Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set

by Sandra Marton

  "Welcome to Indian Lake Lodge, madame," Peter said, giving her a deep, mocking bow. "All the comforts of the finest hotels—and the charm of the most expensive mausoleums. Would you like the grand tour now, or after I've shown you to your accommodation?"

  Sara ran her tongue over her lips. "What's that sound?"

  He cocked his head and listened for a few seconds. "Sounds like the demons of hell, doesn't it?" He smiled and held out his hand. "It's only the wind cutting across the lake. Come on, Sara. It's not as bad as it looks."

  She stepped down from the Bronco. It was the first time she'd put any weight on her ankle in hours and the sudden pressure was painful. She cried out and grabbed for the car door, but before she reached it Peter's arms closed tightly around her.

  "Sara? What is it?"

  "My ankle." Her breath hissed between her teeth. "I sprained it when I fell in the bank parking lot."

  He swung her into his arms and strode through the open door and into the house.

  "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" he demanded, kicking the door closed behind him. "For all you know, it's broken."

  Sara shook her head. "It isn't," she said, "it's just a sprain. Please, Peter, put me down."

  His only answer was to draw her more closely against him as he carried her through the house.

  The rooms were enormous, filled with massive pieces of sheet-draped furniture. Shutters closed out most of the light, the artificial darkness adding to the gloom. The walls were hung with unsmiling portraits of what Sara assumed were Saxon ancestors. It was hard to imagine a child spending his summers in a house like this, she thought, as Peter shouldered open a door at the far end of the downstairs hall.

  This room was smaller than the others, although it still seemed the size of a tennis court. There was a stone fireplace at one end, logs still neatly stacked beside it, a couch drawn up before it. Peter set her down gently on her feet, holding her in the curve of one arm while he whisked the dust-cover from the couch. Then he lifted her again and lay her down on it.

  "Now," he said briskly, "let's see that ankle."

  "It's fine. Really. I—"

  But he was already squatting at her feet, his hands gentle as he eased off her ruined shoes.

  "Your feet are like ice, baby."

  He'd called her that before. She wanted to tell him not to address her like that, that the word was rough and rude…

  And sexy.

  Oh God, so sexy…

  He rubbed her feet gently, then drew her tattered skirt to mid-calf. "Dammit,'' he said gruffly, ''your ankle's swollen."

  "Please, Peter, it'll be all right. I—"

  His hand closed lightly around her foot and he tilted it up. "Does that hurt?" She shook her head. "That?"

  "A little. But—"

  "Move your foot, Sara. Does it hurt there? OK, now from side to side."

  He knelt beside her, moving her foot through a simple series of motions, his touch firm yet gentle. Sara watched his bent head. His hair was dark and thick and a little too long; it curled lightly against the nape of his neck and behind his ears. He needed a haircut, she thought absently, and her hand lifted slowly towards him.

  What would happen if she put her palm against the back of his neck? Would his hair feel soft and alive beneath her fingers? Would it feel silken against her lips?

  Sara snatched back her hand and buried it in her lap.

  ''Really,'' she said briskly, ''I'm fine. ''

  "Maybe. For now, let me find something to strap it with and—"

  "It doesn't need strapping," she said, pulling her foot from his hands and swinging it to the floor. "I told you, I'm all right."

  He rose slowly to his feet and looked down at her. "Yes," he said softly, "you are."

  Their eyes met and held, and then Sara wrenched her gaze away. "You—you promised me a tour of this place, didn't you?"

  It seemed a long time before he nodded. "That's right, I did." He smiled at her. "But that was before I realized it was almost as cold in the house as it is outside." He rubbed his hands together, then bent to the fireplace. "Let me build a fire to take the chill off the room. Then I'll find us some warm clothing and take you on a guided tour of the Saxon mausoleum, with a first stop in the kitchen. You must be starved."

