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

  “Of course I did.” He rose to his full length, towering over her, hoping it was too dark for her to notice his astonishment. “Of course it took me a little longer than usual.”

  “I’ll start with the receptionist’s desk,” she cut in. “Why don’t you check out Uncle Stephen’s office?”

  The moment he saw the bank of teak filing cabinets he knew why she’d given him the good part. He had no hope whatsoever that the files were unlocked, and one desultory little yank proved him correct. Jane Dexter probably expected him to use his much-abused American Express card on each one of those file cabinets, something he wasn’t about to do. It had been dumb luck the first time. He had no faith at all in his ability to repeat that particular miracle.

  He didn’t have to. Tremaine hadn’t locked his desk, and sitting in the top drawer was a small gold key ring. The man was either innocent of wrongdoing, or supremely self-confident. From what little Sandy had heard of Stephen Tremaine, he had a very good notion it was the latter.

  He was halfway through the files when Jane joined him. She sat cross-legged on the floor, leafing through the folder he’d handed her, her head bent like a studious little girl. She must have felt his eyes on her, for she looked up, directly into his face.

  “You’re awfully good at this sort of thing,” she said. “The files were locked, weren’t they?”

  “Yes.” He felt no need to enlighten her further. Better to have her think he was almost omnipotent. “It all comes with practice,” he added modestly.

  “You know, you just don’t look the type.” She closed the folder and reached for another one.

  “What type?”

  “Oh, you know. Hardened criminal and all that.”

  He considered making a crude joke, but resisted the impulse. While he might consider the past few hours in the nature of an adventure, Jane Dexter took it much more seriously. “We’ve already agreed,” he said solemnly, “looks can be deceiving. You, for instance, look like a very conventional middle American. Instead, beneath that mild exterior hides the heart of an adventuress.”

  “Beneath my mild exterior hides a panic-stricken woman,” she said tartly. “We’re getting nowhere. There isn’t even any mention of Richard’s name in the personnel files. No contracts, no insurance packages, nothing.”

  Sandy nodded. “You’re right. Which in itself is a sign we’re on the right track. There should be some trace of your brother, some mention. How long did he work here?”

  “Seven and a half years.”

  “Someone has carefully expunged all trace of him from the records. The only way to get his files will be through the computer.” He eyed the silent screened monolith in the outer room with deep misgivings. “I don’t suppose it would hurt to check. We don’t have much time left. I’ll clean up in here and you can see what the computer has to offer.”

  “See what the computer has to offer?” she echoed. “I don’t know a thing about computers.”

  “Why not? I thought you read a lot.”

  “Not about computers, if I can possibly help it. I’ll clean up and you try the computer.”

  Sandy sighed. “It would be a waste of time. I don’t know anything about computers, either.”

  She just looked at him for a long moment. And then to his surprise she laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle at complete odds with her prim exterior. “We make pretty inept spies.”

  “But I’m hell on wheels at breaking and entering.”

  “You’re hell on wheels at finding keys,” she corrected. “Better put Uncle Stephen’s back in his drawer.”

  She didn’t miss much, he had to grant her that. For a moment he wondered how long it would take her to realize the newspaper made a mistake, that she wasn’t consorting with a dangerous felon but a mild-mannered lawyer. And what would her reaction be when she did find out? He thought he might prefer the Dobermans.

  “We’d better get out of here,” he said suddenly, remembering. “It’s ten of one, and those guys might be early.”

  Together they slammed the teak file drawers shut. Sandy almost forgot to relock the outer office, but Jane reminded him, and then they were racing down the hallway, their sneakered feet silent on the heavy carpeting. He didn’t know whether the sound, of traffic from 206 had gotten louder, or whether it was his own over-stimulated heart roaring like that. The heavy glass door clicked shut behind them, and they were outside in the damp night air.

