arms tightened around him, and she sighed his name against his mouth.

He pushed her sweater up, and she gasped as she felt the heated press of his hand against her flesh. His fingertips were roughened; the feel of them moving against her sent a flood of warmth racing to her loins. When his hand closed over her naked breast, she moaned softly.

No man had ever touched her like this before. No man had ever kissed her this way or whispered these things to her.

She was alive and eager for what only Peter Saxon could offer.

"Sara," he whispered. Her eyes opened slowly and focused on his face. It was drawn with desire. A surge of excitement shot through her. "Come fly like an eagle," he said softly, and he pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it aside.

She trembled as he looked at her, his eyes hot on her naked breasts. She felt her nipples bud even before he touched her.

"Beautiful Sara," he whispered, "my sweet love."

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth as he reached out to her and ran his hand lightly along her skin, his fingers defining the shadow of ribs, grazing the soft underswell of breast, until finally he cupped her flesh in his palm. His thumb brushed across the nipple; the sensation his touch aroused was so sharp and sweet that she cried out.

His mouth moved over her flesh, his tongue leaving a trail of radiance from her shoulder to the hollow between her breasts, until, at last, his lips closed over the waiting nipple.

"Peter."

It was all she could manage to whisper as she held him to her.

All sensation was centered in the place where his mouth and her body met.

Nothing had prepared her for this feeling; nothing could equal it, she thought—and then she felt the touch of his hand on her belly, over her trousers. His hand stroked, gentled, finally cupped the soft mounded
center of her, and Sara felt waves of heat begin to sing through her.

"Help me," he whispered, and she raised her hips to him as he slid down her trousers. She watched his face as he pulled the last bit of clothing from her. His eyes moved over her like a caress. "You're beautiful, sweet Sara," he said.

For the first time in her life, she knew it was true.

"I want to see you, too," she told him, and felt the power of her words when his big body shuddered.

"Yes," he said, and he drew back so she could see what, until now, she had only felt.

His body was the color of new wheat. Long ridges of muscle lay coiled beneath his skin. He was a dizzying blend of virility and beauty, and that one most masculine part of him, his hard, erect male flesh, was beautiful.

She raised her arms to him and drew him down, down, down beside her. His mouth met hers. He kissed her, tender little kisses that coaxed her lips apart, until, with sudden ferocity, he gathered her to him and rolled her beneath him.

"Sara," he whispered, "sweet, sweet Sara."

His hands and mouth were everywhere, the silken brush of his tongue augmented by the heated rasp of his fingertips. She cried out as he ran his hand over her belly and into the damp delta between her thighs. The stroke of his fingers electrified her but when she felt the touch of his lips at her navel, then at the secret of her womanhood, she drew in her breath.

"Don't," she said, "oh..."

Peter caught her hands in his. "Yes," he said, "yes, sweetheart. Let me taste you. Let me."

The imprint of his kiss sent her spiraling upwards through glimmering bands of light. She was caught in a rainbow; the brilliance of it dazzled her senses. Tears rose behind her closed eyelids and rolled down her cheeks.

When Peter finally knelt between her legs and entered her, she cried out with joy. He moved faster. Harder. Deeper, and she felt the pulsebeat of the universe quicken.

And then they were travelling together to a place of shimmering crystal radiance, where color became sound, became heat, became sensation.

"Sara," he said hoarsely.

Poised on the brink of eternity, Sara whispered her lover’s  name. He kissed her, the kiss tasting of the passion he had aroused within her, and then she closed her arms around him and they were one.

* * *

She awoke in the dark, small hours of the night, safe and warm in Peter's arms.

"Did I wake you?" he whispered. "I didn't mean to; I only wanted to pull up the covers."

Sara smiled into the darkness and snuggled closer to him. "I'm warm enough," she said sleepily. "But if you want to make me warmer…"

He laughed softly. "Shameless wench," he said, drawing the blankets over them both. Seconds passed, and then he rose up above her on one elbow. "Sara?"

