Partners in Crime (Anne Stuart's Bad Boys Book 4)

by Anne Stuart

  “Oh,” said Jane.

  “I think,” Sandy said, wrapping a protective arm around Jane’s drenched, shivering shoulders, “that my partner in crime needs a very hot shower, a glass of Scotch, and clean dry clothes. We came to you because we knew you were the softest touch in Princeton.”

  “Not to mention that Peyton would kill you if you came back to town and didn’t see us. Partner in crime, eh? Sounds fascinating. We have three showers, lots of clothes, and enough Scotch to float an ocean liner, particularly now when I can’t drink. Once you’re feeling better you can tell me exactly how you got into whatever mess you’re in.”

  “Later,” Sandy promised, leading a benumbed Jane down the hallway with unerring instincts. “Just let me take care of my lady first.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. Right then and there she didn’t have the energy to fight it. For just a short while she wanted to be taken care of, she wanted to be his lady. Later, when she was clean and dry and nicely tipsy, she’d be independent again. For now she wanted to cling.

  She took her time in the huge, sybaritic shower. When she got out, there were clean clothes waiting for her, clearly prepregnancy clothes of Margery’s. The sweatpants bagged around her ankles, the sleeves drooped over her fingers until she pushed them up, but it was warm and soft and dry and wonderfully comfortable.

  She found them by their voices, and when she walked into the living room she had to work hard to stifle the sudden, irrational sweep of jealousy that threatened to reduce her to tears. Sandy and his sister-in-law cum ex-wife were sitting on the white leather sofa, looking closer than any divorced couple had the right to look. While they both rose and greeted her with seeming delight, she couldn’t help feeling like an intruder in their scene of domestic bliss. She wondered how Sandy’s brother would feel.

  “So you’ve run afoul of Stephen Tremaine,” Margery said, rising with cumbersome grace and pouring Jane a drink. “I can think of people I’d rather meet on a dark night in an alleyway.”

  Jane took a huge, warming gulp of her drink, allowing herself a furtive glance at Sandy’s bland face. “I told Margery that Tremaine is trying to get hold of one of your late brother’s inventions.” His voice matched his face.

  “Yes, I was sorry to hear about the accident.” Margery’s gorgeous face rumpled in real sympathy, and Jane gave up trying to hate her. It wasn’t her fault she was six feet tall, spectacularly beautiful and pregnant by the man she loved. Not to mention that she had the ability to say no to Sandy, an ability Jane didn’t seem to share.

  “I told Margery I couldn’t really go into detail.” Sandy rose, crossed the room and put his hands on Jane’s shoulders, pushing her gently into an overstuffed chair. “Drink your whiskey while I see about notifying the police.”

  She wanted to protest, but the soft leather felt too comfortable, the room too cozy, the drink too warming. “Better call the rental place, too,” she said, settling back and pulling her legs underneath her.

  Margery sank into the chair beside her, her face thoughtful. She waited until Sandy was out of earshot, waited until they could hear the muffled sound of his voice on the telephone, before she spoke. “He’s in love with you.”

  Jane spilled her whiskey on her borrowed sweat suit. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said Sandy’s in love with you,” Margery said, sipping her Perrier and lime.

  “He told you that?” The possibility was so overwhelming that she didn’t even bother to mop up the icy drink that was slowly chilling her thigh.

  “Of course not. I’m not even sure he realizes it himself yet, though I suspect he does. Sandy was never slow on the uptake, and he has more than his share of intuition.”

  Jane began mopping up her thigh. “I’m going to smell like a distillery,” she said.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  Jane met Margery’s huge blue eyes, disarmed, but fighting it. “In a word, no.”

  “I know him better than any human being on this earth. Better than his parents, who are too distant and polite to ever ask him a personal question, better than his own brother, who’s only open with me, better maybe than he knows himself. He never loved me, even though he felt he should. But he surely loves you.”

