by Anne Stuart
Sandy stripped off his clothes and headed for the rusty shower stall. He should be delighted to get away from his self-imposed exile, to immerse himself in the luxurious surroundings that would be provided for him. The memory of Jane Dexter’s offer of employment would keep him going. Who knows, when he got back he’d probably find she needed a lawyer. Maybe he could offer his services.
Now if he had even an ounce of decency left in him, he would fight his way through the hordes of teenagers that crowded into the mall and meet Madame X long enough to tell her the truth. If he had any conscience at all he’d warn her against committing the felony of arson, or even conspiring to. They’d laugh over her misunderstanding, admit to the error of her ways, and he’d head off to Newark Airport in plenty of time to get his flight, secure in his own nobility.
He cursed as the hot water turned abruptly icy, and jumped out of the shower, banging his elbow and knee as he went. That’s what he’d do. He’d make the time to stop there and meet her, out of pure decency and love for his fellow man. And he’d do it because if he didn’t, he’d go absolutely crazy wondering why a conventional-looking creature like Ms. Jane Dexter wanted to commit arson. So much for noble motives.
The phone rang as he let himself out the door. He paused for a moment. Apart from Jimmy the Stoolie, only the chief legal clerk of MacDougal and Sullivan knew where he was. Right now he wasn’t interested in last-minute details, in the law, in anything at all but getting out of this motel. He’d check in with them once he got to the Canary Islands. In the meantime he was going to settle up his account and head for Quaker Bridge Mall and a woman of mystery. And he found himself whistling as he shut the door behind him.
Chapter Two
Sandy had to park half a mile away from the entrance to the sprawling structure of Quaker Bridge Mall. It was a Wednesday night, hardly peak time for shoppers and browsers, but it might as well have been the height of Christmas shopping instead of a balmy evening in mid-October. He cursed under his breath as he crossed the wide expanse of the parking lot. He’d have to remember to take this hike into account when he left Madame X. He didn’t want to miss his plane.
It took him even longer to thread his way through the crowds wandering aimlessly around the enclosed mall. He’d miscalculated where the steak house was, and had chosen the parking lot and entrance farthest away. Once he found the coy, Old English facade he had to wait again, shuffling through the cafeteria line like a bag lady, eyeing his purported strip sirloin with deep misgivings. He knew just what his librarian would be doing: munching politely on a salad, eating barely enough to keep a bird alive. While he, for the first time in months, was famished. It didn’t matter if it was strip loin of urban rat, he’d eat it, and the microwaved potato, and the limp salad, and the grease-soaked roll. It took him a while to find Jane in the crowded dining room, and he wondered for a moment whether she’d turned the tables and stood him up. Finally he spotted her over in a dark corner, hunched over her tray, and made his way across the room, only to stop in amazement and stare at her dinner.
He’d never seen so much food in his life. She had the Lumberjack Special, the largest steak the place offered, and it was covered with mushrooms, onions, and green peppers. She had a mound of limp french fries, a half-eaten roll, two desserts, and what looked like a small bathtub of some sort of soft drink. He sank down in the chair opposite her, placing his own more discreet tray on the table, and he wished he’d succumbed to the violently pink strawberry shortcake the place served. Maybe Jane would offer him some of hers.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked abruptly.
It was the second time he’d seen her blush. The first had been when he told her to sit on his bed. He didn’t realize women still blushed, particularly women over thirty.
“No, I’m not. Why do you ask?”
“Pregnant women eat a lot.”
“So do I,” she said defiantly.
“You don’t look like you do.”
She blushed again, and there was just the tiniest bit of a smile behind the wire-rimmed glasses. Not so plain Jane after all, he thought, biting into his greasy roll. “I thought maybe you wanted to torch the father,” he added lazily. “Seduced and abandoned and all that.”
The smile left her eyes. “He’s not the one I want you to torch.”
They ate in silence for a few moments. “You want to tell me who he is?” Sandy said finally.
“Who? The man who seduced and abandoned me or the man I want you to torch?” She managed to sound flippant through the strawberry shortcake that she showed no inclination to share.
“I hope you aren’t actually suggesting I set a person on fire,” he said plaintively. “I do buildings, not people, and I have an excellent safety record. No one’s ever been hurt in one of my fires, not even a fire fighter.” Now why was he repeating Jimmy’s words to her when he should be telling her the truth, making her see the error of her ways? But if he told her, she might very well get up and walk out, and he’d never know who she wanted to sabotage.
“It’s a building. A corporation, as a matter of fact.” She’d managed to eat everything on her tray and drain the gallon of soda besides, and Sandy looked at her with new respect.
“I’m listening.”
“Ever heard of Technocracies Limited?”
He had, but Jimmy the Stoolie wouldn’t. “Can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a research and development firm here in Princeton, run by a man named Stephen Tremaine. It’s run along simple enough lines—he provides the space and the funding for research scientists, and they come up with all sorts of things and split the patents. New kinds of baby formulas, new kinds of rocket boosters, new kinds of nail polish.”
“And?” he prompted as her recitation came to an abrupt halt.
