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

  “What happened to them?”

  “I gave them up. I don’t like Saabs and I never want to go to Bermuda again.”

  “Did he give you any compensation?”

  “Sandy...”

  “Didn’t you have a lawyer?” He was sounding positively incensed.

  “Of course I did. A friend of Frank’s took care of the details.”

  “A friend of Frank’s shafted you.”

  “I didn’t want anything,” she said, anger and desperation making her voice tight and hard. “I just wanted my freedom.”

  “You didn’t get anything else.” Sandy didn’t look at her, concentrating instead on the heavy evening traffic as he headed for the Lincoln Tunnel. “Not even your self-respect.”

  If she hit him they’d probably swerve into another car and die. Still, the thought was tempting. With great difficulty she swallowed her rage. “My self-respect doesn’t depend on material possessions.”

  “That’s good. Let’s just hope it isn’t influenced by being screwed by people who once cared for you.” His voice was tight with anger, and that emotion finally stirred Jane out of her own fury.

  “What does it matter to you how I’m treated? If I don’t mind why in the world do you?”

  “Are you trying to tell me you don’t mind?” he countered.

  She thought about it, carefully, prodding at the remembered pain like a tongue prodding a sore tooth. “I mind about me,” she said finally. “I mind that I made a fool of myself. Apart from that, it’s all ancient history.”

  He didn’t have to say anything, his skeptical expression was reaction enough. She tried to shove a deliberately careless hand through her teased and tangled mane, but her fingers stuck in the rough mass. “All I know,” she added sweetly, “is that I’ll never let a man make a fool out of me again.”

  His derision vanished. “Good idea,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the narrowing road.

  You ’re getting more and more foolhardy as time goes on, Sandy berated himself as he maneuvered the car down the crowded, narrow streets of the Lower East Side. He’d had plenty of chances to tell her the truth, plenty of times when he could have set things straight and then sat back and let others take over this incredible mess. Instead here he was, wandering around places he shouldn’t be seen, looking for people he shouldn’t even know existed.

  He wouldn’t have done it if Elinor Peabody hadn’t called up with a name. A name he knew. Anyone else and he would have left it alone, but the coincidence made it unavoidable.

  Years ago, when he was first practicing, his partners had handed him a case too dirty for them to soil their patrician hands with. When Gregory Matteo had shown up in his office all Sandy had known was that he was squeezed into a thousand dollar suit too small for his fat, sweating body. After talking with him Sandy had watched the contradictions mount. The man had an income and a title ill-suited to his meager intellect, combined with a bullying attitude that irritated Sandy enough to look further into the man’s background. He’d been accused of assaulting a police officer. He’d actually been beating his girlfriend, but she’d refused to press charges, so only the policeman who’d tried to stop him ended up going to court.

  He’d gotten him off on a technicality, a maneuver that required no great brilliance on his part, but Matteo had been almost pathetically grateful. And he’d made a firm promise: if Sandy had ever needed anything, he had only to send word to his notorious father, Jabba Matteo himself, and that wish was granted. And as Sandy had watched the man waddle away he’d wiped away an icy sense of relief that it was over so quickly.

  Jabba Matteo was so powerful, so dangerous and so rich that his very existence was almost a secret. The media that didn’t hesitate to stake out presidential campaigners and malign anything that moved seldom mentioned his name, and then only in the most circumspect manner. Even Sandy didn’t know the extent of the senior Matteo’s activities, and he didn’t care to. All he knew was that one of his quasi legitimate forms of employment was arms dealing, and that Matteo owed him one. Once Elinor Peabody mentioned his name, the die was cast.

  Getting in touch with him had proven the major challenge, one that Sandy had chosen to meet in typically brazen style. Three blocks away, their guide to the underworld was waiting in Ratner’s delicatessen, probably stuffing his ratty little face with strawberry cheesecake. The real Jimmy the Stoolie was waiting for them, and it was going to take all of Sandy’s quick thinking and mental juggling to keep Jane and Jimmy at arm’s length.

  “So how come your lawyer hangs out with godfathers?” Jane queried as he pulled up beside a boarded-up building and switched off the car. “I didn’t think Alexander Caldicott was a hireling of organized crime.”

