How many times had Jim Garrett said that the best cops could as easily have been on the other side of the law?
In another century, Peter Saxon would have been a pirate or a mercenary, lauded or hated, depending on which side claimed him.
"I thought I'd die in prison."
Yes, she thought, yes, bars and locks would be a living death to someone like him. Then why? Why?
"Peter." Sara touched her tongue to her lips. "If you'd decided to give it all up—if that's true..." She raised her eyes to his. "If it is, then why did you steal the Winstead jewels?" Her voice grew husky, then broke. "Dammit, Peter, they'll put you away forever this time. Didn't you think of that?"
In the eerie silence, Sara could hear the wind moaning across the frozen lake. Peter smiled, almost tenderly, and drew her towards him.
"Sara." His voice was like the whisper of the wind. "Sweet Sara."
He caught her face between his hands, and bent his head to her. Sara began to tremble. She had asked him a question to which he had no answer, she thought, but as his lips touched hers neither the question nor the answer mattered. Her lashes fell to her cheeks; slowly, she lifted one arm and curved it around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. He whispered her name again, and her mouth opened to his.
Time stood still while their breaths mingled, while she tasted the sweetness of his kiss. It was Peter who finally, gently, put her from him.
"Sara," he said softly, "look at me." Her eyes opened slowly and focused on his. "I didn't steal the Winstead jewels."
She felt the heat of her anger as it swept through her. "What kind of fool do you take me for, Peter? I saw the jewels, remember? I saw them with my own eyes."
His hands kneaded her shoulders. "Listen to me, baby. I didn't steal them. Someone set me up."
She was almost afraid to breathe as she searched for the truth in his eyes.
"Whoever did it," he said, "expected the theft to be discovered on Monday morning, at the museum. Everything went wrong—I wasn't supposed to look in the trunk of my car. Something must have happened at the Winstead house, something that set the alarms off."
"But—but that doesn't make any sense, Peter. If that was true, all you had to do was tell the police you didn't know how the jewels got into your car. You—"
He laughed. "Think of what you're saying, Sara. The police would never have believed me. Hell, you don't believe me."
"Peter—"
"I'm telling you the truth, Sara." His fingers bit into her flesh. "I didn't take the jewels. I was set up."
She reached up and clasped his hands in hers. "I don't understand. Who would do such a thing? And why?"
"I wish to hell I had the answers. Maybe I can get them, given time. But for now, all I can do is get out of the country."
"Out of—"
"Yes. I'm heading for Canada. I know some people in Montreal—they'll help me."
"Peter." She felt breathless, as if she had just run a race. "Listen to me. If you're innocent—"
"They've set me up too well, don't you see? The only thing I have to go back to is a cell." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Who would believe my story?"
Was he telling her the truth? She wanted to believe him. Oh, how she wanted to believe him.
"Go back," she said. "I'll tell them—"
"Tell them what? That you saw the jewels in the trunk?" She said nothing, and he moved closer to her. "Do you believe me, Sara?"
Sara hesitated. "I—I don't know. I—"
He kissed her again—a slow, deep kiss that set her pulse rocketing.
Don't be stupid, Sara, she told herself. He knows what he does to you. He knows, he knows...
"Sara."
She looked at him helplessly. What was reality and what was illusion?
"What do you want to believe, Sara?"
She held back as he gathered her into his arms. But when his mouth closed hungrily on hers, when he drew her into the fierceness of his embrace, when she felt the power of his need for her, she moaned softly and knew that she was lost.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Peter was the one who ended their dizzying kiss before the fire.
He clasped Sara gently by the shoulders and put her from him.
"Get some rest," he said softly. "I have work to do."
It took a minute for her to focus on what he had said. "Work? What kind of—?"
"I want to check that Range Rover. Thompson always took good care of Grandfather's cars. With luck, the Rover will still run."
Sara nodded. The Bronco had barely made it this far. Besides, the police would be looking for it by now. She knew how investigations went. There would be bulletins out everywhere; Peter would be the subject of an intense manhunt.
