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

by Anne Stuart

  If everyone was watching them that fact had no effect on Sandy. He pulled her into his arms, feathers, leather bra and all, and he was hot and strong and safe around her. She hid there, her face pressed against his shoulder, the noise and lights swirling around them, as she slowly pulled her strength back around her. He held her just as long as she needed holding, and when she felt strong enough to move away he released her instantly.

  “Feel better?” he inquired in the most casual of voices.

  She managed a tremulous smile. “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let the bad guys get you.”

  “They wouldn’t want me, would they?” she countered seriously.

  “They’d be fools not to.”

  “This way.” Caldicott was back between them, his cologne overpowering the other, more suspect smells of the crowded rooms, and, Jane had no chance to respond. The lawyer had her hand caught tightly in his, tugging her through the maze of chattering, bright-eyed people toward a door in the back, and she followed, certain that Sandy was right behind her.

  The silence of the next room was thick and shocking after the cacophony before, and the filtered light only compounded Jane’s myopia as the lawyer drew her to a halt. Sandy was beside her, his hand caught her other one, and slowly she lifted her eyes to the figure in front of them.

  She had never seen a human being so immense in her entire life. He seemed to fill the end of the narrow room, and in the gray filtered light he seemed an amorphous blob of semihumanity, larger than three normal people put together. He was dressed in some sort of gray suit, but his abundant flesh spilled around him. His skin was pasty gray, his eyes dark little raisins in a face of suet, his mouth was small and cruel and pink. He was smiling at them with that mouth, and he waved a fat, balloon-like hand in greeting.

  “Welcome, friends,” he said, and his voice was another surprise. She would have expected something low and rumbling from that mountain of flesh, but instead it came out in a high-pitched wheeze, barely carrying the length of the empty room. On second glance Jane noticed the room wasn’t empty at all. Stationed at strategic points along the bare walls were studiously casual men, their loose jackets concealing their weapons. Jane shuddered, and she could feel the cool dampness of the hands in hers. Both Sandy and his nefarious lawyer were just as scared of Jabba Matteo as she was.

  “How nice to finally meet you, Mr. Caldicott,” Matteo purred, his voice lilting his amusement. “I’ve been hoping for a chance to repay the favor you did me and mine so long ago, and now that time has come. And as I live and breathe, this must be Jimmy the Stoolie. Come closer, young man, and tell me how I can assist you and this surprising young lady.”

  Sandy’s hand clenched more tightly around hers, but his elegant profile gave nothing away. The man on her left was pale and sweating profusely, and she was glad she didn’t have to count on him to defend her in court. At least Sandy could keep his head when things got difficult.

  “We appreciate your seeing us, Mr. Matteo,” Sandy said, his voice steady and deceptively casual. “Caldicott probably explained our problem to you.”

  “Your lawyer did mention something. And please, call me Jabba. Such formality distresses me. Old friends such as we shouldn’t stand on ceremony. Come, come, Jimmy. Bring the little lady closer.”

  It was Jane’s turn to be startled. She lifted her head, against Sandy’s previous orders, and stared defiantly into Jabba’s pig-like eyes, and then wished she hadn’t. For all the comic-book trappings, the absurdity of place and time, the eyes of the huge man in front of her were pure evil.

  “We want to know about Stephen Tremaine.” Sandy angled his body to shield her an almost imperceptible amount. “You know everything in the world of arms dealing. What is Tremaine up to?”

  Jabba chuckled, a high, wheezing sound. “Why limit it to arms dealing? I know everything worth knowing, or I can find it out in minutes. Stephen Tremaine is trying to sell an advanced titanium coating process to the highest bidder he can find. Libya has already backed down—the asking price is much too high. Chile is interested, but has yet to make an offer, Chad wants it but is also too poor, and Iran doesn’t want to wait. At this point it looks like he’s going to sell to the President of Salambia.”

  “But he’s a madman,” Jane said, horror overriding her common sense.

  Jabba’s evil little eyes smiled on her. “Indeed he is, dear lady. A very wealthy madman, and one of my best customers. You mustn’t judge him too harshly, dear lady. You’ve lived too sheltered a life.”

  “Shut up,” Sandy hissed at her, his strong hand grinding the bones in her wrist.

