Partners in Crime (Anne Stuart's Bad Boys Book 4) Page 13

  She slid her arms around his waist, his skin firm and hot to her touch. She tilted her head up, just slightly, waiting for his mouth to claim hers, for the demand that this time she’d respond to.

  His hands threaded through her wet hair, holding her still. She waited for his mouth, but he moved no closer. The tautness of his body told her he wanted her, but still he did nothing about it. Slowly, reluctantly she opened her eyes a crack.

  “No,” he said gently.

  Her eyes flew open the rest of the way. “No, what?”

  A small, self-deprecating grin lit his sexy mouth. The mouth she wanted on hers. “No, thank you.”

  She tried to pull away from him then, but he wasn’t about to let her go. “I think I’ve just about lost my sense of humor, Sandy,” she said in a raw voice. “Let me go.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Make up your damned mind!” she said desperately, struggling. It was a waste of energy.

  He took her shoulders and shook her, a hard, brief shake. “Listen to me, Jane. I could have you tonight, and you’re not so naive that you don’t know that’s exactly what I want, what I’ve been working for since the moment you walked in my door and asked me to commit arson for you. And I’m going to have you, sooner or later, and I hope for the sake of my sanity that it’s going to be sooner. But not tonight. Not when you’re tired and frightened and vulnerable, not when you’ve been through so much that you’d go to bed with anything that moved just to blot out the last few days. When we make love I want you to know what you’re doing, I want you to want me enough to trust me, to look at me, to know that it’s me you’re making love to and not some faceless soporific. Do you understand?”

  He still hadn’t released her. His long fingers were biting into her slender shoulders, and the tension running through him put her own anxiety to shame. His mind might have bought what he just said, his body was putting up a hell of a fight.

  Still, she’d had enough time to come to her senses. “What makes you so sure it’s going to happen? How do you know you aren’t blowing your one and only chance?”

  “Lady,” he said wearily, “I don’t sleep around. When I go to bed with someone I do it because she matters, not just to scratch an itch. And I expect my partner to feel the same way. If it’s not going to be that way, it’s not going to happen.”

  She stepped back, and this time he let her go. “The last thing I expected from you is a lecture on morals,” she said, but there was a faint resurgence of humor in her voice.

  “We all have to have some standards,” he said, running a weary hand through his wet hair.

  He was still impossibly beautiful. And she still wanted that lean, tough body pressed against hers through the long hours of the early morning. But she’d come to her senses, and next time she wouldn’t be so vulnerable.

  “So where do I sleep?”

  “Take your pick. The back bedroom is the quietest, the front one’s got the most comfortable bed.”

  “You’ve tried them all?”

  “I spend a lot of time here.”

  “How come Caldicott has such a huge apartment that he never uses?” she asked with her last ounce of curiosity.

  “It’s a condo he inherited from his parents. I guess it’s cheaper than a lot of studios.”

  “So he can afford to run a flop house for con men?” Jane asked.

  “If he wants to.”

  “Why would he want to?”

  “Why don’t you ask him next time you see him?”

  “Am I going to see him again?”

  “Jane,” he said wearily, “it is five-fifteen in the morning, and we’ve been through a hell of a night. Stop cross-examining me.”

  “Just trying to keep you in practice in case we get caught. You sure you won’t change your mind?” She was teasing now, in control and marvelously self-assured. He wanted her, he wanted her as much as she wanted him, and yet she was deliciously safe.

  “Go to bed, Jane,” he growled. “I can always change my mind.”

  It was tempting, but she’d gotten her second wind. “I’ll take the quiet back bedroom. See you in about six hours.”

  “Eight.”

  “Six. We have to get to the Jersey shore before dark.”

  “Six,” he groaned. “I should have left you with Jabba.”