She sighed. "
Mmm."

"I told you the truth, baby. I didn't steal the
Winstead jewels."

Her eyes opened and she looked at him. In the dark, his face was shadowed.

"It doesn't matter," she whispered, and she knew that was the truth.

He caught her hand in his. "Thank you for saying that," he said, pressing a kiss into her palm. "But I didn't steal them, Sara. Someone just wanted it to look as if I had."

She sat up against the pillows. The blankets fell to her waist. "But why? What would be the sense?"

Peter reached out and switched on the lamp. "Remember when I put the jewels into that backpack?" She nodded. "Well, it was the first time I took a good look at them." He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. "The best pieces are missing, sweetheart. The tiara, the diamond and emerald necklace… They aren’t there."

She stared at him. "But—but what does it mean?"

Peter’s  mouth thinned.

"It means," he said slowly, "that I think I know who set me up." He reached out and ran the backs of his fingers lazily along her throat.

Sara's eyes widened. "Who?"

His fingertips grazed her breast. "I think I know why, too."

"Tell me, Peter."

His eyes darkened as he bent to her. "I will," he said softly. His lips brushed hers, and she felt the gentle pressure of his teeth. "In the morning. There are more important things to do now."

And, as his arms closed around her, Sara knew he right.

"Simon Winstead? You think the jeweler stole his own jewels, and made it look as if you'd done it?" Sara stared at Peter across the tray of croissants and coffee that sat in the middle of the canopied bed. "But why?"

He reached towards her and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "You are the most persistent woman." She was sitting cross-legged, dressed only in his flannel shirt. His eyes moved over her bare legs, paused at her breasts, and came to rest on her mouth. "We could talk about this later, you know. Say, in an hour or two."

Sara smiled and caught his hand in hers. "And you," she said softly, "are impossible. Here I am, trying to be serious—"

"Here I am, trying to make love to you—" Peter returned her smile, then leaned across the breakfast tray and kissed her. "
Mmm," he said, "coffee with cream and sugar. Just the way I like it."

"Peter, please. You said you'd tell me about the
Gadjapur jewels."

He sighed. "And I did. I told you
Winstead's the thief, not me."

"Yes," she said impatiently, "but why would he steal his own property? And how? It doesn't make any sense."

"The "how" is easy. Remember those power blackouts? We all assumed they were due to the storm but Winstead could have rigged them. I'd even suggested he arrange some sort of power back-up because of the house's remote location, but he shrugged it off. And it would have been easy enough to open the trunk of my car and plant the jewels." He shrugged his shoulders. "I left the keys in it, remember, so the valet could move it if he had to."

Sara nodded. "I just don't understand why he would involve you. He didn't need you there just so he could take his own property out of his own safe."

Peter smiled ruefully. "He did if he was going to get away with the scam he'd rigged. Who would suspect him of theft if I were around?"

"But why did he keep some of the jewels?"

"Not some, love. The best. The most expensive." He reached to the tangled clothing beside the bed and began separating it. "When the police caught me, they would have accused me of having already sold those pieces off. Meanwhile, they would be safe and sound in Winstead's safe."

Skepticism showed on Sara's face. "Not in his safe, Peter. Why on earth would he keep them there?"

"Because that's the safest place for them. Who would look for stolen jewels in the safe they were supposedly stolen from?"

It was a plan as simple, yet as complex, as any Sara could imagine. And, the more she considered it, the more sense it made.

"Yes, but why would he do it? The man's worth a fortune."

Peter's eyebrows rose. "That's what they say, but who knows? Maybe he lost it on the stock market. Maybe he made some bad business moves. Maybe he just likes the idea of screwing the insurance company."

Sara nodded. "To the tune of—what—a million dollars?"

Peter smiled. "Three million, at least. And the insurance company pays him that much again—"

"—because they won't be able to recover the jewels you supposedly stole."

"Right. He gets the jewels and the money, I get put away, and he's home free."

"But he must have known you would figure it out."