She sank down on the couch after he left the room and stared into the fire. Had he told her the truth about the theft? Even if he had, he was only making things worse—he had stolen a car, he had certainly violated the terms of his parole...
Aren't you leaving something out, Sara? He abducted you.
He had—but here she sat, unguarded and unfettered, waiting for his return. Still, what else could she do? There was no way out of this place on foot. She had a cell phone but it wouldn’t work. At least, he’d said it wouldn’t work.
She hadn’t tried it.
Why not?
Why hadn’t she tried the phone, or gone out a back door? Why? Why?
Sara’s lashes fell to her cheeks, and she slept.
The sound of the door closing woke her. She sat up quickly, disoriented, and she saw Peter crossing the room towards her, his arms laden with jackets and leather boots. He smiled at her.
"Did you have a good sleep?"
Sara nodded. "Yes," she said, although it wasn't true; she felt more tired than she had before, and her mind was filled with smoky memories and fragmented dreams. "Is the car all right?"
"It's purring like a kitten. Here," he said, handing her a pair of knee-high boots, "See if these fit."
The boots were tight, but she managed to pull them on. "They're fine," she said, and she looked up at him. "Are we leaving now?"
Peter nodded. "I'll need daylight for the border crossing."
The border crossing.
''You mean, Canada?''
He nodded again. ''I have contacts in Montreal.''
Sara stared at him. Canada. Of course. But he would never make it. All border crossings were tight in today’s world. You needed papers. A birth certificate, probably a passport…
Peter's eyes narrowed. "Sara? What is it?"
"Nothing," she said. They'll catch you, Peter.
"Are you sure? You look upset."
"No, I—these boots are small, that's all. They pinch a little." They'll catch you and I'll be free.
"Sara." He came to her, cupped her face in his hands. Slowly, her eyes lifted to his. "Don't be afraid, sweetheart. I won’t let anything happen to you. You must know that by now."
Their eyes met and held, and then Sara swallowed. "You—you won't get across the border," she heard herself say. "You'll never make it through Customs."
A smile, shadowed and mysterious, flickered across his face. "Is that what's worrying you?''
She swallowed again. It was too late to lie to him, or to herself.
"Yes," she said softly. ''I don't want you to get hurt…''
Peter whispered her name and kissed her, and she knew that whatever was truth, whatever was illusion, this was magic, and that she would do not give it up without a fight.
Now, as the city of Montreal glittered in the chill dark of the ice-bound night, Sara wondered how she could have imagined Peter would have difficulty crossing the border.
She had no idea when they had passed that invisible line. Even in today’s world of almost impenetrable security devices, there were still illegal ways to make the passage from the soil of one nation to the other.
Peter, of course, knew just how to find them.
He knew of an old dirt roa
d that wound through the forest, a narrow track bootleggers had used almost decades and decades ago to run whiskey into the States during Prohibition. It had taken them safely from one country to the other, from a snow-bound lodge to a city sheathed in ice.
Peter had driven the streets slowly and purposefully. Now, he pulled to the curb and cut the engine. They were on a dark street. A sign opposite winked its crimson message into the night. "Exotic Dancers", it read. "Live and Lovely."
Peter turned towards her and took hold of her hands. "Listen to me, Sara." His voice was low; there was a kind of urgency in it that made her pulse quicken. "We're going to take a walk."
She looked from the blinking sign to him. "Here?"
He nodded. "Yes. This is where I bid adieu to Peter Saxon, the man the police are looking for."
Her head tilted to the side. "I don't understand. How—?"
"Frenchy Nolan was my cellmate for a while. He said to look him up if I ever got to Montreal." His eyes met hers and a quick smile tilted at the corners of his mouth. "I doubt if this is the kind of neighborhood you're used to. Just remember to stay close beside me and let me do the talking. All right?"
She drew in her breath. "Yes."
