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

by Sandra Marton

  Sara smiled and shook her head.

  "It's lovely. But it's far too expensive. And the color's too deep for me... Peter? Peter, what are you—?"

  He tugged her into the shop after him. In moments, the dress, delicate as gossamer, had been packed in a pale peach box and tucked into a bag, along with slender black wool trousers.

  "Come again," the shop-girl called after them. Sara, her face flushed with delight, gazed up at Peter as he led her through the crowded mall.

  "Are you crazy?" she whispered. "So much money. I've never spent that on anything in my life!"

  He smiled at her. "I can hardly wait to see you wearing the sweater. The blue's perfect with your eyes."

  She stared at him. "No," she said quickly, "my eyes are too dark. They're not—"

  He stopped suddenly and looked down at her. The crowd flowed around them like the sea. "Midnight blue, sweet Sara." His voice caressed her. "That's the color of your eyes. Hasn't anyone ever told you that?"

  Heat flooded her body. She wanted him to take her in his arms. To kiss her as he had hours ago, by the fire…

  His eyes went dark. She knew the reason. He could tell what she was thinking, what she was feeling…

  A laughing group of teenaged girls jostled them, and he let out his breath. "Come on," he said gruffly, "we have things to do."

  The "things" left her breathless.

  Peter took her from store to store. He bought her boots, not the sensible kind she wore each winter but knee-high black leather ones with delicate heels. A jacket of soft wool. A big white wool hat that made her laugh when he tugged it down around her ears. Leather gloves, to warm her hands.

  He bought clothes for himself, too. A parka. Black cords. A black sweater. Black leather boots to replace his old ones, stained and soaked from the snow.

  They smiled, they laughed—and in the midst of hundreds of people, no one paid them any attention.

  They ended up with an armful of packages—toiletries as well as clothes. Finally, Peter paused outside a small cafe and peered into its candle-lit depths.

  "Last stop," he said, "and then we'll call it a night and get some sleep. How does this suit you?"

  We'll get some sleep... Sara managed a smile. "Fine."

  They took a table in the rear of the little room. Peter was relaxed and smiling but she noticed that he chose a chair which put his back to the wall and gave him a clear view of the open doorway. He ordered for them both, watching with obvious pleasure as Sara tucked into her meal.

  "I'll never eat all this," she said. But she did, from the green salad to the steak au poivre to the gateau, and then she sat back and sighed.

  "I think I just made a pig of myself," she said with a little smile. "My mother would never have approved."

  Peter leaned his elbows on the table. "No?"

  Sara shook her head. "No." She laughed softly. "I can't believe this."

  His eyebrows rose. "That you just made a pig of yourself?" he asked innocently.

  She smiled. "That I’m here, in Montreal, with a bag filled with jewels on the chair between us—"

  He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. "We're safe enough for now, Sara. And I'll think of something for tomorrow."

  "I wasn't thinking that," she said. "I was thinking that it was crazy, but I feel-—"

  Her words tumbled into confused silence. She had almost told him she was happy, that she was having the time of her life.

  She had to be mad.

  But it was true.

  She felt alive in a way she never had before. Colors were sharper, scents crisper. She looked around the candle-lit room, at the other diners, and she thought suddenly of how commonplace their lives must be.

  Peter had tried to explain what it was like to live on the edge. Was that what she felt? Had danger quickened her senses?

  "Sara."

  His voice was low but it cut through her tangled thoughts. Her head came up sharply, and she looked at him. The expression on his face made her breath catch.

  "What's wrong, Peter?"

  "We have to leave now," he said. He rose slowly, and dropped some bills on the table. "OK, I want you to stand. Easy. Easy, Sara, don't hurry. That's right. No, don't look away from me. Smile. Good. Now, come on, take my hand."

  Could she manage to walk? Her legs felt as if they were going to buckle. And she couldn't breathe very well. But Peter was holding her hand, leading her from the cafe and into the mall…

  Oh God!