  “But let the little woman speak, Jimmy the Stoolie.” He accented the name, as if he and Sandy shared a secret joke. “I’m not used to such innocence, and it amuses me. She’s the one who wants to know, isn’t she? Let her ask the questions.”

  Jane ignored Sandy’s warning hand, pulling away from him and confronting Matteo with deceptive fearlessness. Her knees trembled, her stomach churned, and she could only hope she could ask her questions and escape without throwing up on the red Oriental carpet beneath her feet.

  “Does Tremaine have the entire formula?” she demanded. “Or is he still missing a crucial part of it?”

  “Dear me,” Jabba said, fanning his pale basketball-size head with a copy of Fortune Magazine. “I hadn’t realized what was causing the delay. How delicious. He went to all that trouble to silence your brother and now he’s unable to profit from it. Maybe that has something to do with his interest in a certain property in Bay Head. I do love irony, don’t you, Ms. Dexter?”

  The room was utterly, completely still. She no longer felt Sandy’s restraining hand, was completely unaware of Caldicott’s terrified stance. She moved forward, so close she could feel the heat and danger emanating from the mountain of flesh in front of her. “Did Stephen Tremaine have anything to do with my brother’s death?” Her voice was raw with emotion, and she was no longer frightened:

  Jabba’s grin revealed two rows of tiny gold teeth. “Dear child, I don’t know. I can assure you he didn’t hire any professionals before yesterday. I would have heard if he did. But I couldn’t say whether he opted for an amateur hit. The man is desperate, and your brother’s death was very convenient.”

  Jane just stared at him numbly, listening to the words she didn’t want to hear. “What do you mean before yesterday?”

  Jabba chuckled. “Word has it he’s retained the services of a notable knife artist named Lenny the Rip. I didn’t bother to check, and sometimes any information can be... premature. If he has, I expect you’ll find out sooner or later.” He’d finished with her, turning his attention back to Sandy. “Was there anything else you wished to know?”

  Sandy glanced over at her, then shook his head. “That about covers it.”

  Jabba nodded, his row of chins quivering. “Then my debt of honor is repaid. I will have to make sure my son doesn’t incur another such debt.”

  Sandy said nothing, simply inclining his head graciously. The lawyer was still sweating in the cool room.

  “And I think,” said Jabba, “that you might make me a small gesture to ensure your good will and discretion.”

  She could feel the tension in the room. It was a palpable thing, and once again she had the eerie sense that all eyes were on her, from Jabba’s evil dark ones to the deadly cold emotionless ones of the men lining the wall.

  Again Sandy nodded, this time with less grace. “I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

  Jabba giggled. “I thought you might. Why don’t you leave me Ms. Dexter for the night? I can promise her an interesting time, and we’ll return her in one piece.”

  The lawyer beside her swore, casting a desperate glance over at Sandy’s immobile face. The army lining the room had straightened, clearly expecting some action, and Sandy’s face was carved in stone. Jane could see his gray eyes flicker as his brain struggled for some way out of their current mess, and she resisted th
e impulse to start screaming in utter panic. Instead she waited, forcing herself to be calm.

  Sandy shrugged. “I’d love to oblige you, Jabba. Shall I come back and fetch her or will you send her home?”

  Jane’s moan of outrage was drowned out by Jabba’s laugh. “I’ll send her home when we’ve finished with her. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen such an innocent. Her costume only makes her naiveté more apparent.”

  “I’m rather fond of it myself,” Sandy said, lifting one of the feathers and letting it flutter down. “I do trust you don’t actually wish to touch her?”

  “Trust away, dear boy,” Jabba said with a smirk.

  “Because I should warn you that much as I adore the young lady, she’s not terribly...healthy.” The pregnant pause said it all. “It’s nothing fatal, but the results could be quite uncomfortable, if you know what I mean.”

  Jabba recoiled faintly, his smile fading. “I don’t believe you,” he wheezed.

  Sandy only smiled. “I may be lying,” he agreed. “But how will you know?”

  Jabba stared at them, long and hard, and Jane held her breath, waiting for the ax to fall, waiting for the slit-eyed army to draw weapons and put an end to their impertinent existence.

  And then he began to laugh, the sound coming from deep within the rolls of fat surrounding his body, bubbling out, shaking his huge frame until Jane thought he might choke to death in front of her eyes. Tears poured down his rosy cheeks and caught in the folds of his chins, his gold teeth glinted in the lamplight.

