"Remind me to thank Cook for having left such a motley assortment of canned foods behind." He pulled on a heavy wool shirt. "And now, madame, I think some coffee would do nicely, don't you agree?"
Sara nodded. "I'll make it," she said. "You did all this..."
"And hard work it was, opening all those cans." He smiled as he buttoned the shirt and put on leather gloves. "You stay put, Sara. I'm going to have to go out and get a bucket of snow for the coffee. There's no sense in both of us freezing." He picked up their dishes and looked down at her. "How's that ankle?"
"Much better."
"Good." He started towards the door, and then turned to look at her. "Coffee doesn't keep you awake, does it?"
Sara looked at him. "Why?"
"I want to be on the road by late afternoon. We only have time to nap for a few hours." A quick smile curved over his mouth. "I wouldn't want to keep you from getting your rest," he said, as their eyes met.
She felt a blush rise to her cheeks but the door closed after him before she could come up with an answer. And the teasing glint in his eyes had invited one—she knew that, even though she had no idea how to frame it.
She thought suddenly of the beautiful women who had flung themselves at him at the Winstead party. One of them would have been quick to reply to that kind of remark. Unfortunately, flirting was an art for which she had no talent at all.
Not that she wanted to flirt with Peter Saxon. There had been a subtle change, yes. She wasn't really afraid he would hurt her, but that didn't mean she'd lost her fear.
Now, her fear was not so much about what could happen to her but about what had already happened to her. It was a very private, very dark fear. She had yet to put a name to it but somewhere along the way, Peter Saxon had stopped being the enemy.
And that, of course, made no sense at all.
Sara stood and jammed her hands deep into her trouser pockets.
He hadn't even existed in her life less than a day ago. Now, she felt as if she'd known him forever. Last night, she'd known he was a hard and dangerous felon. Today, she knew he was a man. A handsome man. A passionate one. A man who made her senses come alive in a way they never had before.
He was also a man who had kidnapped her. And he didn't trust her any more than she trusted him.
"The line is disconnected," he had said softly, almost conversationally, when he saw her glance at the telephone. "Cell phones won’t work up here. And we're more than ten miles from the nearest house."
She'd nodded, as if he were simply telling her about the lodge, but she knew the truth was darker than that. What he'd been doing was reminding her that there was no way out, that no matter what had happened in those few moments after he'd told her about his childhood, their situation hadn't changed.
He was running from the law. And she was his prisoner.
Sara sank down on the couch.
She remembered a magic act she'd seen when she was a child. The magician hadn't been very good—even she had been able to see the cards he palmed and the bits of silk streaming from under his cuffs.
But for his last trick, he'd done something that left his audience gasping in awe. There'd been a rabbit sitting on the table during the performance, a pink-nosed bunny in a wire cage. The magician had taken the rabbit out of its cage and held it in his hand, high up over the audience.
"Presto chango," he'd said. He'd passed a gossamer silk over the hand that held the rabbit, and suddenly the rabbit had become a dove that flew high into the air.
Wide-eyed, Sara had turned to her mother. "That was real magic," she'd whispered.
Her mother had smiled with all the wisdom of adulthood. "Illusion, dear. That's all it was. There's no such thing as magic."
Sara sat forward, propped her elbows on her knees, and put her face in her hands. Yet another of her mother's lessons…
And one that was true.
There was no such thing as magic, there was only illusion. It was illusion that dazzled the mind and awed the spirit.
Which was the real Peter Saxon, and which was illusion? Was he the hard, cold-eyed man who'd threatened her with violence? Or was he the man who'd held her in his arms and brought a spiraling heat to her blood?
He hated his grandfather, even in death. Yet he was concerned about her cat.
"Hell, Sara, I forgot about that fur-ball of yours. What's going to become of him?" he had said suddenly, as they ate their meal.
She had stared at him blankly. "What?"
Peter had lowered his soup spoon to the bowl. "Your cat," he had said slowly. "I'd hate to think of him starving—even though he deserves it, considering what he did to my trousers."