  She saw the policeman just as they reached the steps leading to the street. He was so close that she had only to reach out to touch him. Her heart pounded in her ears, her palms grew damp. Peter, she thought, Peter...

  But Peter was talking to her, smiling and nodding as if they were just two people out for the evening and finally, finally, they were past the policeman and on the street.

  She gasped for air as she stumbled into the cold winter night. "Peter," she whispered.

  His arms closed around her. "It's all right," he murmured. "Sweet Sara, it's all right now."

  "Are you sure?"

  He held her trembling body close to his. "You were wonderful."

  She leaned back in his embrace and looked up at him. "Are you sure he didn't notice us?"

  He nodded. "I'm sure." He smiled into her eyes. "But someone will, if we stand here and turn into chunks of ice."

  She made a sound that was supposed to be a laugh. "OK, then. What do we do next?"

  He unlocked the Range Rover and they got in.

  "We head north, into the Laurentian Mountains." The engine turned over and he edged into traffic. "It's a big winter resort area—there are scores of hotels and cabins and skiers. We’ll be safe until I think of something better."

  Two hours later, Sara stood inside a small chalet, watching through the window as Peter pulled the car around the side and tucked it into a small copse of trees. He got out, walked to the narrow road that led to the chalet and peered towards the trees. When he entered the chalet, he nodded.

  "OK," he said, tossing their packages on the couch, "that should do it. You can't see the car until you get really close. Not that anyone's going to be checking, but there's no sense taking chances."

  He switched on the lights. Sara blinked in the sudden glare. They were in a handsome living-room with a stone fireplace. Dark beams crossed the ceiling. There was a door beyond…

  And a canopied bed just visible past it.

  "I’m going to take a shower. Or do you want to go first?"

  Sara tore her gaze from the bed.

  "What?"

  "I said, do you want to shower first? "

  Sara’s mouth was dry.

  ''Yes. I mean, no. I mean you can be the first… "

  "That's good, Sara.'' His voice was low and husky. ''I want to be the first."

  Her eyes met his as he moved towards her, and suddenly she felt the same dizzying rush of excitement as she had felt in the mall. He stopped beside her, cupped her face in his hands, and took her mouth in a deep kiss. Then he let go of her and started towards the bedroom.

  At the last minute, he turned and tossed something bright and metallic to her. She reached out automatically and caught the keys to the Range Rover.

  "Leave them on the table near the door," he said. "I don't think anything's going to happen but, just in case we have to move fast, I don't want to waste time searching." He flashed a smile that was all male, all arrogance as he came back to her, drew her into his arms and kissed her until she was dizzy. "You won’t run, Sara. We both know you won’t.”

  She stared after him as the bathroom door swung shut. Then she sank down on the nearest chair. Her fingers curled around the keys, until the sharp metal edges pressed into her flesh.

  What a fool she had been! It wasn't danger that had filled her with such fierce joy and elation.

  It was Peter Saxon.

  And he knew it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Damn him! Damn him, d
amn him, damn him!

  He was so sure of himself.

  And she was to blame for that.

  Tears of anger rose in her eyes and she didn’t even understand the reason. What had he said, except the truth? That she wouldn’t run, and they both knew it.

  Arrogance? Or contempt?

  Or maybe both.

  She could hear the sound of the shower running in the bathroom and, over that, her captor’s off-key whistle. He sounded like a man getting ready to go to work in the morning instead of one on the run from the law.

  But why wouldn’t he?

  Everything was going along just fine. Oh, his Montreal contact hadn't panned out, but he was resourceful; he would find a way around that little snag. What mattered was that he had pulled off the jewel theft of the decade.

  And now, thanks to her, he was making good his escape.

  "I didn't steal the Winstead jewels."

  That was what he'd said and she'd been all too eager to believe him—never mind the facts. Never mind that he was a convicted thief, that he was the only person who'd had access to the jewels, that she'd seen the tumble of glittering gems in the trunk of his car with her very own eyes.

