Sara had nodded without enthusiasm. "Sure. I understand."
Now, hours later, sitting on her sofa with her cat curled in her lap, she was sure that she did. Simon Winstead was a clever man. He had probably come up with some reasonable explanation for what he'd said about the jewels being in the trunk of Peter’s car. Actually, now that she thought about it, all he had to do was deny ever having made the remark.
It was only her word against his. And considering the way she had behaved over the past few days, her credibility was hardly better than Peter's.
Sara sighed deeply and stared out the window, into the dark night.
There had to be a way to prove Peter's innocence, just as there had to be a way to convince him that she hadn't betrayed him.
At first, she'd wondered which pained her the most—remembering the way he had looked at her as the troopers took him away or knowing he was in jail.
But, as the days went by, she knew which was the worst. It was that Peter was behind bars, caged like an animal.
I thought I'd die in there.
She could still hear him telling her that, still see the darkness in his eyes.
She lifted the cat from her lap, got to her feet and pulled her fleecy robe more closely around her body. She would confront Winstead again tomorrow, and find a way to get him to make the damning admission again.
Only this time she would be ready.
She would bury a tape recorder in her bag. Or she would beg Chief Garrett to go with her. Or she would... she would...
Sara let out her breath. There had to be a way. She was just too tired to think of it now. It seemed days and days since she'd slept.
She sighed and looked at the grey cat curled on the couch. "Come on, Taj," she murmured. "It's bedtime." The animal looked up, yawned delicately, then put its head down again and closed its eyes. Sara smiled. "I don't blame you. I guess I've been keeping you awake at nights, haven't I?"
She stroked the silken little body, then switched out the light. The house was plunged into darkness, and she felt a sudden unpleasant chill, as if there were a draught blowing in through an open window. No, she thought suddenly, it wasn't that. It was as if someone were out there in the dark, watching and waiting.
She made a quick circuit of the rooms, checking that all the windows and doors were securely bolted. They were—and yet the uncomfortable feeling remained.
"You need a good night's sleep, Sara Mitchell," she said with determination, and she scooped up the cat and started up the stairs. The cat protested softly, meowing its displeasure at being disturbed. "Sorry, pussycat," Sara said, stroking the soft grey fur. "I just don't feel like being alone."
She shivered when she reached her bedroom. It was cold in here, too, which was strange because she had the heat turned up. But there was a lack of warmth in the house tonight. Everything seemed foreign and out of kilter.
She shook her head impatiently. That was all she needed now—an over-active imagination to add to everything else. She put the cat on the bed. It meowed, leaped off, and disappeared into the dark hall.
"OK," Sara called after it, "go on, be a cat. Assert your independence. See if I care."
She paused beside the window, and stared out into the night again. The snowfall was thick and heavy, lying over the gently sloping hills and skeletal trees like a white blanket. Above, the moon cast a cold light across the sky.
Peter had carried her off on a night like this. There had been no moon then but the snow had fallen all around them, enclosing them in a soft cocoon. Would she ever be able to look at snow again without this terrible pain in her heart?
She bowed her head and pressed it against the window. The glass was cold; ice flowers bloomed on it, the chill fruit of winter.
"I love you, Peter."
Her whispered words trembled in the silence. If only she hadn't talked him into coming back to the States. If only he would see her, and let her explain what had happened...
Impatiently, she pulled the heavy curtains closed. What did it matter now? You couldn't go back and undo what was; you could only work to change the future.
And that, Sara thought, as she slipped off her robe and climbed into bed, was what she would do.
She switched off the bedside-light and lay back on the pillow. Somehow, she would find a way to free Peter. She would tell him she loved him. She would tell him she had not betrayed him. She...
Her lashes fell to her cheeks. The wind moaned softly through the skeletal trees.
Sara slept.