Sara had assured him that Taj had lots of dry food and water on hand, that Alice Garrett had a key to the house and loved cats herself, and all the while she had been staring at Peter, wondering what kind of man thought nothing of theft and abduction but worried about an animal's welfare.
Illusion and reality. A good magician could blend the two and create magic. He could make his audience see things that didn't exist, and believe things that weren't true.
The door opened, then slammed shut. Cold air swept into the room.
"It's cold as hell out there!" Peter walked to the fireplace and set a cast-iron pot filled with snow carefully on the grate. "At least it hasn't started snowing again." He pulled off his gloves and his outer shirt, then rubbed his hands together. "Coffee coming up, Sara. I couldn't find any sugar, and of course there's no milk, but—"
"I want to know what happens next, Peter."
He straightened and turned towards her. He looked as surprised by what she had said as she was to have said it. The words had tumbled from her mouth without any plan. But that was just as well—if she'd thought it through, her courage might have failed her.
"I told you what happens," he said finally. "We have a cup of coffee, we catch some sleep, and then we leave."
"You know that's not what I meant."
His eyes narrowed. "What did you mean, then?"
Sara met his gaze. "What happens to me? Will you let me go?"
The expression on his face hardened. "I can't do that, Sara. I've explained that to you."
"Peter, listen to me. You can't keep running away. Sooner or later—"
He flung his hand up as if to silence her. "Forget the speeches," he growled. "I'm not interested."
Sara rose to her feet and took a step forward. He was angry—she could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. But so was she, she thought suddenly. He had no right to toy with her, to alternately frighten her and entice her.
Illusion and reality.
She was Peter's audience; he had been dazzling her with sleight of hand. How much easier it would be for him if she were his willing companion, not his hostage. And if she fell into his arms—into his bed—he could make her do anything he wanted. He could control her completely.
She was so dumb! She'd known the kind of man he was. When had she forgotten? When had she stumbled into his trap and fallen for his lies and his kisses and...?
"Let me go," she said, her voice shaking—and wasn’t that stupid just when she needed to sound tough. ''Let me go or when they finally catch you, I'll build the cell they lock you in with my own two hands."
"Damn you to hell, Sara Mitchell!"
He moved towards her quickly, kicking aside the cushions on which they had sat before the fire, his eyes blazing with rage.
"Don't you touch me," she gasped but he reached out and caught hold of her shoulders, his fingers pressing into her flesh with such determination that she felt each one mark her with his anger.
"Didn't anybody ever tell you not to play dangerous games, little girl?" He stared down at her, his chin jutting forward, his eyes as dark as the storm clouds that threatened outside.
"Me? Me, playing games?" She made a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You're a fine one to talk!"
"All that sweet solicitude a while ago." She stared at hi
m blankly, and his mouth turned down in a grim line. "I underestimated you, Sara. It never occurred to me that you were setting me up."
"What are you talking about? I didn't set anybody up, it's you who—"
His eyes swept over her face with cold contempt. "Did you really think I'd let you go, just because you patted my head and said a few kind words?"
What kind of nonsense was this? He was looking at her as if she were the illusionist.
His hands spread on her shoulders, and he pulled her towards him with a roughness that made her stumble.
"Or was it just for kicks?" His voice thickened. "Was it fun, playing with fire?"
A new kind of terror raced through her. "You let go of me," she breathed, banging her fist against his chest. "Damn you, Peter Saxon—"
His eyes darkened until they were almost black. "Come on," he whispered, pulling her against his hard body. "Come on, Sara. Touch the flame and see if it'll burn your fingers." She cried out as his hands tightened, and he lifted her to her toes. "Touch the flame, Sara," he said, and his lips came down on hers.
She whimpered against his mouth, crying out as his teeth closed sharply on her lower lip. Her lips parted in pain and instantly his tongue thrust between them.
The heat of his kiss was like fire, searing her flesh.
