by Anne Stuart
“And you’re exceedingly fresh. Move your leg.”
He didn’t. He looked at her for a long, thoughtful moment. She didn’t blink, though he could tell she wanted to, she didn’t fiddle with her blouse, though he knew she wished to hell she’d rebuttoned it. She just looked into his eyes with an I-dare-you kind of glare, and Sandy Caldicott couldn’t resist a dare.
He shifted, smoothly, gracefully, so quickly that she didn’t have time to squirm away. In seconds she was sprawled on the bed, beneath him.
“I didn’t know you numbered rape and assault among your crimes,” she said through gritted teeth. His face was inches away from hers, and behind the wire-rimmed glasses her dark brown eyes were blazingly angry and not the slightest bit frightened.
“I’m not going to rape or assault you,” he said in his most reasonable voice. “I’m just going to kiss you.”
“I don’t want to be kissed.”
He was holding her hands down, his hips were pinning hers, and her breasts were pushing against him. “Tough. I deserve something for combat pay. Not to mention the pizza.” And he dropped his mouth down on hers.
She tried to jerk away, but he let go of her hands and caught her jaw, holding it in place for a long, leisurely kiss. He could feel her hard little fists pounding at him, but he ignored them, lost in the sweetness of her lips. She bounced her hips, trying to throw him off, but it only aroused him more. And for all her fight, for all the anger in her hands, her mouth was soft, pliant, and opening to him.
She was no longer beating at him. Her arms had slid around his neck, her tongue had reached out to touch his, and her body was softening beneath him as his was getting harder and harder. She made a little noise in the back of her throat, half a moan, half a whimper, and he wanted to hear more. He wanted to hear her crying against him, wanted to feel that surprisingly lush body wrapped around his, he wanted to turn off the lights and shut out the depressing little motel and lose himself in Jane Dexter’s wonderful body.
He paused for breath, lifting his head to look down at her through passion-glazed eyes. She lay there, panting, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses, her eyes closed behind the glasses. Beneath the closed lids, hot tears were pouring down her face.
Sandy jumped away as if he were burned, cursing loudly and profanely as guilt swamped him. “For God’s sake, Jane, it was only a kiss!”
She opened her eyes and to his disgust and amazement she grinned at him. “Neat trick, eh?” She pulled herself to a sitting position, rebuttoned her blouse almost to her neck, and stood up, keeping well out of his reach. “It’s my one accomplishment. I can cry any time I want to.”
He just stared at her. No longer did he have any desire to push her back on the bed. There was nothing he hated more than tears—like most people he couldn’t deal with them, could do nothing but feel guilty. He felt tricked on the most fundamental level, and his temper was fraying around the edges.
“I’d be more than happy to give you something to cry about,” he snarled.
“You would.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You would give me something to cry about,” she said calmly, moving over to the wavery mirror and wiping the tears off her cheeks. “You’d give me nothing but trouble and misery, and I’m not about to let myself in for it. I’ve had enough misery in the past couple of years to last me for a long time, and I’m not going to make any more mistakes when it comes to men.”
“And I’d be a mistake?”
She met his eyes in the mirror. “The biggest,” she said, sighing. “So we’ll keep this as a business partnership, all right? I’m sure you can find someone who’s more your style. Some leggy blonde who’s not into commitment.”
“They’re all into commitment,” he said gloomily, ignoring the little shock he’d felt at her words. How did she know he liked leggy blondes? Hell, who wouldn’t? Except right now he had no interest in leggy blondes whatsoever. He was only interested in petite, bespectacled ladies with rumpled brown hair and tears still glistening in their eyes.
Crocodile tears, he reminded himself. “I think,” he said, “I’ve had enough for one day. I’m going to bed.”
“Good night.” She was cool and unmoved, watching him as he headed for the door.
Sandy considered sulking. He considered slamming the door, he considered telling her what he thought of her phony tears. And then his sense of humor surfaced. “It’s not going to work,” he said, opening the door and standing there in the cool night air.