* * *
No man had ever touched her like this before. No man had ever kissed her in this way, or whispered these things to her. She was blooming like a desert flower under the sweetness of a sudden rain shower, alive and eager for what Peter offered. Her mouth was filled with the taste of him, her breasts swelled beneath his caress, her body arched against his.
Peter's calloused fingers brushed the smooth column of her throat, and his hand slipped into her hair, his fingers tangling in the blonde strands as he drew her head back. He bent to her again, and she moaned as she felt the silken slide of his tongue against hers. Her senses blazed with the heat of his love...
She was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming, the message filtering through some separate, clear-thinking part of her mind. But the dream was so wonderful. If only it could last forever. If only...
"Sara."
She sighed in her sleep. Peter's voice was soft; she could even feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
I love you, Peter...
"Sara." Hands clasped her shoulders and lifted her. "Sara. Wake up." She felt the brush of fingers against her skin.
Her eyes flew open. "Peter?" Her voice was soft with sleep, disbelieving. "Peter," she said again, and her heart filled with a rush of joy.
This was no dream. He was here. Peter was here in her room, sitting on the bed beside her. He had opened the curtains; in the pale glow of moonlight, she could just make out his shadowed features, the strong line of cheek and jaw.
He drew back as she reached out to him. "Hello, Sara."
"I can't believe it," she whispered. "How did you—what are you doing here? You—" Her heart thudded wildly. "You escaped from jail. Oh, Peter—"
His face hardened. "Did you really think you were safe from me, Sara? You should have known I would find a way to reach you."
"You escaped," she said again, and her eyes lit with alarm. Quickly, she pushed the blankets aside, and swung her legs to the floor. "You've got to hurry," she whispered. "They're sure to come here."
His hands closed tightly on her shoulders. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Sara stared at him. "There's no time to waste," she said. "They'll come here, Peter. And when they do—"
She winced as the pressure of his fingers increased. "That's not going to save you," he growled.
"Peter, please—"
"You sold me out, Sara."
"No," she said quickly, "no, that's not true. I know you think I did, but—"
"Don't play games with me, dammit." His voice was cruel with anger. "You sold me out, and now you're going to pay for it. I've been waiting for this moment, Sara. It's what kept me from going insane the past days."
Dark wings of fear fluttered in her breast. She could see his face clearly in the eerie, ice-blue wash of moonlight that filled the room. There was a coldness in his eyes she had only seen once before, outside the motel as the troopers had led him away.
"Peter, listen to me. It's not what you think—"
His lips drew away from his teeth. "Listen to you?" he said coldly. "I did listen to you, and look where it got me."
"If you would just let me explain—"
"I never had a chance to pay you back for your advice, Sara." Again, he smiled that terrible smile. "But I will, tonight."
The unspoken threat sent a chill along her flesh. There was a dark side to Peter—how had she forgotten that? She remembered how he'd run after her a
nd caught her outside the bank the night he'd kidnapped her, how easily he had become part of Frenchy Nolan's world in that sleazy bar in Montreal.
He had spent sixteen months in prison, experiencing things she had never even dreamed of.
He could be ruthless when he had to be.
He was a man on the run and he thought she'd betrayed him. It was a combination that might lead to almost anything.
"How the hell could you have sold me out?" His hands tightened on her. "I've gone through it a thousand times—"
Her fear took a new focus as she looked past him to the face of the bedside clock over his shoulder. It was just past two in the morning. How long had he been here? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Had they discovered his absence from the jail by now?
How long did he have before the manhunt for him began? How long would it be before her house was surrounded by car-loads of troopers and men with dogs straining at the ends of their leads, their muzzles flecked with foam?
"Peter." Her voice cut through his. "Peter, please, there's no time for this. You have to get away. They'll look here. They'll come here first."
"Don't count on it, Sara."
She shook her head. "They will. Garrett knows how I feel about—about you. He knows what I'll do. He—"
She cried out as his hands clasped her more tightly. "Yes," he growled. "I'll bet he does."