  ''I'm not, '' she said, but her stomach gave a soft growl. Peter grinned. So did she. "Okay, I am—but first things first. A fire would be wonderful." She paused, watching as he began to lay the fire. "That's a terrible thing to call a house, you know."

  "A mausoleum?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, I suppose it is. But it's appropriate." He bent and blew softly on the kindling he had lit. "There was never any life in this place. Cook told me it had always been that way, even when my father was growing up."

  "Cook?"

  "She was my other ally. She used to hide chocolate cookies behind the oatmeal boxes in the pantry so I could have some with my bedtime cocoa." He grinned. "Johnny preferred vanilla wafers. Grandfather didn't approve, of course."

  "Your grandfather must have been a hard man," Sara said slowly.

  "He was like steel. Unbending, unyielding, cold—"

  "Was your father like that?"

  Peter smiled. "No, he was nothing like that. I can remember him riding me on his shoulders in the rain forest so I could see the wild orchids and the blue butterflies."

  "And your mother?" Sara prompted gently. "What was she like?"

  He looked at her. "She was tall, with smiling eyes and a quick laugh." His face grew clouded. "It was so long ago, Sara. I wish to hell I could remember them more clearly."

  "It must have been terrible to lose them. You were so young..."

  Peter nodded. "It was hell," he said quietly. "For a long time after they died, I hated them."

  "Oh, Peter." Her voice was low and filled with compassion. "I'm sure that's not unusual. You were just a child—you probably felt abandoned. You didn't understand death."

  His head lifted sharply, and she saw a terrible coldness in his face. "Maybe. But part of it was my grandfather's doing. He told me things—"

  Sara stared at him. "I don't—I don't understand."

  He put his foot on the raised hearth, bent his head and stared into the flames.

  "I was here, in this house, when they died, Sara. You see, my grandfather had fallen ill and my parents flew back to see him. My father was still trying to mend old quarrels, I guess. I don't remember much about the visit—except that I hated it here. I couldn't wait to go back to Brazil..."

  His words trailed away. Sara waited for him to begin again. Finally, she put her hand lightly on his arm.

  "What happened?"

  Peter shrugged. "I don't know all the details. Something came up—some deadline that had to be met if my father's grant was to be renewed. My parents had to fly back but I had a cold or the flu or some damned thing." He drew in his breath slowly, then let it out. "My grandfather convinced them to take Johnny and go on without me. He said he would send me along when I was better."

  "And?" Sara asked in a whisper. She could see a knot of muscle move in his jaw. His hands spread on the mantel, the fingers white with tension.

  "And they died," he said in a flat voice. "My grandfather called me into his office one morning. I can still see him, sitting behind his big desk, his eyes cold behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "I have unpleasant news for you, boy," he said. And then he told me they were dead."

  "Just like—just like that?"

  He turned towards her. "Exactly like that. I remember I started to cry and he told me to stop, that men didn't behave like sissies. And then he said he had work to do, that I should go to my room and read my Bible, and later he and I would talk about how I could best live my life."

  "But you were just a little boy, Peter! How could he—?"

  "When he sent for me again, he told me it was important I understand that my parents' deaths were their own fault. He said he would tell the same thing to Johnny, just as soon as he arrived.
My father had no business being in a place like the rain forest, he said. He told me my father had always been selfish and irresponsible but he would see to it my brother and I grew up to be different."

  Sara looked at him in horrified disbelief. "How cruel," she whispered. "You must have been heartbroken. You must have felt abandoned and deserted and..."

  He nodded again, his eyes dark with memory. "All of that and more. I grew up hating my parents for their deaths—and yet, each time the old man talked about them, each time he said I was turning out just like my father, I felt this strange kind of—of joy."

  "And your brother? Did he feel the same way?"

  Peter's mouth twisted. "Yes, I think so. I remember the way we used to look at each other whenever Grandfather accused us of being just like our dad..."

  "But why? Why was he so cruel?"