  Jane ignored the latter as only a theory, impossible to prove. “If he didn’t love you, why did he marry you?” she asked bluntly, draining her depleted glass of whiskey. If Margery could be outspoken, so could she.

  “We were supposed to be the perfect couple,” she said with a sigh, looking out the wall of windows into the rainy evening. “We met when he was at Exeter, I was at Concord. We dated through college, we got engaged when he graduated, we got married when he passed his law boards. We love each other very much, but we’re not in love with each other and never were, and neither of us noticed that wasn’t enough until Peyton moved back from South America. And then I realized that the things I loved in Sandy were the things that made me fall in love with Peyton. Sandy noticed before I did, Peyton was all set to move back to Buenos Aires and I was ready to enter a convent.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Sandy flew to Haiti and got a twenty-four hour divorce, without telling either of us where he was going, without saying a word. And Peyton and I were married six months later, five years ago.’.’

  “Happy ever after,” Jane murmured. “But what about Sandy?”

  “He’s looking forward to the birth of his nephew.” She patted her swollen tummy.

  “And he’s had no regrets?”

  “No regrets,” Margery said. “I won’t tell you it didn’t hurt. No one likes to admit failure, no one likes it when someone chooses another person over you, even if you didn’t want them in the first place. I had moments of feeling miserable because he didn’t fight for me. I wanted Peyton, not Sandy, but I wanted him to put up more of a fuss. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “A little.”

  Margery’s smile was rueful. “I never pretended to have much more than common sense and a certain intuition. And my intuition tells me Sandy’s in love with you.”

  Jane thought longingly of another glass of whiskey, but resisted the temptation to beg. “I think this time you’re wrong,” she said firmly.

  “And, of course, you’re in love with him.”

  Jane stared at her, open-mouthed in shock, just about to wreck whatever amity had sprung up between them, when Sandy strolled back in. “I’ve called us a taxi. The police will meet us at the motel and get our statements. Margery, thank you for giving us a port in the storm.”

  “Of course.” She rose and waddled over to her former husband. “But what’s this about a motel? Why aren’t you staying with us?”

  “We prefer our independence, but thanks for the offer.” He raised a questioning eyebrow at Jane, who rose dutifully enough, still struggling with outrage at Margery’s last announcement before Sandy came in the room.

  “Where are you staying? Maybe we could have dinner together or something.”

  “Jane and I are leaving for Vermont tomorrow,” Sandy said. “But thanks for the offer. Take care of Junior for me.” He patted her belly with an affectionate air, and Jane wanted desperately to slap his hand away.

  “Which motel, Sandy?” Margery demanded, undeterred.

  “Princeton Pike Sleep-a-While Motel,” Jane said, as Sandy shook his head.

  “That dive? But why?”

  “It has character,” Sandy said softly.

  “It has anonymity,” Jane added.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Margery murmured. “You’re sure I can’t talk you into staying?”

  “Positive,” Sandy said.

  “And I can’t worm any more information out of either of you?”

  “Absolutely not,” Jane said.

  Margery sighed. “Peyton will be sorry he missed you.”

  “We’ll catch up after the baby is born.” Sandy was ushering Jane toward the door. In the background she could hear the
taxi honking its horn, her bare feet were wet and cold as Sandy thrust her out into the rain.

  “Your clothes...” she said to Margery.

  “I’ll get them next time I see you,” Margery said cheerfully. “I’ll be closer to fitting back into them by then.”

  “Bye, Margery,” Sandy said, giving her a casual kiss on the cheek.

  “Don’t dunk Jane in any more canals,” she ordered. “Your nephew is going to want cousins.”

  Jane didn’t say a word as they drove through the pouring rain back out toward Route One, and Sandy seemed similarly inclined. They used the Alexander Road route rather than pass the old canal, and Jane could only be grateful. They hadn’t even come close to drowning, but for the next few months, even years, she planned to keep her distance from cold dark bodies of water.