Peter laughed. "Come on, Sara. Suppose I tried telling this story to the cops? Do you really think they'd believe it? I have no credibility, but I sure as hell have the jewels. It's an open and shut case."

Sara smiled at him. "Not any more, it isn't. All we have to do is call my boss and—"

"Sara." Peter's hand closed over hers as she reached for the phone. "We can't do that."

"Don't be silly. All you have to do is tell Chief Garrett what you just told me. And then he'll—he'll..."

Her face clouded.

"Exactly, '' he said softly. And even if, by some miracle, he believed you, what could he do? He'd need a search warrant to get into Winstead's safe—and no court's going to order a warrant based on a fairy-tale spun by a convicted felon like me."

Sara nodded. She knew he was right.

"I just—I can't imagine anyone thinking of you that way.”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

"I never gave a damn what anyone thought of me,'' he said gruffly, ''but now… Now, I wish I could go back and..." He drew in his breath. "But it's not possible. I am what I am, and I did what I had to do..."

His words trailed away. Sara took his hand in hers and held it tightly.

"Of course you did," she said. "I understand that."

"No," he said softly, "you don't."

"I do," she insisted. "You had no choice but to run. You're right, no one would have believed you hadn't stolen the jewels."

It seemed to Sara that all the sadness in the world was in his smile.

"Which brings us full circle. There's no way out for me."

Sara shook her head. "There has to be. Can't you think of anything?"

Peter laughed softly. "Sure. All I have to do is drive back to Brookville, break into Winstead's house, open the safe, and find the missing jewels."

"Could you do that?" she asked. "Break into the house and into the safe without getting caught?"

He grinned. "Modesty compels me to say ‘no,’ but honesty demands the truth. Of course I could. I supervised the electronic systems for Winstead, remember? I'd need some things—"

"What things?"

He sighed and got to his feet. "Things," he said vaguely. "Nothing I couldn't pick up in any hardware store." He looked at her and shook his head. "It's just a pipe-dream, Sara. Even if I did something that crazy, what would be the point?"

"You would find the missing jewels, the ones that would prove
Winstead set you up."

Peter shook his head. "Sorry, sweetheart. They would simply accuse me of putting them back in the safe. It wouldn't work. Hell, I'd need a gold-plated witness if I—"

"You have a witness." Sara stood up and walked towards him. "You have me."

Peter stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

Her eyes shone with eagerness. "If I were with you when you opened the safe, I could testify that the tiara and the emeralds were already there, and that you had never had them. Chief Garrett would believe me, Peter. He trusts me. He—" A slow flush rose to her cheeks. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

He took her in his arms and kissed her.

"You’re the first good thing that ever happened to me, '' he said gruffly. ''But I can’t let you do it."

"Peter, please. I want to. Don't you see? I want to do something to help you."

"No. It could be dangerous."

"So is life," she said. Her eyes met his. "But that's what makes it exciting. Isn't that what you told me?"

Peter's eyes darkened. "If you want excitement," he said, "I can give you all you need."

He gathered her to him, molding her body to his. Her mouth opened to his; she felt the heated press of his aroused body against her, and the slow, sweet passion he had unleashed began to unwind deep within her.

"Please," she whispered, "let me help you."

He swung her into his arms and looked down at her. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?" he asked thickly, and then he lowered her to the bed and the room, and reality, spun away.

* * *

Hours later, they were riding south towards Brookville in the Range Rover. It had taken all morning for Sara to talk Peter into going back; now, as he sat silent and tense beside her, she felt her own anxiety mounting.

Peter's mood had deteriorated as the miles sped by. She'd been surprised, at first, remembering how charged with excitement flirting with danger made him—until she realized that this was more than that.

This was a game played for the highest stakes of all.

Freedom.

The closer they got to the scene of the theft, the greater the risk he would be captured. And if he were, he would be locked behind bars.

I thought I'd die in there.

A car shot by them, horn blaring into the night. Peter muttered an obscenity.