Peter smiled. "Good girl. Now, come on. Let's play at being tourists out slumming."
A frigid wind from the ice-choked St. Lawrence River whipped at them as they got out of the car. Sara's glance fell to the floor in the rear, where an old backpack held the stolen jewels. What if someone broke into the car and took it? Peter seemed to know what she was thinking. The pressure of his arm around her waist urged her forward.
"There's no other way," he said softly.
Their footsteps echoed along the pavement. The street they were on was tawdry, a sharp contrast to others they had seen. Shops and bars advertised adult entertainment; signs offered artistic and discreet tattoos. The sharp smell of beer and cheap whiskey hung like a pall in the cold air.
Suddenly, Peter came to a stop. His arm tightened around her.
"Here we go," he said softly. "Le Chat Rouge."
Sara looked up at the pulsing pink neon sign above the door. "Does your friend own this place or something?"
His lips drew away from his teeth. "Or something," he said, and then he put his lips to her ear. "Remember what I said. Keep quiet, no matter what happens."
The café was almost as dark as the street. The mingled smells of cigarettes and beer soaked the overheated air. Music spilled from an old-fashioned juke-box in one corner, flooding the room with the beat of drums and the wail of amplified guitars.
It was not a busy night at the Red Cat. Wooden booths stood shadowed and unused against the wall. Peter paused in the doorway and then his hand spread on the curve of Sara's hip, the press of his fingers firm and reassuring. They began walking slowly towards the far end of the bar.
Heads swiveled towards them. Men's eyes, hard and empty, appraised them. The few women Sara could see all had the same over-painted look, their eyes lighting at the sight of Peter but going blank at the sight of her.
"Look straight ahead, sweetheart," Peter murmured. "Just keep moving."
The bartender, a burly man with a flattened nose, looked them over dispassionately when they reached the stained mahogany bar and said something in French.
Peter smiled easily. "Tell Frenchy his New York room-mate says 'hello'."
The man's eyes slid to Sara. He shrugged. "Un moment."
Moments later, they were ushered into a back room. As the door swung shut behind them, a fat man with a toothpick drooping from the corner of his mouth rose from behind a desk and held his hand out to Peter.
"Saxon," he said with a grin, "what the hell are you doing here?"
Peter grasped the outstretched hand. "Looking for you, Nolan. What else would bring me to a such a dump?"
Both men smiled, and then the fat man sat down and leaned back in his chair. "So," he said, tonguing the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, "you had a busy day yesterday."
Sara felt Peter's muscles tense. "Meaning?"
Nolan laughed, and tilted his chair back on two legs. "Come on, old buddy, don't be modest. It was on the TV. They say you made quite a haul."
Peter shrugged. "You know how it goes," he said casually. "Everybody talks big."
The fat man grinned. "Five million bucks is pretty big, Saxon."
"It won't be worth five cents if I don't find a way out of here," Peter said. "I have buyers waiting, but—"
"But you gotta get to them." Nolan's small eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You want I should help you out, for old time's sake?" The toothpick rolled across his thick lips. "I might be interested, for a cut of the merchandise. How's that sound?"
Sara drew in her breath. Was that why Peter had come here? Was he going to sell the jewels? Had that been his plan all along?
The pressure of his hand on her waist warned her to keep silent. "No can do, Frenchy," he said, after a pause. "This was a contract job. There are big people involved. I don't deliver, and I'm dead."
The fat man's eyes grew cold. "Yeah, I know how it goes, old buddy."
"What I need are papers. Passport. Birth certificate. Driver's license. You know the stuff I mean."
Nolan looked at Sara, and an oily smile spread over his face. "I suppose this is Miss Sara Mitchell, hmm?" His glance went to Peter's arm, curved tightly around Sara's waist. "They said you forced the lady to go with you."
Sara flushed beneath the fat man's knowing gaze. Beside her, Peter shrugged his shoulders.
"I told you they exaggerate, Nolan," he said. "Now, how about those papers?"