  Headlights split the darkness as someone pulled into the parking lot, and he grabbed Jane’s hand, pulling her along, panic and adrenaline rushing through him. She went with him, her gloved hand tight in his, and moments later they were off the property, heading toward the highway. The streetlights were bright, too bright, illuminating their figures, and Sandy could hear the slam of car doors, the muffled growl of ferocious canines as the two of them slid down the embankment, landing in a tangle of limbs.

  They’d been seen. A flashlight shone in their direction, more like a spotlight, and a rough voice called out. “Hey, what are you two doing down there?”

  Sandy didn’t have much choice in the matter. The dogs were coming closer, the strong beams from the spotlight circling over their heads. He ripped off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket, noting with approval that Jane had done the same thing without having to be told.

  A dog snarled. A tightly leashed dog, Sandy devoutly hoped. A few more feet and they’d be seen. He looked at Jane’s panicked expression and did the only thing he could think of. Yanking her onto his lap, he shoved one hand down her sweater and set his mouth on hers.

  Chapter Four

  It was the last thing Jane expected. Her heart was pounding wildly, her breath coming in tortured gasps, terror and a twisted sort of excitement were racing through her body. The feel of his hand on her breast, even through the lacy bra, shocked and aroused her. His mouth was on hers, wet, hot, seeking, his tongue and lips taking complete, unquestioning control of her and overwhelming any ounce of restraint she might have had. Too many emotions were batting at her, too much adrenaline, too much stimulation. She snaked her arms around his neck, pressed her breast against his hand and kissed him back, wanting nothing more than his mouth on hers, that desperate, erotic claiming that was shaking her to the very marrow of her bones.

  Dimly she heard the dogs barking. Lights were flashing over her head, and for a moment she thought it was the force of his kiss making her see stars. Then she thought it was lack of oxygen causing the lights to go on in her brain. He tore his mouth away, gasping for breath, and she realized those celestial lights were flashlight beams.

  “Helluva place to bring a lady, buddy,” a voice called from above them. Her companion was looking at her, eyes glittering in the artificial light, and his breath was coming as rapidly as hers. Then he turned his head toward the intrusive beam of light.

  “What can I say? We were out jogging when we decided to...er...take a little break. You wanna turn those lights off?” His voice was disgruntled, a man interrupted in the throes of passion.

  “Better pick someplace else, pal,” another voice said, less amused. “This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”

  Slowly the man beside her uncoiled his body and rose, shielding her from the light. “We’ll do that. Sorry to bother you.”

  “No trouble. Just be glad I didn’t unleash the dogs.” An exuberant snarl punctuated that flat statement, and Jane shivered.

  Jimmy the Stoolie was playing his part to the hilt. He put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her trembling body against his, and started down toward the road. She could feel the inquisitive, unsympathetic eyes following them, and she shivered in the warm night air.

  “Do you think we fooled them?” she whispered under the noise of the traffic.

  “Probably.” They were back at the car by then, and he released her, too quickly, the action reminding Jane it had all been part of a very efficient charade. “You’re quick,” he said, his voice approving. “For a moment I th
ought you were going to hit me.”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” she lied. Hitting him had been the last thing she’d contemplated. “All in a day’s work.”

  They drove back out to Route One in silence. It was well past one in the morning, and traffic had thinned to a muffled roar. Jane’s heart had slowed to a dull, steady throb, her hands were dry, her stomach in knots. She glanced over at her companion. Jimmy the Stoolie seemed lost in thought, his gray eyes intent on the driving, his strong hands gripping the leather-covered steering wheel loosely. One of those hands had cupped her breast. That practiced deftness must have been pure instinct on his part. He couldn’t have consciously caught the tiny bud of her nipple and teased it into swollen arousal with attack dogs and armed guards looming overhead. An accident of nature, Jane decided, sinking gloomily in the seat.

  “What next?” he asked as he pulled in front of her peeling motel-room door.

  Tension shot through her body. “What do you mean?” She couldn’t deny the pseudo embrace in the ditch beside 206 had aroused her, but she certainly wasn’t about to jump into bed with a professional arsonist and con man. Particularly when she’d known him for less than twelve hours.