“My brother worked for Tremaine. He developed a revolutionary process for coating tools and metal machine parts with titanium. It’s usually very expensive, but it makes the tools last practically forever. Richard figured out a way to do it cheaply.”
“Sounds innocuous enough.”
“It should have been. Richard, my brother, has always been intensely idealistic. If there’s been a cause he’s followed it. He’s spent more time in jail than you have, protesting the war in Vietnam, nuclear power, the exploitation of migrant farm workers, environmental polluters, everything. He had very strong principles.”
“Had?” Sandy prodded gently.
“He died a little over a month ago,” she said bleakly, pain still shadowing her eyes. “He was in a freak car crash in upstate New York. And now Tremaine’s planning to take his titanium coating process and sell it to the highest bidder. Do you know who the highest bidders are?”
“I can imagine.”
“It’ll either be the Defense Department of this country or one even worse. And that would betray everything Richard ever believed in. I can’t let Tremaine do it, I just can’t!”
“What did Tremaine say?”
“The same old garbage he’s always said.” Her voice was bitter. “That he understands my feelings in the matter but there’s nothing he can do about it. He insists Richard never signed a contract restricting the use of his inventions to peaceful applications. And he says as soon as things get settled he’ll take the best offer he can get.”
“Hold on a minute,” Sandy protested. “What things does he have to settle? I’d think it would be a fairly straightforward transaction.”
“I would have thought so, too. But something’s holding it up. He wanted access to Richard’s apartment, but of course I refused. Not that there’s anything useful in there, but I wasn’t about to give him anything.”
“Who’s Richard’s heir?”
“I am. Our parents are dead.”
“Then anything in his apartment should legally belong to you.”
She gave him an irritated look. “You’ve been hanging around your lawyer too long. I thought of that. Don’t you think I’ve checked into every possible leg
al alternative? Richard’s possessions belong to me, Richard’s work belongs to Technocracies. I have no legal claim on the formula.”
“If Richard did sign a contract stipulating his work was only to be used for peaceful purposes, wouldn’t there be a copy of it among his private papers?”
“I’ve searched through everything a dozen times. Richard wasn’t the most practical of men. He probably wrapped the garbage in it or something. Not that he was practical enough to even wrap his garbage.”
Sandy had long ago forgotten to look at his watch. “So what is it you want to torch?”
Jane took a deep breath. “Richard’s lab at Technocracies. I’d rather have no one use the formula than to have it get in the wrong hands, and I know Richard would agree with me. You’re good at that sort of thing, aren’t you? Minimizing the damage, making sure no one gets hurt.”
“It would be a waste of time. For one thing, the lab is on Tremaine’s home turf. Anything useful in the place would have been gotten out long ago. You’d just be destroying useless information.”
“You have any alternatives?”
“Of course,” he said, leaning back in the uncomfortable little chair. “We can find out what’s holding up the sale of the formula. It must be a damned good reason. There are rumors that Technocracies Limited is in financial trouble. Tremaine would want a fresh infusion of money as soon as he could get it. We might also be able to find a copy of your brother’s contract with the stipulation that his inventions be used for peaceful purposes.”
“I thought you’d never heard of Technocracies?”
Sandy didn’t even blink. “The name didn’t ring a bell until you started describing it. Er... my lawyer mentioned something about their troubles. If we can find out what’s holding up the sale we can turn it to our advantage.”
“You aren’t, by any chance, talking about blackmail?” She was carefully folding the crumpled paper napkin on her tray, refusing to meet his eyes, and he watched her hands, the short, well-shaped nails, long, graceful fingers, narrow palms. There was no sign of a wedding band, but he suspected that hadn’t always been the case.
“You think blackmail’s worse than arson?” Sandy countered. “We’d just use it to keep Tremaine from doing what he shouldn’t be doing. Of course we could always see if we could get something for our trouble on the side.”
“No!” She looked up then, her eyes intent. “I don’t want anything from Stephen Tremaine. I just want to keep the formula from falling into the wrong hands.”
“All right. There are legal ways of doing it, if you’re prepared to take a chance.”
“I’m not,” she said flatly. “Besides, what do you know about the law?”
Sandy grinned. “I’ve picked up some useful knowledge over the years. In my line of work you spend a fair amount of time with lawyers and judges.”
“I’ll bet.”
“No snotty cracks, Madame X,” Sandy warned. “Or I just may refuse to help you.”
“You’re going to help me? What’s in it for you?”
“Presumably whatever was in it for me to torch Technocracies Limited. You were planning on paying me, weren’t you? In my profession I don’t need to get too involved in pro bono work.”
She looked startled at his use of the technical, Latin term, and he cursed his slip of the tongue. If he wasn’t going to tell her the truth he’d better make sure she didn’t guess on her own. And to his surprise it didn’t seem as if he had any intention of telling her the truth.
“No,” she said slowly. “I suppose you don’t. Only lawyers and doctors have to worry about dedicating part of their working hours for the betterment of mankind without payment. I suppose it’s lawyers and doctors who have to worry about the tax breaks. Do you even pay taxes?”
“Not if I can help it. What’ve you got against lawyers? Apart from the fact that no one could help you with this problem.”
“What makes you think I’ve got anything against lawyers?”