“What isn’t?”
“You’re not going to be able to keep from making mistakes.”
“I can try.”
“Yes, you can. But it won’t do you any good. And next time I kiss you I won’t mind if you’re awash in tears.”
She glared at him. “There won’t be a next time.”
“Oh, yes, there will.” He shut the door behind him, stepping out into the night. And through the thin walls he heard her voice.
“Yes, there will,” she said out loud. And Sandy, his good humor totally restored, headed back to his own room.
Richard’s apartment didn’t look any different from the last time Jane had been there, three days ago. The boxes she’d packed were still neatly stacked in the hallway, the curtains were drawn, everything exactly where she’d left it. She stepped into the musty smelling apartment, waited until Sandy closed the door behind them, and announced, “Someone’s been here.”
“How do you know?” He wandered past her into the boring, box-shaped apartment. “Is anything missing?”
They’d gotten along fine, eating breakfast together and being very careful not to touch each other. Now, alone in the closed-up apartment, Jane was remembering the night before, the brief, overwhelming moments on that concave mattress, the feel of his body on hers, the lean muscle and sinew and bone that had felt unbearably delectable covering hers.
Quickly she wiped out that thought. If Sandy remembered she’d seen no sign of it—his temper had been cheerfully unimpaired that morning. Maybe he’d gone out and found a leggy blonde. No, she would have heard it. The walls were paper thin between their rooms.
But those few moments on her bed were probably more commonplace to someone like... like whatever name he chose to use at the moment. While for her they were a shattering revelation.
“Jane?” Sandy prodded.
“I can’t tell. I just get this feeling that someone’s been snooping around.”
Sandy shrugged. “Either you’re as paranoid as your brother was or Tremaine’s detectives have been both efficient and unscrupulous. Your guess is as good as mine.” He crossed the dull beige wall-to-wall carpeting and peered behind the curtain into the parking lot below. “When were you last here?”
“Three days ago. Plenty of time for someone to come in and search the place.” She stared at the neatly piled boxes with a sense of oppression. She’d spent days packing everything away. She could only hope Sandy wasn’t about to suggest they unpack everything.
Apparently Sandy had something else in mind. “Well, if someone broke in while you were gone they didn’t find what they were looking for.”
“What makes you say that?”
He let the curtain drop and turned to face her. “Because Stephen Tremaine and two suspicious-looking characters just drove up. And unless I miss my guess, they’re heading up here to give the place one more look.”
“We’ve got to hide.”
“No, we don’t. You have every right and reason to be here. I, on the other hand, ought to make myself scarce. I’ll be in the bedroom while you get rid of them.”
“But what do you expect me to do? Sit here and twiddle my thumbs while they break in?” she demanded, both frightened and furious.
“If they have any experience at all they’ll ring the doorbell,” he said calmly. “That’s the first rule of ‘B and E.’ Make sure the place is deserted. All you have to do is answer the door and send them on their way.”
&n
bsp; “And if they won’t go?”
He grinned, that disarming, golden-boy grin that didn’t belong to someone known as Jimmy the Stoolie. “We’ll deal with that when we get to it.” Right on cue, the doorbell rang, and Jane jumped.
“Get the door, Madame X,” he prompted, disappearing into the bedroom. “Time for Act Two.”
Chapter Seven
Jane stood in front of the door, wiping her damp palms on her khaki trousers and taking a deep, calming breath. The doorbell rang again, and the doorknob twitched, suddenly, suspiciously. For half a moment she was tempted to let them break in, just to see their reaction when they came face to face with her. And then she thought better of it. She had no desire to initiate a confrontation—the past thirty-six hours had been far from blameless on her side as well as theirs.