  He had played her like a violin, damn him. Two days ago—an eternity ago—she'd recognized his game for what it was; she'd known he was manipulating her. Next to masterminding spectacular jewel thefts, taking advantage of women was probably what he did best.

  He only took what a woman gladly offered, he'd said, but the arrogant son of a bitch knew how to make them offer everything!

  She cringed as she remembered how compassionate she'd been when he told her about his childhood—such clever, touching lies! She didn't even want to think of how she'd helped him walk right past the policeman in the mall a little while ago. It was just too humiliating.

  Sara stared into the bedroom. The canopied bed seemed enormous, lurid despite the virginal white of its eyelet coverings. That was the setting for the next step in his plan. He'd seduced her into complicity; now he would seduce her into bed. By tomorrow morning, the pathetic spinster from Brookville would be his completely, ready to be led into the final step of the dance choreographed by the Devil and Peter Saxon.

  "Sara?"

  She turned towards the bathroom. The sound of running water had stopped; the door stood ajar. Steam billowed through it, obscuring her view.

  "How are you at giving a guy a haircut?"

  Her heart hammered in her throat. She had the keys to the Range Rover in her hand. All she had to do was step through the chalet door and close it after her.

  But she couldn't do it. Not without losing what little remained of her self-respect. If she was ever going to look in the mirror without cringing, she had to tell Peter Saxon she knew what he was up to. She had to look him in the eye and tell him that she wasn't quite the innocent idiot he thought, that his ugly little game wasn't going to work anymore.

  "Sara?"

  She looked up. He’d stepped out of the bathroom…

  The angry words on her lips died when she saw him, naked except for a white towel wrapped around his hips.

  Drops of water gleamed on his skin. She watched, hypnotized, as a droplet trickled lazily through the dark mat of hair on his chest, down his ribs to the ridged muscles on his belly and then to his navel. Her glance fell lower, then flew upward to his face.

  "I figure my hair is a little long and a trim would help disguise me. What do you think?"

  He grinned, and her heart turned over.

  What a fool she’d been…

  But she wouldn’t be, not anymore.

  His grin grew a little crooked as he waited for her to answer. "A trim? Yes? No? Come on, sweetheart, what's the verdict?"

  Sara lifted her chin. "Life," she said coolly.

  Peter cocked his head. "Life? What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You asked what the verdict was. I'm telling you. Life. That's what any intelligent jury will give you."

  It pleased her to see his smile begin to dim. "What are you talking about?"

  "The jig's up," she said. "Isn't that what they used to say in old movies?"

  His smile dimmed a little more. "I'm going to have to learn not to leave you alone, Sara Mitchell. Every time I do..."

  "You’re right. Leave me alone and the spell wears off. The only difference is that this time it's gone for good."

  His smile vanished. "All right," he said, putting his hands on his hips, "let's have it. What the hell's going on?"

  Somehow, despite the staccato beat of her heart, she managed a careless shrug.

  "You made a tactical error, Peter. I think the scientific term is counting one's chickens before they have hatched."

  His eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"

  "Meaning I finally remembered just what we were doing here." Her eyes met his. "You're here because you stole five million dollars' worth of jewels—"

  "Hell, are we back to that?"

  "...and I'm here because you took me prisoner."

  "Sara, dammit, listen to me."

  "That's exactly what I did," she said coldly. "'You can run if you want,'' you said, ''but we both know you won't. '" Her tone hardened. "You shouldn't have said that, Peter. But I guess you couldn't help yourself; you're so full of conceit that—"

  He took a step towards her. "Stop it!"

  "Just stay away from me," she said quickly. "If you take another step, I'll—"

  "You'll what?" he asked softly. "Come on, Sara, let's hear it. What will you do?"

  She felt a flutter of fear. There had been a subtle change in him. His voice, the way he was looking at her, even the angle of his head suddenly seemed menacing. But it was too late to back off now, even if she'd wanted to. And she didn't, not with the scent of victory in the air.

  She would tell him what she thought of him and then walk straight out the door.