Something wailed thinly, far in the distance. Sara caught her breath and listened. Was it a police siren? No, she thought, closing her eyes with relief, no, it was a train, whistling mournfully into the night.
There was still time.
"Listen to me,'' she said, her voice harsh with urgency. ''My car is in the garage. The gas tank is full. I have—I don't know—I have fifty or sixty dollars in my wallet. I'll bring my car around, get my wallet—"
He laughed. "Terrific. The last time you trotted off to buy coffee. This time you're going off to get the car." His fingers bit into her flesh. "Don't waste your time, sweetheart. There aren't any telephones handy tonight—and I've cut the line to yours."
Sara stared at him. "Is that what you think? That I want to turn you in?"
"Again." His lips drew back from his teeth. "You left that out, sweet Sara."
A slow flush of anger heated her blood. She was dizzy with schemes to save him and all he could think of was her supposed duplicity.
"Listen," she said softly, "this isn't the time. But you're wrong about me. And I'm beginning to resent—"
"You're damned right I was wrong about you!" Peter's jaw shot forward. "Damn, but you had me fooled. It was just kicks, wasn't it? Little Sara Mitchell got the chance to spread her wings for the first time in her life and she liked the feeling. And then—"
"What are you talking about? I—"
Peter's eyes darkened, and his hands slid down her flannel-sleeved arms. "You really got through to me, Sara. Isn't that a laugh?" His fingers curled around her wrists. "For the very first time, I almost regretted what I'd done. I found myself wondering what it would be like if I could go back and undo—"
Sara stared at him. "There was nothing to undo, Peter. You didn't steal the jewels of the Maharanee of Gadjapur—we both know that."
A smile twisted across his face. "You don't understand, Sara. I never stole any jewels. None, not ever, not at the Winstead party or anywhere else."
What was he talking about? Peter was a thief. A reformed thief, yes, but...
His head bent towards hers. "Johnny was the cat burglar." His eyes darkened with pain. "We'd played the game too long, you see; we kept playing it after that first night, and after a while it became too important to him. He couldn't stop."
Sara was almost afraid to breathe. "But if your brother was the thief—if it wasn't you—"
Peter's breath hissed between his teeth and she knew, from the look on his face, that he hadn't heard her.
"It was fun, at first." He shook his head. "Hell, fun isn't the right word. It was exciting, it was—it was the biggest kick in the world. We got good at it—after a while, there wasn't an office on campus we hadn't been in. We moved our raids into the city—"
"The foreign embassies?"
His teeth flashed in a feral smile. "No security system could stop us. We were invincible." His hands fell away from her; Sara watched, spellbound, as he stared beyond her into the darkness. "And each time, Johnny took something. Never much, not then. A notepad. A book of matches—"
Sara stared at him. "But it changed," she said, knowing instinctively what came next. "Stationery and matches weren't enough."
Peter nodded. "Yes. And that's when I realized the game had gotten out of hand, that we had to stop. I told Johnny. He laughed but I said—I said that was how it had to be. It was over, I told him. I wanted out." He drew a shuddering breath. "But it wasn't over, not for him. I should have known. I should have suspected—"
Sara put her hand on his arm. "Peter—"
"I went to his apartment the night he was killed. I had a key; I just wanted to be in a place that was filled with his spirit." He shrugged free of her hand. "It was all there. The jewels he'd stolen. The newspaper clippings about the thefts and the daring cat burglar who had pulled them off." Pain knifed across his face. "I almost went crazy, trying to think of a way to protect him from what would happen when the papers got hold of the story. At first I thought I would toss it all in a sewer."
"But you didn't," Sara whispered. "You decided to return the jewels."
Peter laughed. "Crazy, right?" The smile fled his face. "Maybe I was crazy that night. All I know is, it went wrong right away. There was an emerald locket on a gold chain—I recognized it, it belonged to a woman Johnny and I had both dated. In fact, I'd seen her wearing it two nights before. She was away for the weekend, I knew that, too. And I thought, hell, she doesn't even know the locket's gone. If I can just return it before she gets back—"
"But you got caught."