Sara struggled against him, but his arms held her fast. It was impossible to escape the hard heat of his body, and panic grew within her, spreading dark wings in her chest. She dragged her mouth from his, and drew a shuddering breath.
"Please," she whispered, "please—"
"Sara," Peter said thickly, "sweet Sara."
Suddenly his kiss changed, softened, until it was all warm, honeyed sweetness, until he was giving as well as taking.
Sara's fists opened. Her fingers clutched at his sweater, bunching the heavy wool in her hands, and she pressed herself against him, trembling with a need so intense that it was almost pain. He whispered her name against her mouth, and she sighed and leaned into him.
All the fight and anger ebbed from her body, replaced by a melting sweetness.
"Sara." His hands moved in her hair, cupping her head, tilting her face to his. "Sara..."
There was something in the way he whispered her name that filled her with an ineffable sorrow. Tears rose in her eyes and trembled on her lashes.
"If only you hadn't stolen the Winstead jewels," she said brokenly. Her hands spread on his chest, and she stared at him. His hands fell to his sides, and she took a step back. "I—I just don't understand you, Peter."
"Sara..."
She spun away from him, her arms outstretched in a gesture which embraced the entire room—the dusty Waterford chandelier, the Lalique figures on the mantel, the Aubusson rug that stretched pale across the floor.
"Why steal? Why would a man with all this become a thief? How much money can one man want?"
He looked at her incredulously. "Money had nothing to do with it."
Her eyebrows rose. "What, then? Why would someone break into people's homes in the middle of the night and risk everything, if not for the money? You stole hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of jewels—"
He shook his head. "They were all selective sorties, Sara, and not half as profitable as you might think."
Sara rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "How admirable! A fussy thief. What do you think you are, for heaven's sake? A modern Robin Hood?"
His smile hardened. "I don't suppose I can expect you to understand."
She laughed without humor. "No, I don't suppose you can. There's no excuse for theft, no matter how the papers romanticize it."
He moved towards her, silently and swiftly, and caught her by the wrists.
"Do you know what it's like to get in and out of places that are supposed to be impregnable?"
The dark intensity in his eyes frightened her. It took all her strength to hold his gaze.
"You—you almost sound as if you're proud of what you've done. You're a thief, Peter Saxon. You—"
"Offices. Foreign embassies." Her face paled and he laughed coldly. "Yes, that's right. And all that I took from them was the knowledge that I'd been able to gain entry."
Sara stared at him. "But why?" she whispered. "Why would anyone take such chances? The risk must be incredible."
His eyes lit with fire. "The risk was the reason, Sara." He shook his head as if to clear it. "How can I explain it to you? It's—it's as if... Have you ever stood on a precipice and looked out over the valley below?"
"No. I mean, yes. Once." Sara swallowed, her eyes still on his face. "Once, when I was a little girl. I'd walked up Stone Mountain, and I—I stood on this big rock that jutted out over the town, and I looked down. And—and..."
Peter looked into her eyes. "How did it feel, Sara?" She didn't answer, and he smiled. "Didn't it feel as if you could almost flap your arms and soar over that valley? Wasn't there a moment when you thought, hell, I can step out into space, I can fly like an eagle?"
She closed her eyes, remembering. "Yes," she whispered, and then her lashes lifted and she looked at him. "But I didn't do it. I knew the reality was that I would plummet to the earth if I tried to fly."
"Ah, Sara." His breath warmed her face. "Trying to fly is what life's all about, don't you see? Otherwise, we're just travelers on the road, moving from start to finish without the adventure of the journey."
"Are you saying—are you saying that's why you steal? Because—because it's exciting?"
He looked at her for a long moment. She thought, at first, that he wasn't going to answer. Then, suddenly, he took a deep breath and let go of her. Away from his embrace, she felt suddenly cold, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
"My brother and I were eleven and twelve when my grandfather sent us to boarding-school." A bitter smile touched his lips. "He was disappointed in us, he said. We were showing the same kind of wild traits as our father. So he sent us to a place where they—well, let's just say that the Mangus Military Academy didn't encourage anybody's spirit of adventure. Johnny graduated when he was seventeen, and Grandfather enrolled him at his alma mater. I followed a year later."