The fat man spat the toothpick into his hand, and his pudgy fingers closed around it.
"Sure," he said jovially, "no problem. Come back tomorrow and I'll have some names."
"I need them tonight."
The other man laughed. "Yeah, I'll bet you do. But it's not that easy. I got to make some calls, check around—it's got to be tomorrow."
"How much will this set me back, Nolan?" Peter's teeth flashed in a smile. "I don't have much ready cash."
Frenchy Nolan threw his head back and laughed. "Hell, with that stash, who's worried about money?"
The men shook hands. Sara and Peter started towards the door. With his hand on the knob, Peter stopped and turned around.
"By the way," he said casually, "how hot am I here?"
Nolan grinned. "You'll make it to tomorrow, pal. New York's sitting in the middle of a snowstorm. The cops lost your trail—by the time they pick it up again, you and the lady will be in sunny Rio."
"Right. Until tomorrow."
As they made their way back through the tavern and towards the door, Sara started to speak, but Peter shook his head almost imperceptibly. They were in the Range Rover, pulling away from the curb, before he turned to her.
"Well, at least there's some good news," he said. "The storm's bought me a couple of days. The used car lot where I left the rental car is probably buried under two feet of snow. They won't dig it out until Monday."
"Can that man really get you new identification papers?"
Peter shrugged. "Yeah, if he wanted to."
She nodded thoughtfully. "So that's what you meant when you talked about saying goodbye to..." She paused as what he had said registered. "If he wanted to? But he told you to come back tomorrow. He said—"
"Nolan's going to double-cross me."
Her heart thumped wildly. "You mean, he's going to call the police?"
He laughed. "Hell, no, not the cops. He's going to take the jewels for himself. I tried to protect us by pretending I had buyers waiting, but it didn't work."
"Then—then we can't go back there."
We. We can't go back there.
"No, we can't." He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel: "There's got to be some other way."
"What other way? We're not even citizens of this country, Peter. We have American plates on the car, we have no passports or birth certificates. If any
one should stop us, we—"
She broke off in confusion. Us. We. Why did she keep doing that? They weren't in this together...
Peter reached across the seat and clasped her hand in his. "They aren't looking for us yet—not here, anyway. There's still time." He smiled, and she thought she had never seen anyone look so weary in her life. "What I need is a decent meal and a night's sleep. I can't think straight anymore."
"Will you drive back to Indian Lake?"
He shook his head. "No, that would be crazy. We're better off here but I don't like the idea of staying in the city. Too many strange faces, too many dark corners—" Suddenly, he smiled. "Have you ever been in Canada before, Sara?"
The question took her by surprise. "Me?" She shook her head and laughed. "I've never been anywhere, unless you count New York."
Peter squeezed her hand lightly in his. "Well, the night's still young," he said. "Suppose we take a look at Montreal."
She thought, at first, that he was joking. But he wasn't; he turned the car down one street and then another, parking finally in near a sign that read "Metro".
Peter reached behind him and dug out a plaid wool cap. "Here," he said, "tuck your hair up under that." He pulled a knitted cap on his head and added a pair of pale, tinted sunglasses. "Well," he said finally, "it's not the world's best disguise, but it'll do."
Then, the back pack on his shoulders, he took her hand and led her down a flight of steps.
Sara knew what "metro" meant: she expected an underground transit system. What she found was la ville souterraine, a sprawling city beneath a city—plazas and fountains, boutiques and cafes—all linked together. No wonder the frigid streets had seemed deserted, she thought, as she stared at the crowded mall.
Montrealers had gone below ground for the winter.
She hesitated as he began to draw her forward. "Aren't you taking an awful chance?"
He shook his head. "We're just two more anonymous faces in a sea of shoppers."
"Yes, but—"
"We have to make some purchases, sweetheart. Toothbrushes. Combs. Clothes." He drew her close to his side. "That dress." He nodded at a sapphire-blue cashmere sweater in a shop window. “It’s got your name written all over it."
Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set Page 42