Peter's eyes darkened. "If you want excitement," he said, "I can give you all you need."
He gathered her to him, molding her body to his. Her mouth opened to his; she felt the heated press of his aroused body against her, and the slow, sweet passion he had unleashed began to unwind deep within her.
"Please," she whispered, "let me help you."
He swung her into his arms and looked down at her. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?" he asked thickly, and then he lowered her to the bed and the room, and reality, spun away.
* * *
Hours later, they were riding south towards Brookville in the Range Rover. It had taken all morning for Sara to talk Peter into going back; now, as he sat silent and tense beside her, she felt her own anxiety mounting.
Peter's mood had deteriorated as the miles sped by. She'd been surprised, at first, remembering how charged with excitement flirting with danger made him—until she realized that this was more than that.
This was a game played for the highest stakes of all.
Freedom.
The closer they got to the scene of the theft, the greater the risk he would be captured. And if he were, he would be locked behind bars.
I thought I'd die in there.
A car shot by them, horn blaring into the night. Peter muttered an obscenity.
"Go on," he said, "kill yourself, you stupid idiot."
He was like a coiled spring! Sara cleared her throat.
"You're only doing forty, Peter. That's why he passed you."
He glared at her, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Who's driving this car, Sara, you or me?"
She looked at him in bewilderment. "I was only—"
"Yes, I know what you were "only". You were—"
Suddenly, he drew in his breath and slapped his hand against the wheel. "Hell," he said softly, "I must be crazy." His foot pressed down on the accelerator and the car moved ahead. "Too slow is just as bad as too fast for calling attention to yourself."
"You're tired, that's all. We've been on the road half the night."
He shook his head. "Don't make excuses for me," he said irritably. "It doesn't change the fact that I made a mistake." He glanced at her again, and then looked back to the road. "And I damned well can't afford to make mistakes. Not anymore."
Sara put her hand on his. "I wasn't making excuses for you. I only meant that I know you're under a lot of pressure and—"
His voice cut across hers. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this crazy plan."
Her hand fell away from his. "It's not crazy," she said quickly.
Too quickly, she thought. Where was all the conviction she'd had earlier? But she knew where it was; it had slipped away along with Peter's confidence. He was her strength, and if he had doubts about their plan succeeding, then surely it was doomed to failure.
"Of course it is. We're going to break into the Winstead house. A thousand things could go wrong."
"Nothing will go wrong," she said, with a certainty she didn't feel. "You said you could get into that security system with your eyes closed."
He scowled. "If it's the same system. If Winstead hasn't moved the jewels. If we don't run into the police. If—"
She looked at him, surprised at the sharpness in his voice. "You never mentioned any of those things this morning."
His jaw thrust forward. "There are a dozen possibilities I didn't mention. That doesn't mean I'm not aware of them. Anything might go wrong with a crazy plan like this."
Sara hesitated while she searched for words that would calm his fears.
"There's a risk," she said finally. "OK, I figured that. I—"
"You're damned right there is."
"Talk about role-reversal," she said with a forced little laugh. "I thought you were the one who lived for risks."
Peter looked at her, and then at the road. "People change, Sara. Maybe I've finally figured out that sometimes the risk is greater than the reward."
She bit down on her lip. There was no need to ask what he meant. He was thinking of prison again, she knew. She ached to tell him she would do anything to protect him—but there was nothing she could think of, except what they had planned—and, the more she thought of breaking into the Winstead house, the more dangerous it seemed.
But what other choice was there? If they had stayed in Canada, sooner or later the authorities would have picked up their trail. Still, that might have been safer than what they were doing.
A cold knot settled in her gut. She was leading him into the very heart of danger. Her plan, so clever and daring when she had suggested it that morning, suddenly seemed impossible.
"Peter," she said, turning towards him, "listen to me—"
"There's our exit," he said, swinging the wheel to the right. "Keep an eye out for a motel. We'll take the first one we see."
But the first was too big and brightly lit. The second was perfect. Ten units huddled together on a narrow turn-off, behind a neon sign that blinked sadly into the moonless night. "OTEL", it said, the missing letter like a gap in a tired woman's smile.
"Our kind of place," Peter said with a harsh laugh as he pulled up to the office.
Sara put her hand on his arm just before he got out of the car. "Be careful."
He smiled at her for the first time in hours. "Relax, love. We're still a good fifty miles from Brookville."
She watched as he stepped into the badly lit office and didn't breathe easily until they were safely inside their motel room, which was as shabby and dim as the sign outside.
Peter dropped their things on the lone chair and put his hands on his hips.
"Well," he said finally, "it's not the Laurentians, is it?"
"It's fine," Sara said, trying not to notice the water-stained ceiling or the frayed carpet. The tinny sound of a television drifted through the thin wall separating their room from the next. "It's just fine."
Peter took a breath, and exhaled it slowly. "Yeah. It's terrific."
She watched as he circled the small room warily, drawing the curtains and double-locking the door, his body taut with apprehension, and then she ran her tongue across her lips.
"Peter? I was—I was thinking. Maybe we should go back."
"Go back?"