  Again that slow smile, as if he read her mind. “What do we do tomorrow? Unless you’re ready to call it quits.”

  “I’m not. Even if tonight was a total washout that doesn’t mean there aren’t other possibilities.”

  “I wouldn’t say tonight was a complete failure. The fact that your brother’s personnel file was missing suggests there’s something going on...”

  “I told you something’s going on.”

  “So you did. But one has to consider all the possibilities. And you might have been racked with paranoid delusions due to unresolved grief over your brother’s untimely death.”

  “Do you hang out with a lot of pop psychologists along with lawyers?” she questioned sweetly.

  To her surprise he flushed. “Just worth considering,” he said. “You’re still determined to go through with this?”

  “Still determined. With you or without you. Are we going to torch the place?”

  “No, we’re not going to torch the place,” he said wearily. “Violent little creature, aren’t you? I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  “Such as?”

  “Leave it to me,” he said mysteriously. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow morning and we’ll make our plans.”

  She was being dismissed. She breathed a sigh of relief, but felt disappointed that she wouldn’t have to fight him off. She hadn’t really expected to, but after the tangle in the ditch she couldn’t help her mind from considering such things.

  It was a waste of time. People who looked like her companion were never interested in plain Janes, and people who lived as she did weren’t interested in compromising themselves with professional criminals. They were nothing more than partners in crime, and unless they ran across more Dobermans and armed guards he wouldn’t have to touch her again.

  He reached over and caught her willful chin, his long fingers cool against her heated flesh. “Earth to Jane, come in please,” he murmured.

  “Sorry, I was distracted.” She was still distracted, by the look, the scent, the heat, the touch of the man beside her. She pulled back, and his hand dropped too readily. “Tomorrow,” she said, climbing out of the car and locking it behind her.

  He was coming with her. She couldn’t read his expression in the artificial light, wasn’t sure she even wanted to. “There’s no need to see me to the door,” she said hastily.

  “I’m not. I’ve got the room next door.”

  The darkness covered her embarrassment quite nicely. “Since when?”

  “Since this evening. I’d already checked out when you came up with your charming proposition. When I reregistered I had them move my room. I thought it might come in handy.”

  I ’ll just bet you did, Jane thought, then wiped out the fantasy. Why in the world was she so paranoid about the man’s intentions? He’d said and done nothing to suggest he had any physical interest in her. For all she knew he might even be gay. No, scratch that. The man standing tall and straight in the lamplight was definitely, distressingly heterosexual. And even if her instincts told her he wanted her, her intellect assured her that fantasy was nothing more than wishful thinking on her part.

  “Tomorrow, then.” Her voice was steady, showing none of the tangled thoughts racing around in her weary brain.

  “Tomorrow,” he agreed, standing by his door as she fumbled for her key in her back pocket.

  He waited until her door closed behind her, waited until he heard the distinctive sound of bolts being shot into place. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, opening the peeling green door that was a twin to Jane’s. “How do I get myself into these things?”

  Of course the answer to that, he thought, pouring himself a generous shot of Scotch and dropping down on the bed, was that he didn’t. This was the first time he’d ever gotten involved in a situation rife with such lies and complexity that it simply boggled his mind.

  He’d had more than a few bad moments that night, starting with the locked file cabinets and ending with her crack about pop psychologists. That was exactly what Beverly did for a living, and her conversation was dotted with phrases like “meaningful relationships” and “getting in touch with yourself.” He’d always been revolted by her psycho-babble, and then to find he was doing it himself...

  He drained the whiskey, stretching out on the lumpy mattress that was even worse than the one in his previous room. He considered turning on the TV—Princeton was in range of both New York and Philadelphia and even without cable there was always something on. The Princeton Pike Sleep-a-While Motel’s only cable channel was an x-rated one. Clearly the place was misnamed—here people didn’t usually rent rooms just to sleep.