  There were sheets on the narrow bed in the back bedroom. The room was plain and austere—she could see the darker patches on the wallpaper where pictures had once hung. Children’s books were piled in haphazard rows in the lateral bookcases, an old orange-and-black Princeton pennant still decorated one wall, and the musty smell was heavy in the air. It took all her strength to pry open the window to let in the cool morning air, and then she dragged her weary body to the little bed and tumbled in. When she woke up she’d think about Richard, about Stephen Tremaine and his nasty double dealings. When she woke up she’d think about Sandy and what in the world she was going to do about her overwhelming attraction to him. For now all she needed was sleep.

  *

  Sandy leaned against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a close call. Granted, she’d been in the shower almost half an hour, but the apartment in which he’d been raised was littered with family memorabilia, including silver-framed photographs in almost every room. He’d raced from one end of the apartment to the other, shoving pictures in drawers, under beds, between mattresses. If he’d had any sense at all he would have taken her up on her half offer, carried her to bed and made sure her brain was no longer working well enough to notice anything.

  But he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t take advantage of her fear and exhaustion, he couldn’t take advantage of the wanting he knew burned beneath her strong defenses, not when those defenses were down. And he couldn’t make love to her when he was busy living a lie.

  When it came right down to it she might very well be right—it might have been his only chance. But maybe, just maybe, when the manure hit the fan, she’d remember and give him credit for his self-control and forbearance. Or maybe she’d be too mad to think.

  He needed a decent night’s sleep. He needed to sit Jane down and tell her the truth, no excuses, no more lies, just the facts, ma’am. And while he was at it, he ought to call in the theft of his beloved car. For some reason the recalcitrant MGB had lost its importance in his life. While he regretted its loss, he knew it wasn’t a sensible car for a married man.

  What the hell was he thinking of? He must be getting punchy. Too little sleep, too much excitement. What he needed was eight hours of solid sleep in his own bed. Jane was only going to allow him six, and that would have to do. Maybe once he told her the truth she’d leave him to sleep forever.

  He was sorely tempted to tiptoe down the hallway and check on her. He wanted to watch her sleep, her defenses gone, her face absurdly young and vulnerable. He wanted to take the chance that she might still be awake, that he could forget his peripatetic principles and join her in his narrow boy’s bed.

  He’d already taken one shower. Maybe another cold one would put a halt to the temptation. Why, he asked himself, did he have to be so damned noble?

  *

  She slept fitfully in the strange bed, and her dreams were bizarre, confused ones, laden with doomed sexuality, pervaded with longing and despair. No one was as he seemed. Jabba kept metamorphosing into his Star Wars counterpart, Sandy and the sleazy Caldicott kept changing persona. Stephen Tremaine wandered in and out of her life, and sometimes he was her father, sometimes himself, always disapproving.

  She herself was the most confused, alternating between martyr and avenger, virgin and whore, victim and criminal, until she woke up covered with a cold sweat, blind and terrified.

  There was no clock in the room, and Sandy had confiscated her watch along with her glasses. She had no idea what time it was, no idea where Sandy was. All she knew was that she had to find him, had to find the peace and comfort only he could give her. It didn’t matter that he’d tu
rned down her tentative offer once—he’d regretted his nobility the moment he gave in to it, and it would take nothing, a glance, a smile, to have him banish his finer instincts.

  She didn’t care whether it was right or wrong. She didn’t care whether she was making the worst mistake of her life. She needed someone, she needed Sandy, and his past no longer mattered. He couldn’t have committed any more foolish mistakes than she had in marrying Frank and then relinquishing him so easily.

  He’d taken the middle bedroom, but the queen-size bed was empty, the sheets pulled apart, the pillows tossed here and there. She could hear the sound of the shower in the background, and leaning over, she squinted at the digital clock. Nine-thirty—she’d slept a grand total of four hours.

  She wondered if Sandy was taking a cold shower. If he was it would be a complete waste. She considered stripping off the black sweat suit and climbing naked into his bed, but she didn’t quite have the nerve. Instead, she kept her clothes on, climbed into the bed and pulled the navy-blue sheets around her, awaiting his return.