“The way your nose wrinkles when you say the word, not to mention that subtly delightful curl of your upper lip,” Sandy said.
“I was married to one,” she said flatly.
“Not the one who seduced and abandoned you?”
“The same.”
“Well, at least he made an honest woman of you in the meantime.”
She just stared at him, her dark expression making it clear that the subject was closed. “How do you suggest we go about finding what’s going on at Technocracies?”
“My naturally devious turn of mind,” Sandy said. “I have all sorts of ideas.”
“Such as?” she prompted.
He glanced down at his watch. His plane was leaving Newark for the Canary Islands in twelve minutes. Considering that the airport was forty minutes away, he wasn’t going to make it. He looked across the Formica-topped table at his dinner partner. If he had any sense of decency at all he’d tell her who he was. She said she’d checked with lawyers, but clearly she hadn’t found one with any brains. There were all sorts of ways to deal with the likes of Stephen Tremaine, and Sandy or any one of his partners could probably put an abrupt halt to Tremaine’s machinations. A restraining order at the very least could keep any sale of technology tied up for years.
He should tell her who he really was, what he did for a living, and pass her on to one of his partners to deal with the matter while he arranged for a later flight. They could handle it all in an efficient, businesslike way, just as he could, and there’d be no need for subterfuge, deviousness, or excitement.
He opened his mouth, prepared to confess. “Such as,” he said, “infiltrating their ranks. A little industrial spying can go a long way if you have the knack for it.”
She was looking at him with a combination of awe and apprehension. “And you have the knack for it?”
“Hum a few bars and I can fake it,” he said cheerfully. “How are your secretarial skills? Do you think you could get a typing job?”
“Maybe. As long as I don’t run into Uncle Stephen.”
“Uncle Stephen? Have I missed something along the way?”
“Stephen Tremaine is my godfather,” she said gloomily. “Richard’s, too.”
“Nice guy,” Sandy said. “Scratch that idea. I never really liked it in the first place. I guess we’ll have to go directly to plan number two. That is, if you’re willing to put yourself in my hands.”
She looked daunted, and he wanted to reach over and pull those wire-rimmed glasses away from her doubting eyes. He kept his hands in his pockets, tipping back in the chair and watching the silent struggle that shadowed her face. “Of course, we could always try a more honest approach,” he added. “I could find you a lawyer, a better one than you’ve had before, and he might be able to put a spoke in Tremaine’s wheels. What it lacks in verve and imagination it makes up for in respectability.”
That word tipped the scales. “I’m sick and tired of being respectable,” Jane Dexter said. “I’m tired of being reasonable and seeing other people’s points of view and always doing the proper thing and not the right thing. My brother believed in certain things, and he suffered for those beliefs. I’m not going to allow Stephen Tremaine to destroy his legacy, and I don’t give a damn if I end up in jail. I’m going to do anything and everything I can to stop him, and if you won’t help me I’ll torch the building myself.”
Her words tumbled to a stop. She was breathing heavily, and Sandy noticed absently that there were breasts beneath that drab jacket. Nice ones, rising and falling rapidly in her agitation. Her eyes were sparkling with determination and anger, her mouth was soft and tremulous with emotion, and her hands were clenched around the napkin. And suddenly Sandy forgot about Beverly, forgot about leggy blondes and the Canary Islands.
“We won’t start with arson,” he said mildly enough, resisting the impulses that were sweeping through him, most of them indecent. “We’ll begin with breaking and entering.”
Jane Dexter looked panicked
. Startled, frightened, wary. And then she smiled, a wide, beautiful smile that reached her eyes and lit her face with a warm glow that was effectively destroying any defenses Alexander Caldicott had left. “I’m in your hands,” she said simply. And he hoped to God she meant it.
*
She was a fool, Jane thought as she headed through the crowded walkway, dodging teenagers and senior citizens and infants in strollers. What in heaven’s name had possessed her to follow a noted criminal into his motel room, set up an assignation, and then agree to commit a felony with him? She hadn’t agreed, she’d encouraged him. Practically demanded that he break the law. She had only herself to blame when she realized she was to be part and parcel of that criminal act.
She shouldn’t look at it that way, but a lifetime, almost thirty-one years, of careful consideration prevented her from doing otherwise. She’d always been cursed with the ability to see the other person’s point of view. She could sympathize with the migrant workers, but understand the boss’s problems. She could hate the war in Vietnam, but worry about the threat of communism. She could detest American involvement in Central America, but wonder about the freedom in the so-called democracies. She could dislike nuclear power but wonder about the alternatives.
She could even see her husband’s point of view when he left her. She couldn’t even be angry with him. Eminently reasonable as always, she simply gave him his divorce and let him walk out of her life.
But that fairness, that willingness to see the other side of a question, was degenerating into a wishy-washy inability to make a commitment. Just once in her life she had to change. She had to make a stand—it was all she could do for a brother she’d never really understood or been comfortable around. Idealists were hard to live with, and brilliant idealists were even worse. So while she’d loved Richard, as she’d loved their parents, she hadn’t liked him very much. All she could do now was respect his memory, and do this one last thing for him.