  Peter shrugged his shoulders. "I think he was trying to make certain we would despise our father so much that we wouldn't want to be like him. You see, our father had been a great disappointment to Grandfather. He was an adventurer, not a businessman. He refused to follow the old man into the Saxon business empire; he wanted to study cultural anthropology instead."

  "And your grandfather wouldn't let him?"

  "That's right. So he worked his way through college. That was when he met my mother—she was a painter. They married, and my father got a small grant to study in Brazil." He drew a deep breath. "Grandfather never forgave him."

  "How did you finally learn the truth? Did your grandfather tell you?"

  "He never told me a damned thing, Sara. By the time I was in my teens, I had turned myself inside out, trying to please him, trying not to be what he said I was—a duplicate of my ne'er-do-well father—and it was hell. I was like two people: one who wanted to climb mountains and do something exciting with my life, and one who felt obligated to make up for my father's sins. It was the same for my brother."

  Sara was almost afraid to breathe. The crystal moment seemed too fragile. She felt as if she were being handed a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that would only fit into a dimly perceived picture.

  "What happened?" she asked finally, her voice barely a whisper.

  "We read our father's journals. It was Johnny's twenty-first birthday—the journals were his inheritance. I remember he stayed locked in his room with them all day and then, that night, he handed them to me and he said, 'Welcome to manhood, little brother.'" He drew a deep breath. "It was all there—the quarrels, the bitterness, the attempts to force my father into line. And then came the entries about my mother, how much in love they were, and then my brother's birth and mine, and their joy in having us." He paused, then went on, "The journals—the last few—were filled with the spirit of life, Sara, the spirit of my father and my mother."

  Peter reached for her hand and clasped it tightly. The room filled with silence.

  "Peter?" He looked at her, and she cleared her throat. "What—what happened to your brother? I seem to remember something about an accident a few years ago—"

  Pain lanced across his face. "Yes. He had gone skydiving. He'd been jumping for years, but this time—this time his chute didn't open. Grandfather said it was—he said it only proved Johnny was as selfish and irresponsible as my father. He said—" The pressure of his hand on hers increased, and then Peter laughed self-consciously. "You are some piece of work, Sara Mitchell. A certified, qualified, absolutely bona fide shrink spent sixteen months trying to dredge the story of my life out of me when I was in prison, and he didn't get past my date of birth."

  "I'm so sorry, Peter. I wish there were something I could do."

  "You have done something." He looked deep into her eyes. "I've never wanted to tell any of that to anyone, Sara. I never even wanted to think about it, even though I know I have to if I'm ever going to get on with my life."

  Sara shook her head. "I—I don't think I understand, Peter."

  He smiled at her. "Never mind," he said softly. "I only wish—I wish we'd met some other way. I wish I'd walked into that little police station with a traffic ticket in my hand instead of an invitation to the Winstead party."

  Sara's heart seemed to stand still. She wanted to tell him it didn't matter how they had met. What mattered was that fate had brought them together, that he had changed her life in less than a day, that she had never felt so happy and complete.

  But how could she say any of those things? None of them made sense. He was running from the law and she was his captive. That was reality, that was what she had to remember, that was...

  A burning ember sprang from the fire, and landed with a hiss on the carpet at their feet. Sara jumped back as Peter picked it up, juggled it from hand to hand, and tossed it on the hearth. When they looked at each other again, the moment of magic had ended.

  "Damn!" he said, and then he laughed. "Well, burning down the mausoleum is one way to warm it."

  Sara smiled. "A little extreme, though, don't you think?"

  He grinned. "Absolutely. Especially when there's an easier way to solve our problem." He cocked his head to the side and looked at her. "What size do you wear, Sara? A ten? An eight?"

  She looked at him as if he were crazy. "Why?"

  "Never mind. The only size I'm probably going to come up with is "too large"." He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. "Give me five minutes, Miss Mitchell, and I'll bring you some warm clothes. Not the height of fashion, maybe, but warm."

  "Warm is what matters," Sara said lightly.