  He was a long time in the shower. She sat there, her nerves getting the better of her, waiting for him. She reached for a magazine from the pile stacked beside the bed. Princeton Alumni Weekly, she noticed. What scintillating reading material. She was about to toss it down when she noticed the photograph on the cover. There stood Sandy, surrounded by three very Princetonian looking gentlemen, and her curiosity was aroused. Why would Sandy be posing for the Princeton Alumni Weekly with a bunch of yuppies?

  The caption was mistaken, of course, but then, captions often got screwed up. The men on the cover were identified as Gregory MacDougal, ‘73, Elroy “Max” Sullivan, ‘72, Alexander “Sandy” Caldicott, ‘75, and Jonathan Cohen, ‘77. All partners in the law firm of MacDougal and Sullivan.

  She stared at the caption for a long moment, then turned back to the picture. Sandy was wearing the Armani suit she’d seen destroyed the night before.

  It wasn’t a conscious realization, a mental leap, but more like a sudden clearing in her previously befogged brain. The knowledge was surrounding her like a cold, nasty blanket of truth, and for countless moments she sat in his bed and shook.

  He’d left his wallet on the dresser. The picture on his driver’s license wasn’t flattering, but it was definitely Sandy. The top drawer was jumbled with old photographs of Sandy and a family that looked exactly like him. Pictures of Sandy at Princeton, pictures of Sandy skiing. All the evidence of an elitist life spent far from the bowels of New York and a life of arson and petty crime.

  She started hunting for a blunt instrument. Her rage was so total, so overwhelming, that violence came immediately to mind. Never mind her pacifist ideas: right now her fury was so strong that she was ready to kill.

  But Alexander “Sandy” Caldicott was still locked safely in the shower. Fond thoughts of Psycho danced through her brain, but she dismissed them as calm slowly, painstakingly returned. He’d made a complete and utter fool of her. Like it or not, she was too civilized to kill him. She’d have to settle for revenge.

  She stood there in the doorway to his bedroom, a cold, evil calm settling over her, as she listened to the shower end. She waited, prepared, as he stepped into the room, knotting a towel around his waist.

  He didn’t see her at first. When he did he jumped, startled, and then flashed that beautiful, ingratiating grin. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, coming toward her. “Must be the strange bed.”

  “Must be,” she said gently, ignoring his beautiful body that was still glistening from the shower.

  “Are you all right?” He bent down, looking into her distant face, his wonderful gray eyes worried.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m just anxious to get to Bay Head.”

  He smiled at her, his head ducked down, and she knew he was going to kiss her again. She considered letting him, but at the last moment she chickened out, backing away from him before his mouth could brush hers. If he actually touched her she might forget her noble resolve and strangle him with her bare hands.

  “Can we get coffee on the road?” she murmured.

  He looked at her for a long, puzzled moment. “Sure,” he said finally. “It’ll take me a few moments to get dressed. Think you can wait that long?”

  “Oh, I’m very patient when I know what I want,” Jane said evenly, visions of Sandy’s head on a platter dancing in front of her eyes. “Take your time.”

  And Sandy, an uneasy light in his eyes, was ready to go in three minutes flat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sandy didn’t know how he was going to explain his sudden acquisition of a late-model Audi from the basement garage, but for once Jane wasn’t asking any questions. She still had that pinched, peculiar expression on her face, she wouldn’t meet his eyes, and the tension vibrating through her slender body was so intense he found his own fists clenching in sympathetic response.

  It was an Indian summer Sunday in New York, beautiful, and the city was practically empty. He drove through the park on the way to the tunnel, hungry for a taste of cool green after the heat and squalor of the night before. He’d been hoping to talk Jane into a leisurely brunch at one of his favorite restaurants, but one look at her averted profile and he had abandoned the idea. It was just as well—he was known by name at most places, and he’d already been pushing his luck by taking her home to his apartment.