  She padded barefoot in the rain to her motel-room door while Sandy paid the taxi driver with some soggy paper money. She’d almost managed to shut the door in his face when he reached her, and he had no compunctions whatsoever about forcing it open and thrusting her inside.

  “I didn’t invite you in here,” she said, stalking into the bathroom and grabbing one of the threadbare white towels they replaced every three days to dry her damp, chilly feet. She sat on the bed, knowing she was asking for trouble, not giving a damn.

  “I just wanted to get our stories straight.” He was un-cowed by her hostility. He strolled over to the connecting door and unlocked it. “How much are we going to tell the police? Everything?”

  She eyed the door warily, deciding to wait until he left to relock it. “What do you think? You’re the lawyer here.”

  “Yes, but I’m here as your coconspirator, not as your counsel,” he pointed out. “I think we should tell them the truth. That your brother died in a similar accident two months ago, that you haven’t any idea who could have tampered with your car if indeed it was tampered with. I don’t think we need to burden them with our theories and suspicions. They’re pretty smart fellows—they can add two and two and come up with four.”

  “Why shouldn’t we tell them our suspicions?”

  “For one thing, we could let ourselves in for a charge of libel. For another, there’s no way we could head for Vermont tomorrow if they suspect we’re involved in attempted murder. Let them work that out for themselves while we’re gone. If we have to wait, Tremaine could get the jump on us, and by the time we find the lab the entire place could be cleared out.”

  “That makes sense.” She was very cautious in her agreement.

  “Then we’ll deal with just the facts, ma’am,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll see if I can keep them away from you entirely. They might be satisfied with my statement.”

  “That would be nice.” She yawned, squirming on the bed, and noticed with momentary surprise that she was sore in the oddest places. And then she remembered her activities of the night before, and blushed. “I’m going to take a hot bath and go to bed,” she said with studied calm. “That dunk in the canal took a lot out of me.”

  “Among other things,” he murmured, opening the door into the neon-lit night. She could see beyond his shoulder that the rain had finally abated, but the wind had picked up, and there was a northerly tinge to it. He paused, gazing at her, and for the first time she noticed how weary he looked. There were lines between his clear gray eyes, bracketing his sexy mouth, across his broad forehead, and she suddenly realized that his last thirty-six hours hadn’t been a piece of cake, either.

  Sympathy, however, would get her into nothing but trouble. She scooted up the bed, ending at the pillows. “Good night,” she said in a cool, dismissive voice.

  Clearly he was in no mood to fight it, and she told herself she was relieved. “One last question,” he said. “What did Margery say to you just before I came in?”

  If she could feel herself blush before, this time her cheeks grew positively inflamed. She said the first thing that came into her mind. “She asked me if you were still good in bed.” The moment the words were out she clapped her hands over her mouth in utter horror.

  But Sandy only laughed. “I don’t believe a word of it, darling,” he said, some of the shadow leaving his eyes. “But if she asked you, what would you have said?”

  She could think of a dozen instant responses, all of which were guaranteed to have him close the door and jump on the bed with her. But she had enough self-control, or self-destructiveness, to keep those thoughts to herself. “I’ll tell you when we stop Stephen Tremaine.”

  He shook his head in weary amusement. “I’m too tired to get it out of you tonight, Jane. Tomorrow.” The words were both a threat and a promise.

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell.”

  Sandy looked out into the windy night. “It might be, at that. Good night, Jane.”

  She didn’t say another word as he slowly closed the door behind him. She waited until she heard him unlocking his own door before she jumped up and double-locked the outside door. Then she went to the connecting door, relocking it and moving the rickety armchair under the handle for extra protection. Not that she thought she had anything to worry about—Sandy wasn’t the sort to use force. Not when he had such formidable powers of persuasion.

  She heard the voices of the policemen next door while she lay soaking in her hot bath. Apparently Sandy gave them more than enough information—there were no peremptory knocks on her motel room door. She stayed in the tub until the water grew tepid, then pulled on an oversize T-shirt and was heading for the dubious comfort of the motel’s best mattress when she heard the connecting door rattle.