“Coming,” she called, and heard the thud as someone jumped back from the door as if burned. “Just let me fiddle with these locks,” she said cheerfully, making a great deal of noise before swinging open the door. She looked directly into her godfather’s flinty eyes and flashed him her widest, most guileless smile.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Stephen Tremaine demanded gruffly, striding into the room with his two goons at his side. He was a short, barrel-chested man in his late fifties, with a shock of carefully tended white hair, a perpetual tan, and small, unsentimental slate-blue eyes that he used to stare down competition. He didn’t believe in wasting time on social amenities, and he stood there in his beautiful suit, staring at Jane, tapping one perfectly shod foot in a blatant demonstration of just how impatient he was.
“How nice to see you, Uncle Stephen,” she almost cooed.
“You just saw me last week,” he snapped. “What are you doing here?”
“Packing Dick’s stuff away.”
“You already did that.”
There was no way Stephen Tremaine would know that, if he hadn’t already been in the apartment. Jane felt a sudden surge of satisfaction at having trapped him, whether he knew it or not. Maybe she was developing a talent for intrigue. “I had a few more things to take care of,” she said calmly. “Speaking of which, why are you here? And who are your friends?”
“They don’t matter,” Tremaine said, walking past her and peering at the stack of boxes. “I hope you realize that anything pertaining to Dick’s work legally belongs to Technocracies?”
“Of course.” Her tone was dulcet. She wouldn’t ask him again, she’d wait.
He poked one stubby, well-manicured finger at one of the boxes, snorting audibly. And then he moved on, prowling around the apartment like a caged beast, his two goons standing silently by the door. As long as he didn’t head for the bedroom she would let him poke and pry all he wanted to. If he found anything interesting, all the better for her.
He stopped at the window, whirling suddenly. “Where were you yesterday?”
She didn’t bat an eye. “Here, packing. Where were you?”
“At work. We had trouble with some temporary workers. Some fool woman messed up our computer system, and a so-called hotshot destroyed one of our terminals.” His eyes were accusing.
“It’s so hard to find good help nowadays,” Jane said with a sympathetic sigh.
Tremaine just looked at her. She knew what he was thinking, as clearly as if he’d spoken his thought out loud. He was trying to decide whether or not to accuse her of infiltrating Technocracies. She knew by his tiny nod that he’d chosen not to. “Yes,” he said, “it is.”
“We all have our problems,” she said vaguely, wishing he’d leave.
He was suddenly solicitous, moving back toward her and taking her damp, cold hands in his hot, hard ones. “But it’s you I’m worried about, Janey. This has all been too much for you, losing Richard and then having to come east and pack up everything. I know Princeton doesn’t hold very many happy memories for you. Why don’t you let me finish things up for you? I have a staff who can handle these matters. They’ll finish packing, ship the stuff back to you, and close up things. You’ve been through too much already. Go back to Wisconsin and let me do this for you.”
Damn, he was good, Jane thought, letting him squeeze her hands and look earnestly into her eyes. He was about as earnest as a tarantula. “You’re sweet to offer, Uncle Stephen,” she said. “But I’ve got some time off, and it helps me to be here.”
His tough little hands tightened painfully on hers. “I think you’re making a mistake. I think you should go back and leave things to me.”
“No.” The word was only slightly ragged, and she met his eyes fearlessly, not quailing before the sudden flare of rage in them. “No.”
He dropped her hands, stepping back a pace or two, and then he smiled once more, displaying small, sharp teeth. “All right, Janey,” he said. No one ever called her Janey. “Suit yourself. I only wanted to save you needless grief.”
“I appreciate the thought.”
He nodded. “Then we’ll leave you to it. I’ll just use the little boy’s room before I go...” He was heading toward the bedroom, and Jane felt her heart leap in panic.
She opened her mouth to stop him, to protest, then shut it again. There was nothing she could say that could possibly sound reasonable. She shut her eyes, listening to the sound of the bathroom door closing, waiting for Tremaine’s exclamation of surprise.
There was no sound at all but the noise of running water. Jane opened her eyes, to look into the blank, emotionless faces of Tremaine’s prepossessing escort. She managed a shaky smile. “I left the bathroom sort of messy,” she said in explanation. Neither of the goons said a word.