  The advantage was all hers. He was bare-footed and all but naked, and it was probably not more than ten degrees outside and snowing.

  She was still fully dressed. And she had the car keys in her hand.

  She began moving towards the door, her eyes locked with his. "You're really good, you know. I mean, you just about convinced me of your innocence."

  He shook his head impatiently. "I am innocent. I told you—"

  "Yes, you told me. That whole sad story about your father, and your brother, and how you couldn't face being locked up again."

  His mouth twisted. "It's all true. I haven't lied to you about anything."

  "How pathetic I must seem to you. Sara Mitchell, naive spinster, plain Jane—"

  "Stop this nonsense!"

  "You've been using me from the start, you son of a bitch!"

  Peter came towards her, his hand outstretched. "Give me the car keys, Sara."

  His voice was cold. It sent a shudder up her spine but she shook her head.

  "Stay away from me."

  Her back was against the wall now; she reached out her hand and felt for the door. It had to be close. Yes! Yes, there it was. Her fingers slid across the jamb to the knob. If she could just...

  "Sara. Look out!"

  Something white flashed at her, inches from her eyes. She ducked her head instinctively. Peter was on her instantly, swinging her into his arms and lifting her from the floor. Sara slammed her hand against his shoulder.

  "No," she cried, "don't!"

  Her heart felt as if it were going to explode as she struggled against him. The old Peter Saxon was back, the one who had kidnapped her on the ice-slicked road in Brookville. He shifted her in his arms and looked down at her, a quick smile tilting across his mouth, his eyes the color of the night.

  "Such an old trick, sweetheart," he said. "But it takes sharp reflexes to see it coming."

  The towel. He had taken the towel from his hips and snapped it towards her. That was all that had happened, but it had been enough. The advantage that had been hers was gone, along with her chance at freedom…

  And now—n
ow, his naked, aroused body was hard against hers.

  Panic rose in her throat.

  "Let go of me," she said. "I'll scream if you.—"

  He laughed softly. "Go on," he whispered, his voice like silk, "scream." His arms tightened around her. "The chalet's surrounded by forest, the wind's howling like a banshee—scream, and see what it gets you."

  Sara swallowed past the sharp taste of terror. "I'm not afraid of you," she said.

  His eyes met hers. "Aren't you?"

  She swallowed again. "N—no. No. I—"

  "Good. That makes it easier."

  She read his intention in his eyes, and she began to struggle wildly as he strode through the living-room towards the bedroom door but it was impossible to wrench free. He was all hard muscle and harder determination; she beat at his shoulders and chest, but the blows meant no more to him than snowflakes falling on a roadway.

  She grabbed the doorjamb as they went through, but her fingers slipped away uselessly. Peter kicked the door closed behind him. The canopied bed loomed ahead but, to Sara's amazement, he marched past it to the full-length mirror on the far side of the room. There, he dropped her to her feet, grasped her shoulders and shoved her in front of him.

  "Take a good look, Sara. Tell me what you see."

  She stared into the mirror. A wild-eyed woman, cheeks flushed, hair in loose disarray, looked back at her. Peter Saxon towered behind her, dark and threatening.

  Her heart thudded erratically. "Don't make this worse than it already is. If you know what's good for you, you'll—"

  "Answer the question."

  She stared at their images and a flush rose to her cheeks. "Do you want to hear me admit I'm afraid of you? All right, I am. Are you satisfied now? Is that—?"

  His hand slid to her neck. She watched as his fingers covered the pulse beating wildly in the hollow of her throat.

  "Do you know why you're afraid of me?" His voice was low and smoky. He bent his head towards hers, until she felt the press of his cheek against her hair and the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

  Why was it so hard to draw air into her lungs? Sara swallowed, then swallowed again.

  "Of course," she whispered. "You're bigger than I am. Stronger."

  He laughed. "And a hell of a lot meaner." His smile fled, and he moved closer to her. She could feel the hard warmth of his body pressing boldly against hers. "But that isn't the reason, is it?"