  She smiled smugly at the chair blocking the doorknob. “Go away,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

  Sandy’s reply was short and graphic, and the door rattled with the force of his shaking it. She decided to ignore him, climbing into bed and turning off the light, prepared to enjoy the sound of his futile struggles.

  A second later there was a huge, crashing noise, the chair went flying across the room, the door frame splintered, and the room was flooded with light outlining a very angry man.

  “Don’t,” he said with deceptive calm, “lock the door again.”

  Jane raised her head off the pillow, matching his even tone. “I don’t think that’s possible anymore.”

  “We’ll leave at six tomorrow morning. Is that all right with you?” He didn’t make any effort to come into the room, and somehow she knew he wouldn’t.

  “Just dandy,” she said. “Am I allowed to close the door?”

  “Certainly,” he replied with great courtesy. “I’ll even do it for you.” And without another word he pulled the splintered door closed, shutting out the light.

  Jane lay on the sagging mattress, listening to the sounds of her accomplice as he moved about his bedroom. He was whistling softly, apparently well pleased with his brief act of violence.

  At least, Jane thought, she wouldn’t have Margery’s problem. Alexander Caldicott wasn’t going to give up without one hell of a fight. And with that thought, Jane fell asleep. Smiling.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jane Dexter had to be the most infuriating, pigheaded, cold-hearted, sexless woman in the entire world, Sandy told himself. And then he quickly amended his judgment. Sexless, she wasn’t; she’d simply prefer to be. No woman had ever, melted in his arms the way she had, had ever turned as hot and demanding, as overwhelmed and overwhelming as she had during that too-short night in the old house in Bay Head.

  He wanted her again. He’d wanted her last night when he’d given in to a childish fit of pique and smashed open the connecting door. One word, one sign of softening on her part and they could have spent the night a lot more profitably than he had, alternating between tossing and turning and taking cold showers. But she hadn’t exhibited any signs of relenting, and he’d felt like a damned fool smashing through the door like that, and so he’d spent the night in misery. His only consolation was the certain knowledge that she’d had just as wakeful a night. The pap
er-thin walls carried every creak of the mattress, every weary sigh. He lay there in his bed, staring at the clock, wondering how much longer he could reasonably wait before he could get up. Wondering how much longer it would be till Jane came back to his bed.

  He groaned, punching his pillow and rolling over. He was going to have a hell of a time driving four hundred miles on approximately fifteen minutes of sleep. Maybe he could catch just a few more minutes. Maybe he could blot Jane out of his mind long enough so he could get a short nap. He pulled the pillow over his head, nestling his face into the scratchy sheets. If he could just blot out the evocative sound of her mattress creaking, he might have a chance.

  *

  The first cool gray light of dawn was filtering through the lime-green curtains of the motel room when Jane awoke. She squinted at her watch, moaned, and shut her eyes again. It was 4:45 a.m. Too early to get up, even if they were planning to leave by six. She wouldn’t need to pack—everything was still jumbled in her suitcase anyway. All she had to do was stumble through her morning ablutions and climb into that sinfully comfortable Audi. There was nothing to keep her awake.

  Except the certainty that Stephen Tremaine, the bluff, avuncular figure from a distant past, had murdered her brother. She still couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t accept the fact that her brother died from someone else’s act of violence. Had he known when the car went over the embankment? Was he afraid of dying?

  She shivered, sitting up in bed. Horrible, nightmare thoughts. Richard had never been afraid of anything in his life, not draft boards or the national-guard or rural, reactionary sheriffs or dying for a cause. She’d seen him lie down in front of a bulldozer that was trying to raze a building Richard considered a historic monument. She’d known him to walk in front of snarling police dogs, to starve himself down below a hundred pounds, to risk death in numerous ways, and he’d never been frightened. When it came right down to it, he was too self-absorbed to consider himself mortal. When death came he probably reacted with no more than surprise and mild outrage.