Minutes later Tremaine was back, anger in his eyes, a smile on his mouth. “We’ll be going now, Janey. That is, if you’re sure I can’t help?”
“I’m sure, Uncle Stephen. You’ve done more than your share already.”
The smile vanished. “Don’t count on it.” And he was gone, the two henchmen following closely behind him.
She stood there, sagging against the wall, as she listened to the sound of their footsteps receding into the distance. Her hands were still shaking, her forehead was covered with a cold sweat, and she wished to God she could go back to Baraboo and forget about any lingering familial debts.
She crossed the room to the window, watching as Uncle Stephen got back in his Mercedes. “Sandy?” she called out, not moving from her vantage point. “Are you still here?”
“Still here,” he said from directly behind her, his advent silent on the thick beige carpeting. “Your godfather’s a curious man.”
“Where were you hiding?”
“In the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn. Fortunately your brother favored navy-blue shower curtains, and Tremaine didn’t think to check. I was able to watch him without him seeing me.” He leaned forward and stared at the window, and for a moment she watched his profile, that perfect, chiseled line, the strong nose, the beautiful eyes, the rumpled blond hair.
Jane sighed absently. “You watched him? You pervert.”
“What was I supposed to do, stare at the grout? Besides, Tremaine didn’t do anything one usually does in a bathroom. He checked the medicine cabinet, under the sink and he even lifted the back of the toilet and looked in the tank.”
“Why?”
“I imagine he was looking for something. Whatever it was, he didn’t find it.”
“So where does that leave us?”
He shrugged. “We’ll just have to take up the search.”
“Even though we’re not sure what we’re looking for? It might not be the formula.”
“Even though we’re not sure what we’re looking for,” he agreed. “Let’s start with the boxes.”
She looked at him with complete, utter loathing. “I just spent days packing them.”
He leaned forward, and to her shock he brushed his lips across hers. “Then we’ll just repack them,” he said sweetly. He moved away before she could react, before she could hit him, before she could twine her arms around
his neck and kiss him back. “Let’s get started.”
*
The parking lot outside Richard Dexter’s lakeside condominium was brightly lit. All the Hondas and BMWs and Saabs gleamed in the artificial light, radiating a glow of financial well-being. Some of that glow penetrated the shambles of what had once been a spotlessly organized apartment, illuminating the littered floor. Sandy looked across the room at his partner in crime, just barely suppressing a grin.
Jane was sitting, shell-shocked, in the midst of a mountain of papers, her eyes glazed behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “I cannot,” she said faintly, “look at one more piece of paper.”
“It’s probably a lost cause,” Sandy agreed. “Whatever Tremaine is looking for isn’t here. It would help if either of us knew the faintest thing about chemical engineering. None of Richard’s notes makes sense to me, even the shopping lists.”
“I know,” Jane said wearily, stretching out on the mounds of paper. She was wearing pants for a change, and the crumpled khaki fit her long legs and delectable rear quite nicely. “No one could ever read Richard’s handwriting. Maybe Uncle Stephen has the missing part of the formula and he just can’t decipher it. Maybe we’ve read a dozen copies of it and not known what it is.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Your brother doesn’t sound like he was a very subtle man. Would he be likely to hide it among similar stuff so no one would notice?”
“Nope,” Jane said, taking off her glasses and closing her eyes. “He’d put it somewhere obvious. He probably thought no one could ever find his secret lab and he’s left it locked in a file cabinet. Maybe he didn’t even bother to lock it.” She sat up, pushing her tangled hair out of her eyes. “We’ve got to find the lab, Jimmy.”
“Sandy,” he corrected absently. “Do you think we’ll have any better luck recognizing it there?”
“No. We’ll just have to burn the place down.”
“Not again! The trick to a life of crime, dear heart, is only resort to violent action when you’ve used up all the alternatives,” Sandy said reprovingly. “We’ve still got a lot of options left.”