  “He isn’t. He knows a friend of a friend. I should have thought of him myself. If anyone in New York knows anything about arms dealing, Jabba’s the man. He’d also be likely to know if anything...unpleasant...happened to your brother.”

  “Something unpleasant happened to him, Sandy. He died.”

  “I know,” he said hastily, trying to keep from staring in total fascination at her streaked and painted face. He could barely see the normal, so-called plain Jane beneath the gold and purple stripes, the spiky, tangled hair and garish mouth. He still wanted to kiss that mouth, black lipstick and all, and he was still far too partial to what lay beneath the metal-studded leather bra, but for the present he struggled to keep his mind on business. He’d explained the situation to Jimmy, and the little weasel had promised his full cooperation in exchange for a break on his legal fees, but Sandy wasn’t fool enough to trust him. If Jimmy thought he could get some sort of advantage out of his information he’d try to, and the next few hours would prove harrowing indeed if Sandy wasn’t extremely careful.

  “Isn’t that your lawyer?” Jane murmured, reaching for the door handle.

  Jimmy the Stoolie was sauntering toward them, a smarmy smile on his rodent-like face. Sandy just watched in growing dismay. He’d told Jimmy to borrow a suit from his wardrobe—they were close in size and the doorman would let him in. Needless to say Jimmy had chosen the best one he owned—a Giorgio Armani he kept for special occasions. Jimmy had already dripped a faint trail of strawberry on one lapel, and that was probably the trace of whipped cream just beside the pocket. Sandy bit his tongue in outrage.

  “There you are, Jimmy,” the real Jimmy said, displaying his prominent teeth in a condescending smile. “I wondered when I’d see you again. Not in any trouble are you, my boy?”

  “None at all,” Sandy said between his teeth. “It was good of you to meet us.”

  “Not at all, Jimmy, not at all. After all, you’ve kept me busy these past few years. It’s no trouble to lend you a hand.” He put his newly manicured hands on the car, leaning down to leer at Jane. “You must be Jimmy’s little friend. Do you realize what sort of man you’re hanging out with, Miss...?”

  “No names,” Sandy snapped, getting out of the car and fiddling uselessly with the lock. He hadn’t been able to lock the MGB since 1978, but he always made a pretense of it in case someone happened to be looking.

  And Jimmy was looking very carefully, his attention torn between the leather bra and the exterior of the MGB. “He’s a pretty unsavory character,” Jimmy continued, opening the door for her and watching with undisguised admiration as she slid her luscious legs out. Those tattered jeans did nothing to disguise their long, graceful length, and Sandy was on the edge of shoving Jimmy out of the way if he didn’t stop drooling.

  “Then why do you do so many favors for him?” Jane asked sweetly.

  “Favors?” Jimmy echoed, mystified as well as entranced.

  “Pay for his motel, cover his bills, even lend him your monogrammed bathrobe,” Jane said innocently. “How do you know he won’t run off with all your things?”

  “Don’t forget the apartment,” Sandy piped up helpfully. “It was very decent of you to lend us your Park Avenue apartment since you’re go
ing out of town.”

  “You know,” Jimmy mused, leaning forward and peering beneath Jane’s feathers, “I may stay in town after all. There’s plenty of room for you at my place anyway, but I might as well be a good host.”

  Sandy came over and slung a friendly arm around Jimmy’s shoulders, grinding his bones with just enough pressure to make his accomplice turn pale without actually groaning in pain. “We appreciate the thought, Alexander, but we know how important that Baltimore case is. We’ll just have to let you go.”

  Jimmy smiled weakly. Baltimore held a great many unpleasant secrets, most of which Sandy knew. “You’re right, Jimmy,” he said. “We’ll have to do it some other time.”

  Sandy released his crushing grip, carefully moving Jimmy out of the way and taking Jane’s arm in his. “Where’s Jabba? Does he know we’re coming?”

  “He knows,” Jimmy said, and Sandy couldn’t miss the uneasiness in his voice. “I’m not sure your friend is going to like the company.”