''Some terrific break-in artist I was, right?” He gave a hollow laugh. ''Yes. She'd come home early. I'd played the game a hundred times before, but the one time it really mattered, I got caught."
Sara stared at him. "And you let the police think it was you all along."
He nodded. "It was the last thing I could do for my brother," he said softly. "It was all that was left."
The room filled with silence. Tears filled Sara's eyes.
"You must have loved him a lot," she murmured.
Peter swung towards her with a speed that made her flinch. "Yes," he growled, catching her by the shoulders, "I loved him. He was all I had. And I never once looked back. I never regretted a minute of it, not the trial, or the contempt in my grandfather's face, or even the endless hell of prison..." His hands bit into her flesh. "Until that night in that fleabag motel, Sara. That was the first time I found myself thinking maybe what I'd done had been a mistake, that if I'd never let the world think I was a thief, I wouldn't have ended up in a mess with no way out."
"There was a way out," said Sara. "And you took it. I don't blame you for running off, Peter. You couldn't face prison."
His mouth narrowed. "I wasn't the one who ran off. You were. You heard me on the phone that morning, and you leaped to the conclusion that I was leaving you because I didn't need you anymore. I know that's what happened; you might as well admit it."
Sara drew in her breath. "Yes, I heard you. But I never thought that, not for a minute. I heard what you said about it being safer to travel alone. And I understood, Peter." Her eyes met his. "I knew how determined you were not to get caught. I knew you regretted the scheme I'd talked you into. I—"
"You're damned right I was determined not to get caught! You would have been an accessory. If they found us breaking into Winstead's house, you would have gone to jail. And I would have died before I let that happen to you."
What was he saying? Sara stared at him in disbelief. "You mean, you were afraid for me, not yourself?"
"I couldn't let you run a risk like that." Peter's eyes darke
ned. "I've been in a cage, remember? I know what it's like."
She ran her tongue over her lips. "Then why—why didn't you say something? Why didn't you ask the man on the phone to make up new papers for the two of us?"
Peter's hands slipped from her shoulders, up her throat to her face. His fingers threaded into her hair.
"That's what I was going to do. I thought about it while we were driving towards Brookville. But then we got to the motel; I looked at you in that dingy little room, I saw the terror on your beautiful face when you thought the cops were after us, and I knew I loved you too much to drag you into that kind of life with me."
She looked into his eyes. It was all too incredible to be true. He loved her. He had been leaving her only because he loved her.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered.
"What right did I have to tell you I loved you?" he demanded. "What could I have offered you?"
"Your love is enough," Sara said. "It's all I want—"
Suddenly, his face twisted in pain. "How could you have turned me in, Sara? Didn't what we'd shared mean anything to you?"
"It meant everything. I love you so much, Peter. I—"
"You heard me on the phone, you heard me making plans to leave and, right away, you thought the worst." He shook his head. "Hell, you thought the worst all along. Each time I tried to tell you how I felt about you, you accused me of trying to use you."
"I think I was just afraid to believe you cared for me. It was all like a dream."
He tilted her face to his. "Why didn't you tell me you'd heard me make that call? Why didn't you ask me to explain?"
Sara shook her head. "I didn't want to complicate things for you, Peter. I thought—I thought that's how you wanted it. Don't you understand? I love you."
His eyes grew dark. "Don't keep saying that," he said in a fierce whisper. "You're just trying to save yourself now. You don't love me. If you did, you would never have betrayed me."
Sara put her fingers to his lips. "I didn't betray you. I didn't call the police. It was the desk clerk—he recognized you." She looked into his eyes. "I would never do anything to hurt you."
He drew in his breath, then let it out in a ragged sigh. "Dear God, I want so damned much to believe you…"
Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set Page 47