Sara's lips parted. What had this to do with what she had asked? she thought, and suddenly she sensed that it had everything to do with it. She sank down on the edge of the couch, watching as Peter bent to the hearth and poked at some wood that had escaped the flames.
"His university was like his house—bleak, lifeless, untouched by the sun. He wanted Johnny to study finance and me law. Neither of us wanted to—hell, I didn't want to study at all; I wanted to climb mountains and touch the clouds and..." He straightened and brushed his hands on his jeans. "I hated myself for it. This time, when the old man said, "You're just like your father," I felt as if I'd been convicted of a crime. So I dug in my heels and agreed to get my degrees. I was to join him in business."
"And did you? Study law, I mean?"
Peter nodded. "I enrolled in pre-law courses. I read my way through every damned book in the law library." He drew a deep breath, then blew it out. "By my sophomore year, I thought I was going to explode. I hated school, I hated the old man—hell, I hated myself most of all."
"But you hadn't—you hadn't done anything wrong."
He laughed. "You're anticipating my story, Sara. No, that didn't happen until the start of my junior year." His eyes grew dark with memory; he turned his back to her and stared into the fire. "I discovered my singular talent by accident, when I broke into a room in the dormitory next to mine."
His words hung in the silent room. Sara stared at him, then rose to her feet.
"Why?"
''I don’t know. I mean, it began as a prank. I don't even remember what led up to it, exactly. My brother and I shared a suite with two other guys, and we'd been having trouble with some seniors in the next dorm. Things got out of hand—they trashed my room-mate's car, that kind of thing." He smiled. "And then, one night—after a dozen beers too many—we decided we'd had enough. So we dressed
in black, rubbed charcoal on our faces, and dropped a rope from the roof of their building." His smile twisted. "It was a six-story building, Sara, and they lived on the fourth floor."
"And?" she said softly. "What happened?"
He turned towards her, his eyes dark. "The two other guys sobered up fast, just as soon as they saw how black it was on that roof, and how the rope seemed to vanish into space."
Sara could see him, in her mind's eye. She could almost feel what he had felt, the sudden excitement, the challenge...
"But not you," she said in a whisper.
Peter smiled. "No, sweetheart, not me. And not Johnny. The rope looked like—like it led to all the dreams I'd ever had. I hardly breathed as I went down it and into that darkened suite. The plan had been to light some firecrackers and run like hell, or some such nonsense." He took a step towards her. "But that would have spoiled it for me. As I stood there, I knew all I wanted was to carry away the secret knowledge that I'd risked my neck and done the impossible."
Sara watched his face. "So you didn't light the firecrackers. You stole something instead, a kind of—a souvenir—"
Peter's eyes darkened. "I told you," he said sharply, "it was enough just to know I'd done it." He looked away from her. "Johnny was the one who needed something more. He took a pencil, maybe a book, some damned thing to prove he'd been there. And—"
His words faded away. Sara waited, then cleared her throat. "And?" she prompted softly.
It was as if he hadn't heard her. He was in some faraway place, she could see it in his face. Finally, he sighed.
"I suppose it sounds crazy. Hell, it was crazy. I knew that, even then. But I felt so alive; I'd never felt that way before—"
"And that's why—that's why you steal?"
"I didn't steal." His voice was harsh. "I told you that."
"You said you didn't take anything that first time, no. But you did, after. It's why you went to prison."
His eyes went flat. "Prison." The single word was filled with malice. "I thought I'd die in there," he whispered. He clasped her shoulders. "To be caged, like an animal..."
A shudder rippled through him; Sara felt it in her bones. Her eyes swept his face. It all made a terrible kind of sense. What he was describing was life lived on the edge.
Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set Page 41