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 haven'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?"
"Now you're playing games. What he does is legal. What you do—"
He smiled thinly. "I paid my debt to society. I'm a reformed thief, remember?"
"You don't sound like you're reformed at all. You sound as if you don't really believe theft is against the law."
"That's what they tell me."
"What they tell you? Don't you think that taking what isn't yours is wrong?"
He gave her a lazy smile. "There are times you see something, Sara, and you know in your gut that it’s been waiting for you to come along and take it." His eyes met hers, and a flame leaped to sudden life within their brown depths. "Only a fool would walk away when that happens."
Damn the man! He was having fun at her expense.
"Mr. Saxon," she said carefully, "I wish you would—"
"Do you address all your dates so formally?"
"Mr. Saxon," she repeated, "it's very late. I'd appreciate it if you would help me find Chief Garrett. Tomorrow's a working day for me. Perhaps he'd agree to spend the rest of the evening with you, so I can call a taxi and—"
"Sara." His voice was soft, as was his smile. He took her untouched champagne from her and set both flutes down on a table. "Has it really been so terrible? Spending the evening with me, I mean."
"I haven't spent the evening with you," she said, before she could think of how the words would sound.
Peter smiled and took her hand in his. "You're right. I've neglected you. And I apologize."
"I didn't mean it like that," she said quickly, trying not to feel the heat of his fingers against hers. "This is... it's business."
"Soft music. Flowers everywhere. A magnificent house and a spectacular view." He laughed softly. "Is your business day usually like this?"
She stiffened. What new game was this? What new embarrassment was he planning for her? She looked up at him warily, but the cynical smile was gone. He was looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face—one she found very disconcerting.
"You've passed up the lobster and caviar, you haven't had a sip of wine. It's obvious you don't like the people you've seen..."
"I'm not here for any of that, Mr. Saxon. I—"
"...and you don't approve of me, or the way I earn my living."
She looked at him as if he were insane. "Approve of you? Approve of someone who cheats and steals—"
Peter sighed dramatically. "That's what everyone says about insurance agents. That they steal from widows and orphans."
"You know damned well I wasn't referring to ins—"
"I mean, people approve of dentists and accountants. But not insurance agents. They tell jokes about us. They say we're stodgy."
"Mr. Saxon, I wasn't referring to—"
"I got this job because I, well, I just happen to have some expertise in an insurance-related field. You wouldn't hold that against me, would you?"
Despite herself, a smile twitched at the corners of Sara's mouth.
"Forgive me for asking, Miss Mitchell, but might I interest you in a policy? Is your house properly insured? Your car? What about that damned cat of yours that tried to rub itself bald against my leg?"
She had to smile; she couldn't help it. She'd seen what had happened, although she hadn't said anything. In the moment it had taken Sara to get her coat, Taj had managed to deposit a lot of grey fur on Peter's black-gabardine-covered leg. At the time, it had seemed the least he deserved.
"I'm sorry about that," she said. "Taj doesn't get to see many strangers. He—"
"Strangers or strange men?"
"Neither. I don't—"
The unexpected admission caught in Sara's throat, but it was too late. She swallowed hard, then raised her eyes almost defiantly, waiting for Peter Saxon to make some jesting remark.
Her breath caught. He was looking at her as he had earlier in the day, as he had when he'd kissed her. Her heart skidded, then began to race.
"Mr. Saxon—"
"Peter."
"Mr. Saxon, please..."
He smiled into her eyes. "Peter."
Sara swallowed again. "Peter. I'd be grateful if you'd—"
"Take you home. Yes, I know. I will, as soon as the party ends."
"No. I... I can't stay any longer. I just... A cab would be fine. Really."
He smiled again. "You're supposed to stay with me, Sara. Remember? You reminded me of that just a little while ago."
Suddenly, the room was plunged into darkness. A collective sigh arose from the guests, there was a nervous giggle, and then the lights came on again.