  Peter laughed. "Just remember that when you see what I turn up."

  What he turned up was a motley assortment of woollens and corduroys that he dumped on the couch beside her.

  "There you go," he said. "Take your pick."

  Sara plucked a plaid wool shirt, a navy sweater, navy cords and two pairs of heavy wool socks from the pile.

  "The most beautiful stuff I've ever seen," she declared, and she got to her feet and took a limping step towards the door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To change. I—"

  The words caught in her throat. Peter had already tossed aside his jacket and tie. He shook his head as he unbuttoned his frilled shirt and pulled it out of his trousers. Firelight laid a golden sheen on his muscled chest and the dark hair that curled over it.

  "You'll freeze," he said matter-of-factly. He kicked off one shoe, then another, reached to the top button of his trousers, and said, very gravely, "I won't peek if you won't."

  Sara looked into his eyes and saw the repressed laughter in them. Something wild and exciting leaped within her blood, and she nodded.

  "Deal."

  She thought she saw surprise register in his eyes before she turned away and began undressing. Her hands shook as she took off her coat and tossed it aside. She undid the buttons that ran the length of her dress and hesitated. He wasn't watching—she was certain of that. Whatever else he might be, he was a man of his word.

  "I won't peek if you won't," he had said.

  Still, his very presence was—it was—

  "Ready?"

  "No!" Her hands flew as she peeled away the rest of her clothes. She had one quick moment of panic when she realized she had no bra to put on—she'd worn a long slip beneath the dress with a bra built in—and then she tossed her head. She'd always wanted to see how it felt not to wear an bra but her courage had always failed her.

  Well, she thought, pulling on the clothing Peter had brought her, now was the time.

  "Ready," she called, and she turned to face him.

  She had expected almost anything: his laughter, perhaps, when he saw how the clothing hung on her slender frame, some teasing remark about her fashionable outfit.

  But she hadn't expected the sudden darkening of his eyes, or the way his breath caught at the sight of her. She hadn't expected him to look so handsome, either. Somehow, she had assumed the clothing he'd found wouldn't fit him any better than it fitted her.

  But it did. Peter was wearing a white, cable-knit, tur
tleneck sweater that clung to his broad shoulders and muscled chest, and a pair of faded jeans that fit his lean hips and long legs closely. He looked—he looked—

  "Beautiful," he said softly, and she wondered how it was that he had read her mind—until she realized he was talking about her.

  "Don't be silly," she said with a nervous smile. "I'm not—"

  "How come women look so damned sexy in men's clothes?"

  Sara blushed. "I look messy," she said, running her fingers through her hair. "I need a comb. And a barrette."

  "Leave your hair loose," Peter said quickly. He walked towards her, his eyes riveted on hers. "You're a beautiful woman, Sara Mitchell. Why not let the world see it?"

  "I'm not," she said, and then she cleared her throat. "Don't—don't look at me that way, Peter. It embarrasses me."

  He reached out and cupped her face in his hands. "That's the last thing I want to do to you." His gaze dropped to her mouth, the heat of it like a kiss, and then he raised his eyes to hers. "Welcome to my house, Sara," he said, "and thank you."

  It was hard to speak. "For what?" Sara whispered.

  Peter's smile made her heart soar. "For making this mausoleum finally feel like home."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The glow of the fire danced on the shadowed walls as Sara placed a sterling silver soup spoon into an oyster-white Limoges china bowl, touched a creamy Irish linen table-napkin to her mouth and smiled at Peter sitting cross-legged beside her on the parquet floor.

  "That," she said, "was the strangest breakfast I've ever eaten." A smile curved across her mouth. "And the best."

  Laughter gleamed in his brown eyes. "You mean to say this is the first time you've had consommé with sherry, champagne biscuits and smoked turkey at eight in the morning?"

  She smiled. "If it had been my pantry we'd raided for breakfast, we'd have had to settle for oatmeal and jam."

  Peter grinned as he collected their dishes and rose to his feet.