  He was used to thinking on his feet in court, and his experience had served him well when he’d come face-to-face with Hans the elevator operator who’d known him since adolescence. But Jane was a smart lady—it had been sheer luck that she hadn’t tumbled onto all the amazing coincidences so far.

  It was more than luck. He knew from observing human nature in and out of the courtroom that people saw what they expected to see. Once Jane got it into her head that he was Jimmy the Stoolie it would take a great deal to convince her of anything different. If he were reasonably circumspect he’d be safe.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” he said as he headed the Audi into the Lincoln Tunnel.

  Jane turned slowly to look at him, her eyes unreadable behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “You wouldn’t want to know them,” she said.

  “That bad, eh? I’m glad I’m not Stephen Tremaine. I wouldn’t care to have your fury directed at me.”

  Her smile was cool. “Oh, I’m very rational and civilized. I’m not one to let my emotions overwhelm me.”

  “And if we find that Stephen Tremaine actually did have your brother killed, what then? Won’t your emotions get the better of you? Won’t you want your revenge?”

  “First things, first,” she said, continuing before he could ask her to explain that enigmatic statement. “I haven’t been to the Jersey shore in years “

  “I don’t think it’s changed much. It was already built up as much as it could be, and the real estate is worth so much that when things start disintegrating new money comes in and buys the old places up. How come your brother owns a place in Bay Head and you don’t? A research scientist, even one at the top of Tremaine’s payroll, wouldn’t make enough to buy one.”

  “Especially not one like Richard’s,” she said, her voice losing some of its tight, strained quality. “It was left to him by an eccentric bachelor uncle. One who hated women. He hadn’t been in the place in decades, but he’d had it kept up, and when he died he left it to the one relative who least wanted it. Typical of Uncle Oscar.”

  “What did Richard do with it?”

  “Not much. I gather he’d come down weekends occasionally, when Princeton got too crowded. In fact he came down here the weekend before he died. I hadn’t thought it made any difference, but if it really wasn’t an accident...” She shuddered, her hands pleating and repleating the khaki shirt Sandy had found in a back closet for her. “I was going to come down here sooner or later, but I knew he’d never cared much for the place so I couldn’t believe he would have had his private laboratory here. Maybe I was wrong.”

  “What are
you going to do with the place?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You inherited it, didn’t you? Are you going to sell it?”

  “Why?” Jane inquired sweetly. “Were you interested in buying it?”

  “I don’t make that kind of money with my penny ante schemes.”

  “Maybe Alexander Caldicott would buy it for you. He seems to be bankrolling everything as it is.”

  She was looking out into the early-afternoon traffic, so he couldn’t see her expression, but her tone of voice had been downright caustic. She couldn’t have found out... No, it was impossible. Jane wasn’t the kind to take that information quietly. If she found out he’d been lying to her she’d be more likely to rant and rave. Wouldn’t she?

  “Don’t you like Alexander?” he probed gently.

  She turned then, her brown eyes limpid and innocent, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Jane wasn’t that practiced a dissembler. “Of course I do,” she said. “He keeps you out of jail, doesn’t he?”

  “Does that matter to you? Whether I’m in jail or not?”

  “I wouldn’t get very far in my life of crime without an experienced crook like you, now would I?”

  Something was definitely wrong. Maybe it was as simple as a delayed reaction to last night, or distress about her brother, or concern about the time it was taking to get to the bottom of it. One look at her delicious, thoroughly stubborn lower lip and he knew he wouldn’t find out anything more until she was good and ready to tell him.

  “I guess not,” he said.

  Without another word she flicked on the radio, tuned it to Bruce Springsteen, and turned up the volume loud enough to preclude conversation, as they headed toward the New Jersey Turnpike.

  *

  The man beside her was right, the Jersey shore hadn’t changed much in the last fifteen or so years. In this transitional off-season, the streets, while not deserted, were more reasonably populated, and there were no signs of urban decay as there were in the inland cities.