  Dirty movies were the last thing Sandy needed. He could still feel Jane’s light, strong body beneath his, taste the surprising enthusiasm of her soft mouth. He was beginning to think he’d been mistaken in chasing after Amazons for all these years. He was rapidly growing partial to small brunettes, a Jane who wasn’t very plain after all.

  He cursed out loud, a nice, rounded obscenity he’d picked up from a teenage nephew, and was about to say it again when he heard a rapping on his wall.

  “Is something wrong?” Jane’s voice was muffled but unmistakable. He wondered what she was wearing, and he groaned.

  “It’s nothing.” He sounded admirably calm. “I just stubbed my toe.”

  “Oh. Good night, then. Pleasant dreams.”

  Pleasant dreams, he thought cynically. Who would be innocent enough to wish a stranger pleasant dreams? Only a Midwestern librarian who was totally ignorant of how she affected him. He was going to have dreams, all right. He was going to dream about that slender, warm body of hers wrapped around his, he was going to dream about that soft, lovely mouth and those surprisingly generous breasts of hers. And he was going to have nightmares about what she was going to say when she found out who he really was.

  He turned over on his stomach, shoved his face into the foam pillow that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and moaned. It was going to be a long night.

  *

  It was ten thirty-five in the morning when Jane finally surfaced. She blinked sleepily at her watch, then sat bolt upright, jumped from the bed and raced to the window. Pushing the sickly green curtains out of the way, she saw in relief that the MGB was still in place. He hadn’t taken off in the middle of night, never to be heard from again.

  Not that it wouldn’t have been a good thing, she thought as she rushed through her shower. If Jimmy the Stoolie were gone she’d be on her own, and sooner or later she’d have to give up in defeat. With a professional by her side the possibilities were endless, and so were the risks.

  She had her morning ablutions down to a science, one that usually lasted seven and a half minutes. Today, in a hurry, it took her twelve, making sure the minimal mas
cara and liner were just right, even bothering with a slash of tinted lip gloss and a pinch of color on her pale cheeks. She braided her wet hair, tossing it over her shoulder, and grimaced at her reflection. She wasn’t doing it for him, she reminded herself. The opinion of her partner in crime meant absolutely nothing to her. No, she did it for her own flagging sense of self-esteem.

  By five of eleven there was still no sound from next door, no knock on her door, no jangling telephone. She considered her options. She could bang on the wall, but that seemed a little intimate. She wouldn’t have done it last night, but that curse floating through the thin walls had a desperate edge to it, and she’d been afraid he’d hurt himself.

  She could walk out into the bright sunlight and knock on his door. But what if he were still asleep? She didn’t fancy having him stagger to the door in rumpled pajamas, or even less.

  She picked up the phone and dialed the desk. For a moment her mind went blank, forgetting his last name. She could hardly ask the bored-sounding clerk for the room of Jimmy the Stoolie, could she?

  Calvin, that was it. Jimmy Calvin.

  “No one by that name,” the gum-popping voice replied, and the phone slammed down.

  Jane counted to ten, dialed 0 once more, and said in her sweetest voice, “I know he’s registered. He’s in the room next to me.”

  “Then why don’t you go and knock on his door?” Slam.

  Jane counted to fifteen, dialed 0 and said, “Because I don’t want to disturb him. Could you please ring his room for me?”

  There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line, accompanied by a loud snapping of gum. “There’s no one in 4-A, and the man in 6-A isn’t James Calvin. He’s registered as Alexander Caldicott.”

  *

  Someone was chasing after him, someone with a huge mallet, twice the size of an average man, and that person was slamming the mallet down on the ground, causing a major earthquake. It was Yosemite Sam, his red handlebar mustache bristling, shouting and cursing as he slammed the mallet down and the entire landscape hopped. It didn’t hop as fast as he did, and he realized without much enthusiasm that he was Bugs Bunny.