She nodded. "Yes. To Canada." She moved towards him quickly. "Maybe—maybe coming here wasn't such a good idea. Maybe—" Suddenly, the shrill wail of a police siren rent the air. The blood drained from her face. "Oh, hell," she whispered. "The police. Peter, they've found us. They—"
He moved to her quickly and took her in his arms. "Easy," he said, "easy, sweetheart."
She struggled against him. "What's the matter with you? Don't you hear the siren? The police—"
"Sweet Sara," he whispered, "it's just the TV in the next room." She stared at him, then pressed her face into his chest. His arms tightened around her, and he stroked her hair. "It's all right, love. It's all right."
When she had stopped shaking, she looked up at him and tried to smile.
"I'm sorry. I—I just keep thinking of what might happen." An image of Peter locked behind iron bars danced through her mind, and she shuddered. "I'm so afraid."
A muscle moved in his jaw. "Don't be," he said fiercely. "Don't ever be afraid, Sara. I won't let anything happen to you."
She leaned back in his embrace and looked up at him.
"It's not that. It's—" But he wasn't listening. He was looking at her with an intensity that made her heart stop beating. "What is it?" she whispered.
He answered by gathering her to him and kissing her, over and over, each kiss deeper and more passionate than the last. There was a desperation in his kisses that was almost frightening.
His hands cupped her face. "Sara," he whispered, "my sweet Sara."
He kissed her again, his mouth moving on hers with fierce hunger. There was something wrong, she could feel it, but as he touched her, as he stripped her clothing away with rough urgency, she felt her body take f
ire from his. Her doubts fell away as desire swept through her.
"Yes," she breathed, trembling against him. "Yes," she said again, and she reached to his shirt and began to undo the buttons, her fingers swift as they flew along the wool fabric.
Peter's mouth burned against her throat, against her breasts, and then he knelt before her and pulled her to him, his lips hot against her belly. Her head fell back and she moaned as he kissed the tender inner flesh of her thighs and, finally, the hidden flower of her womanhood. She cried out and he rose and held her until she stopped trembling.
Then he took her hands in his. "Undress me, Sara," he whispered, bringing her hands to his belt.
She pulled away his clothing, pausing only to kiss his skin as she exposed it. He tasted of salt and desire; she savored him with her tongue as if he were fine wine.
When he was naked against her, he swung her into his arms, and they fell to the bed, locked together in a fierce embrace.
"Peter," she whispered. "Peter—"
"Shh," he said, "shh, sweet Sara."
He kissed her as she arched against him, her body seeking the impalement that would make her his.
And, as she found it, a single, crystalline realization pierced her heart.
I love you, Peter, she thought, and the seedy motel room became paradise.
* * *
Sara awoke to sunlight and muted sounds of traffic. "Peter?" she murmured sleepily.
She was alone in the rumpled bed. She smiled and stretched lazily. Peter was in the shower; she could hear the sound of water running from behind the closed bathroom door.
Yesterday morning they had showered together, laughing beneath the warm spray, exploring with soap-slicked hands until the laughter became passion.
She smiled and pushed the blanket aside, imagining Peter's face when she drew back the curtain and stepped into the shower-stall with him. Afterwards, she would tell him what she'd started to tell him last night—that the scheme she had drawn him into was too dangerous.
Proving his innocence wasn't as important as keeping his freedom.
She padded silently to the bathroom door, and cracked it open an inch. The idea was to surprise him but if she let the cold air in, he would know she was...
Her smile faltered. He wasn't in the shower; he was standing with his back to her. And he had a cell phone to his ear.
"Yes," he was saying, "that's right, Eddie. I'll be in Chicago late tomorrow. I'll need papers."
Of course! She should have known Peter would be one step ahead of her. Apparently, he'd decided their plan was too risky, just as she had. And he was already making alternate plans.
Chicago, she thought. She had never been to Chicago. And then where? Europe? South America? Not that it mattered. Just as long as she and Peter were together.
"Right, Eddie. A passport. A driver's license. Hell, no. Just for me. Yeah, yeah, I know what the papers say. But I'll be travelling alone. It's—it's safer that way."
She felt the clutch of a cold fist around her heart, and she stumbled back against the bedroom wall.
"I'll be travelling alone," he'd said. He was leaving her. How could he do that? How?
"It's safer that way," he'd murmured, Sara pressed her hand to her mouth. Was he right? She knew very little about evading the law, but...
She knew nothing about it. She was a handicap, a liability a man on the run could ill afford. Peter had to stop and explain everything to her; hadn't she gone to pieces last night, and all because of a siren on a stupid TV program?
The water stopped abruptly.
"Sara?"
She stiffened. Peter was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, she could feel his eyes boring into her. Quickly, she pulled on her clothes, her fingers trembling on the buttons and zips, and then she turned towards him.
He looked at her narrowly.
"I didn't realize you were awake."
She nodded. "I just got up. I heard the shower..."
They both looked at the telephone in his hands. Peter set it down carefully.
"I was on the phone," he said. "I thought you might have overheard me."
Don't cry, she told herself fiercely. "No," she said, "no, I didn't. I—I just got up."