"Go on," he said, "kill yourself, you stupid idiot."

He was like a coiled spring! Sara cleared her throat.

"You're only doing forty, Peter. That's why he passed you."

He glared at her, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Who's driving this car, Sara, you or me?"

She looked at him in bewilderment. "I was only—"

"Yes, I know what you were "only". You were—"

Suddenly, he drew in his breath and slapped his hand against the wheel. "Hell," he said softly, "I must be crazy." His foot pressed down on the accelerator and the car moved ahead. "Too slow is just as bad as too fast for calling attention to yourself."

"You're tired, that's all. We've been on the road half the night."

He shook his head. "Don't make excuses for me," he said irritably. "It doesn't change the fact that I made a mistake." He glanced at her again, and then looked back to the road. "And I damned well can't afford to make mistakes. Not anymore."

Sara put her hand on his. "I wasn't making excuses for you. I only meant that I know you're under a lot of pressure and—"

His voice cut across hers. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this crazy plan."

Her hand fell away from his. "It's not crazy," she said quickly.

Too quickly, she thought. Where was all the conviction she'd had earlier? But she knew where it was; it had slipped away along with Peter's confidence. He was her strength, and if he had doubts about their plan succeeding, then surely it was doomed to failure.

"Of course it is. We're going to break into the
Winstead house. A thousand things could go wrong."

"Nothing will go wrong," she said, with a certainty she didn't feel. "You said you could get into that security system with your eyes closed."

He scowled. "If it's the same system. If Winstead hasn't moved the jewels. If we don't run into the police. If—"

She looked at him, surprised at the sharpness in his voice. "You never mentioned any of those things this morning."

His jaw thrust forward. "There are a dozen possibilities I didn't mention. That doesn't mean I'm not aware of them. Anything might go wrong with a crazy plan like this."

Sara hesitated while she searched for words that would calm his fears.

"There's a risk," she said finally. "OK, I figured that. I—"

"You're damned right there is."

"Talk about role-reversal," she said with a forced little laugh. "I thought you were the one who lived for risks."

Peter looked at her, and then at the road. "People change, Sara. Maybe I've finally figured out that sometimes the risk is greater than the reward."

She bit down on her lip. There was no need to ask what he meant. He was thinking of prison again, she knew. She ached to tell him she would do anything to protect him—but there was nothing she could think of, except what they had planned—and, the more she thought of breaking into the Winstead house, the more dangerous it seemed.

But what other choice was there? If they had stayed in Canada, sooner or later the authorities would have picked up their trail. Still, that might have been safer than what they were doing.

A cold knot settled in her gut. She was leading him into the very heart of danger. Her plan, so clever and daring when she had suggested it that morning, suddenly seemed impossible.

"Peter," she said, turning towards him, "listen to me—"

"There's our exit," he said, swinging the wheel to the right. "Keep an eye out for a motel. We'll take the first one we see."

But the first was too big and brightly lit. The second was perfect. Ten units huddled together on a narrow turn-off, behind a neon sign that blinked sadly into the moonless night. "OTEL", it said, the missing letter like a gap in a tired woman's smile.

"Our kind of place," Peter said with a harsh laugh as he pulled up to the office.

Sara put her hand on his arm just before he got out of the car. "Be careful."

He smiled at her for the first time in hours. "Relax, love. We're still a good fifty miles from Brookville."

She watched as he stepped into the badly lit office and  didn't breathe easily until they were safely inside their motel room, which was as shabby and dim as the sign outside.

Peter dropped their things on the lone chair and put his hands on his hips.

"Well," he said finally, "it's not the
Laurentians, is it?"

"It's fine," Sara said, trying not to notice the water-stained ceiling or the frayed carpet. The tinny sound of a television drifted through the thin wall separating their room from the next. "It's just fine."

Peter took a breath, and exhaled it slowly. "Yeah. It's terrific."

She watched as he circled the small room warily, drawing the curtains and double-locking the door, his body taut with apprehension, and then she ran her tongue across her lips.