"It's the storm, folks." Simon Winstead stood in the doorway, a reassuring smile on his broad face. "Don't worry about a thing. We've got lots of candles and lots of champagne. If one doesn't solve the problem, the other will."
Appreciative laughter and a light smattering of applause greeted the announcement. Beside her, Peter muttered something under his breath.
"The fool would be better off if he told everybody to go home," he said. "The roads will be hell soon."
Sara nodded. "Yes, it's going to be almost impossible to get down the mountain. You would think he'd know that."
"He knows it. But this is a big event for him. You don't expect something like a little common sense to intrude on his plans for tonight, do you?"
"Why don't you talk to him? Maybe he'd listen to you."
"Winstead? Not very likely."
"Yes, but suppose you told him how hard it would be for police cars to get here if there were some kind of trouble? That would impress him, wouldn't it?"
Peter cocked his head to the side. "Well," he said softly, "at least you don't try and hide that quick mind of yours." He smiled, and his fingers threaded through hers. "I'll make a deal with you, Sara. You dance with me, and I'll tell Winstead to shut down for the night. How does that sound?"
Dangerous. The answer came to her so quickly that she thought, at first, she'd said it aloud. But she hadn't; Peter was still smiling at her, waiting for her response.
"That's—that's silly. Why not just tell him now? Find him and—"
"You're wasting time. While we stand here arguing, the road's icing over."
"Then what's the point in—?"
"One dance, Sara." He slipped his arm around her waist and began walking her towards the adjoining greenhouse, where the indoor pool had been covered with a parquet dance-floor. "What have you got to lose?"
"I... I'm not a very good dancer," Sara said. "I—"
The music reached out to them from the greenhouse. It was warm here, moist and fragrant with the breath of hundreds of orchids and frangipani. The lights were dim; she could see through the glass walls to where the snow lay like moonlight on the mountainside.
Peter drew Sara into his arms and smiled into her eyes.
"Just rela
x," he said softly. "Let yourself feel the music."
"I told you, I'm not very good at this. I—"
His arms tightened around her. "Let me be the judge of that, okay?"
She knew she was moving stiffly within his arms. She had told him the truth—she'd never been much for dancing. When she was thirteen, she'd closed the door to her bedroom, turned the radio on low, and practiced the dances she'd seen in the movies and on TV but there had never been a chance to put her self-learned steps into practice, except once in a great while.
The last time she'd danced was two years ago, at the Garretts' anniversary party. It was the last time she'd worn this dress, too. It was an unbecoming dress—she'd known it when she bought it. She still remembered that day, how she' d stood in Macy's, looking at a blue chiffon dress with a low neckline and full skirt, longing to try it on but knowing it was foolish to want something so frivolous.
She'd had a good time at the Garrett party. They treated her as if she were family. She'd danced more that night than she had in years, with Jim and the men she worked with—even with Jim's uncle, a white-haired old gentleman who smelled of oil of wintergreen.
Sara inhaled and drew in Peter Saxon's scent. He smelled of snow and heat, of champagne and the night. It was a heady combination, and very, very male. Her heart stumbled; her feet did, too, and his arms tightened around her.
Feel the music, he'd said, but what she felt was the strength of the arms that held her, the heat of the body pressed to hers. What she felt was that same, sweet weakness she'd felt this morning, when he had taken her into his arms and kissed her.
"Sara."
His voice was a soft caress in the shadowed room. Sara closed her eyes and willed her heartbeat to slow, her body to cease the sudden trembling that had seized it.
"Sara."
He wanted her to look at him. She could hear the unspoken command. But she couldn't look at him. She couldn't. If she did—if she did...
"Look at me," he demanded.
"No," she whispered.
He put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face to his. She drew in her breath as he bent his head and brushed his lips lightly over her mouth. He whispered her name and his hands spread on her back, the fingers of one splaying over her hips to her buttocks, and now she felt the hungry message of his body against hers.
Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set Page 35