  “My name’s Jane,” she said, and Sandy could feel the tension beneath the feathers. “And I’m used to him. How bad could things get?”

  Jimmy laughed, a high-pitched, nasal giggle. “Used to him?” he echoed, looking at Sandy’s thinly disguised patrician profile. “Honey, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  “Sandy?” He could hear the beseeching note in Jane’s husky voice, and he placed his hand on top of her arm, pressing slightly.

  “You don’t have to come,” he said. He wished there was some way short of the truth that could keep her miles away from Jabba Matteo. But Jane Dexter was nothing if not a determined woman, and even the outlandish costume he’d provided hadn’t deterred her.

  “I’m coming,” she said, her momentary hesitation gone.

  He looked down into her somber eyes, surrounded by the rainbow streaks. She didn’t trust him, and she was wise not to. But the one thing she could trust him with was her safety. Tonight, he was deliberately leading a woman into a dangerous situation beyond her own control. He had to count on the hope that it wouldn’t be beyond his.

  He managed a casual shrug. “Suit yourself,” he said, ignoring Jimmy’s admiring expression. “But remember to keep your eyes down and your mouth shut. We’re heading into a patriarchal society, and no one’s interested in equal rights around here. Understand?”

  “Understood.” She tried to pull away from him, but he held fast, his fingers tightening on her arm. The more he held on, the more she tugged, and in another moment they would have been involved in a wrestling match in the middle of the Lower East Side, when Jimmy decided to intervene.

  Sandy was so startled he released her, and Jimmy took her arm with more graceful aplomb than he’d shown in his entire misspent life. “I’ll take care of her, old boy,” he murmured. “You just take care of yourself.” And he started off down the littered, crowded sidewalks, Jane walking meekly enough beside him.

  Sandy didn’t move for a long moment, staring after his best Armani suit on Jimmy’s stooped shoulders, watching Jane’s magnificent legs and that absurd tangle of hair. Others were watching, the curious, sullen eyes so prevalent in a domain of criminals. Watching Jane and Jimmy’s progress, watching Sandy, watching the MGB that couldn’t be locked. Sandy gave it one last worried glance. He loved his aging, impossible-to-tune car with a passion he reserved for nothing else, and he couldn’t rid himself of the miserable possibility that when he returned it would be gone.

  But it was a choice between his car and Jane. And to his surprise there was no question at all which one mattered. Without another glance at the shiny blue finish, he hurried down the sidewalk after his former client. He could always buy another car.

  Chapter Eleven

  What in the world am I getting myself into, Jane thought as she moved along the broken sidewalks. She was in a part of New York her parents had always warned her about, and she was on the verge of meeting people she scarcely believed existed. The only protection she had was her own somewhat limited abilities, a felon who looked like a prince, and a lawyer who looked like a felon. Between Sandy and his lawyer there wasn’t much choice, and if she had any sense at all she would have stayed at the motel in the first place instead of dressing up in such outlandish gear and walking the streets of the Lower East Side.

  Her sense of uneasiness had been growing by the day, by the hour, compounded by the sudden intensity of the situation in which she found herself. Something bothered her about Sandy, and she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. Something that didn’t ring true, and every time she felt she was coming close to understanding it he’d do something distracting like kiss her. It had an amazing power to cloud her mind, but she couldn’t afford to let it happen again. She’d managed to keep her own raging reactions under control, but it was a close call each time. Next time she might not make it.

  The lawyer beside her didn’t seem right either. She knew his suit was worth a small fortune, but the shoes didn’t match. They were too shiny, and the black and white patent clashed with the muted colors of the suit. His hair was badly cut—more for flash than for style, and the diamond ring on his pinky simply didn’t look Princeton to her. But times had changed, and there was no question that her family had been elitist snobs. Maybe large diamond pinky rings were more in vogue than she remembered.

  “Not far now,” the unlikely lawyer said, guiding her around a corner and down a poorly lit alley where the debris underfoot was even thicker. He smelled of expensive cologne, but it was a brand Jane particularly disliked. Sandy was following behind them, not close enough, and for a moment she regretted struggling with him. She’d rather have his hand under her elbow. His fingers wouldn’t be squeezing and stroking in a nasty, encroaching sort of way.