"Good. I mean, I'm glad I didn't disturb you. I—I had to call a hardware store."
Sara stared at him. "A hardware store?"
"Yeah." He gave her a quick smile. "I wanted to—to check on the things we'll need for Winstead's tonight."
He wasn't going to tell her he was leaving. He was going to walk out of her life the same way he had walked into it.
"I—I found what I'll need," he said. "I have to go and get it."
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "At the hardware store," she said, and he nodded. "I see." Her voice trembled, and she pulled free of his hands and turned away. "When?"
His hand brushed against her hair. "Now."
Now.
"Sara." His voice grew husky. "I—I wish..." She heard the ragged intake of his breath. "There are things I haven't told you, things I'm not sure you would understand..."
But you have told me, she thought. The reward wasn’t worth the risk. He couldn't face prison again. She wanted to say those things to him but she couldn’t.
She had to go along with the game. It was what he wanted, what her love for him demanded.
He shook his head, as if he were impatient with himself. "None of that matters now. I just wish—I wish there were some other way." He scooped a strand of her away from her cheek, tucked it behind her ear. "It's safer if I leave you here, Sara." He cleared his throat. ''While I—while I go to the hardware store.''
Sara closed her eyes.
Remember this, she thought, remember the feel of his hand, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his breath. Remember this, because it's all you'll have for the rest of your life.
Tears welled behind her eyelids. She couldn’t watch him leave. She couldn’t. She knew she would die, if she did.
Quickly, before she could change her mind, Sara stepped away and snatched up her jacket.
"Sara? What are you doing?"
She pulled a pair of dark glasses from her pocket, and jammed them on her nose.
"I—I noticed some vending machines near the office when we drove in last night. I thought they might sell coffee."
"Sara." His voice was rough. "Sara—wait a minute. Please."
"You go on, Peter. I'll just get the coffee and wait for you here and—and..." Her voice broke and she wrenched the door open. "Goodbye," she whispered.
Goodbye, my love.
"Sara, wait—"
She stepped out into the cold morning with the sound of his voice ringing after her.
Tears blinded her as she trotted across the parking lot. Was Peter watching? She assumed he was, and she continued in a determined line towards a shadowed archway that housed a decrepit phone booth and a cluster of vending machines. This would have to be her hiding place, the place where she could give in to her pain.
She ducked into the archway and sagged against the nearest booth. Head bowed, she waited to hear the sound of the car door opening and slamming shut, the snarling whine of the engine as the Rover came to life.
She waited for the crunch of gravel that would tell her Peter Saxon was leaving her, leaving her, leaving her…
"Sara? Holy Christ, thank heaven! Sara? Are you OK?"
A man's arm closed around her. Sara cried out in horror as she looked into the familiar face of Chief of Police Jim Garrett.
Peter, she thought, Peter…
"No!" she yelled, twisting against Garrett. "No, no—"
The chief held her closer. "It's all right, Sara. Take it easy. You're safe now."
Wildly, Sara looked around her. The motel lot was alive with cars, with police and state troopers. Guns and rifles bristled everywhere; a helicopter hovered overhead.
"No," Sara said desperately. "Jim, listen to me, you don't understand—"
; "We had a damned lucky break. I gambled on Saxon doubling back. It’s the kind of thing he’d do, to throw us off his trail, so I peppered the area with posters. The night clerk spotted one on his way home this morning and called my office."
"Jim, you have to listen. Peter isn't—"
"How the hell did you get away? We were worried about what the bastard might do to you when we made our move."
Sara's voice rose in panic. "Dammit, Jim, you have to—"
"Here we go. The troopers are bringing him out now." Garrett's arm tightened around her as she began to tremble. "Don't be afraid, Sara. He's never going to hurt anybody again."
The door to the room she and Peter had shared opened. Two troopers stepped outside with Peter between them: Peter chained and shackled like a wild beast, Peter with a thin streak of blood smeared beside his mouth.
Sara reached out as he walked towards where she stood, in the curve of Jim Garrett's arm.
"Peter," she whispered.
His eyes met hers, and she knew that she would remember the ice in their depths for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The snowstorm that had blanketed the northeastern United States had ended almost two weeks before but remnants of it still remained. Huge drifts of snow, sculpted by the wind into a white-waved sea and preserved by sub-freezing temperatures, lined the narrow roads that led into Brookville. The streets of the town still bore traces of the storm in the icy ramparts that separated the pavement from the street.
The weather had remained cold and overcast for the past week. The sun that had appeared on the morning of Peter's arrest had sunk behind a heavy cloud-bank and that was how each day had been ever since.
Seated at her desk in the police station, Sara stared blindly out the window. There was a bread-truck parked across the way, outside the ShopQuick Market just as it was every morning. She could see the postman walking his route, hurrying his steps a little so he could finish before the predicted new snowstorm began.
Nothing had changed in Brookville. It was a realization that had come to her again and again throughout the past days. The town looked exactly as it had all the years of Sara's life—which was, of course, as it should be.
It was only she who had changed, she who would never be the same again.
Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set Page 45