  The alley was a dead end. There was a brick wall in front of them, windowless, doorless buildings on either side, with garbage heaped around a decrepit looking dumpster. The lawyer released her, heading straight for the rusty dumpster, as Sandy came up behind her.

  “Second thoughts?” he inquired gently, the soft voice at odds with the punk appearance.

  Jane watched with deep misgivings as the side to the dumpster swung open, spilling forth light and noise into the alley way. She considered lying, but it would be a waste of breath. Already Sandy knew her far too well. “And third and fourth and fifth thoughts,” she said. “Do I really have to walk into a dumpster?”

  The sleazy-looking lawyer was beckoning them toward the narrow stairs inside the camouflage garbage container, and as Jane moved closer she noticed that every attempt at authenticity had been made. The metal bin stank of rotting garbage.

  “Too late to turn back now,” Sandy said, his hand replacing his lawyer’s on her befeathered elbow. And she’d been right—it was strong, comforting, the human warmth enabling her to duck her teased head and step into the narrow flight of stairs.

  She went down slowly, following the Armani suit, Sandy directly behind her. As the smell of garbage faded, another scent replaced it, one of expensive, musky perfumes and colognes, whiskey and humanity. Not the rank sweat of the subway, this was expensive, freshly washed sweat. When she reached the bottom of the steps she stopped, absorbing the feel of Sandy’s body as he bumped into her.

  It looked like an odd combination of Chinese brothel, upscale nightclub and Soho loft. The place was packed, though nowhere could Jane see anyone she’d particularly like to socialize with. Feathers, chains, leather and hardware abounded. Jane was instantly grateful Sandy had taken her glasses. She had the distinct feeling she wouldn’t care to see anyone here more closely, and she followed Caldicott blindly through the thick smoke and haze, her eyes downcast, as ordered.

  “Hey, Jimmy,” a man’s voice called out, and she could feel Sandy’s hand tighten reflexively on her elbow. She waited for him to respond, but Caldicott did it for him.

  “Where’s Jabba, Crystal?”

  “He expecting you?”

  “Would I be here if he wasn’t?”

 
“Who knows?” the husky, cheerful voice responded. “Maybe you’ve brought some fresh talent. Who’s your little feathered friend?”

  “Ask Jabba,” Caldicott replied cheerfully, as Jane bit back a tiny moan of sheer panic and claustrophobia.

  “You ask Jabba. He’s in the back. I’ll tell him you’re here.” Jane allowed herself a brief glance at their interrogator, and then wished she hadn’t. The voice had been basso profundo, the hair a Dolly Parton wig, the dress Ralph Lauren ruffles. She dropped her gaze to a thick pair of ankles and size twelve spike heels as they disappeared toward the back.

  “Great guy,” Caldicott said cheerfully. “Lucky we ran into him. I might have had a hell of a time finding Jabba.”

  “I thought this was prearranged,” Sandy said, and Jane turned to look back at him in surprise. Her easy-going partner in crime sounded downright dangerous, and Caldicott reacted with uncharacteristic nervousness.

  “It’s as prearranged as things get with Matteo. I explained what was going on,” Caldicott said uneasily. He had a prominent Adam’s apple above his silk knotted tie, and it was bobbing in agitation.

  “You’d better have,” Sandy said softly, his voice a very definite threat. He caught Jane’s fascinated gaze, and immediately smiled at her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She wet her lips, tasting the strawberry flavor of the purple-black lipstick. “I just suddenly realized how dangerous you could be,” she said, her voice faltering.

  He seemed equally as startled. “Only to low-lifes like him,” he said. “Never to you.”

  She managed a weak smile in the noise and smoke. “You call your lawyer a low-life? What does that make you?”

  His expression was instantly veiled. “An entrepreneur,” he said. “And your partner in crime, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t.” She was too nearsighted to tell if everyone was watching them, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that countless hostile eyes were following their every move. “Sandy,” she said, her voice low and beseeching, “I think I’m frightened.”