  “Philadelphia lawyer,” Jabba chuckled breathlessly. “It’s just as well. My honor is compromised enough as it is. In this case I’ll keep it intact.”

  “I thought you might see it that way,” Sandy said smoothly.

  “But I suggest you leave the back way. It wouldn’t do my reputation any good to have it known I let you walk away without paying any duty. And I don’t think you’d care for that sort of attention either, not in your line of work.”

  “A con man can’t be too careful,” Sandy said.

  Jabba chuckled, dabbing at his tear-streaked face. “If you’re a con man what do you call your ailing young lady?”

  Sandy looked over at her, and there was a fiercely possessive gleam in his blue eyes. “My partner in crime,” he said. “What else?”

  Jane ran blindly, stumbling through the dark streets after Sandy, too terrified to even think. The pounding of her heart and the rasping of her labored breathing drowned out any possible sound of pursuit, but she could imagine a horde of those grim-faced men chasing after them through New York’s mean streets.

  She had no idea how far they’d come when Sandy pulled to a stop, dropping her abused wrist and leaning against a building to catch his breath. She could feel the cool evening air dry the sweat on her face, she could smell the exhaust and the fear that had surrounded them back in that dark, hot room, and she shivered.

  “Was it worth it?” Caldicott whined. He’d ripped the Armani suit during their mad dash, and Sandy was eyeing the tear with nothing short of outrage.

  “No,” said Jane.

  “Yes,” said Sandy at the same time. “We know we’re in trouble and we know Tremaine is dangerous.”

  “We already knew that,” Jane pointed out, stripping off her black lace half gloves.

  “But now we know who he’s negotiating with. And we know he’s still a ways from finding the rest of the formula. We have some time.”

  “We don’t know how much,” Jane said.

  “At least we have a night’s sleep.”

  “And we know where we’re going tomorrow.”

  Sandy looked at her with deep apprehension. “All right, I’ll bite. Where are we going tomorrow?”

  “Bay Head. My brother inherited a house on the ocean. Tremaine must think the formula is there.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think it’s a good possibility. Richard used to go there and refused to invite any of the family. It would be the perfect place for a lab, and it’s less than an hour from Princeton.”

  “All right,” Sandy said wearily. “Tomorrow we go to Bay Head. Tonight we go back to the apartment.”

  “I was thinking I might join you after all,” Caldicott began, half bravado, half edginess. “Jabba’s spooked me good and proper...”

  “Too bad, old man,” Sandy said firmly. “But you’re going to be busy with the police.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” the lawyer declared instantly, sounding for all the world like either a criminal himself or a very naughty little boy.

  “I didn’t say you did,” Sandy said, reaching out a long arm and hailing a taxi. The yellow cab pulled up beside them, and Sandy opened the door. “But you’re going to be busy filing a stolen car report.”

  “Not the MG?”

  “The MG,” Sandy verified with only a wince of sorrow. “All in a good cause, though. Thanks for the use of the apartment, old boy. See you in court.” And he slid in beside Jane, slamming the door in Caldicott’s pinched little face.

  The real Jimmy the Stoolie watched them disappear into the night, a mournful expression on his face. He stood there for a long time, not moving, until a skinny, rat-like figure scuttled up to him out of the darkening shadows.

  “Here’s the key, Jimmy,” he rasped, dropping it in his outstretched hand. “But boy, that MG needs a tune.”

  Chapter Twelve

  For all Alexander Caldicott’s sleaziness, there was no denying he lived well. The taxi dropped them uptown, on East 66th Street, and the uniformed doorman was as elegant as he was discreet, ushering Sandy in with a “Good to see you again, sir” that was the epitome of understated tact.

  “You spend a lot of time here?” Jane whispered as they were passed on to an equally circumspect elevator operator.

  “More than Caldicott does,” Sandy replied innocently. “Half the people who work here think I am Alexander Caldicott.”

  “I’m sure they had a little help in that assumption.”

  Sandy merely smiled. Sure enough, the elevator operator murmured, “Welcome home, Mr. Caldicott,” as they exited the small gilt and walnut cage on the sixth floor. Even in her advanced state of shock and exhaustion Jane didn’t miss the passing of paper money.

  The apartment had the dry, musty smell of uninhabited places, and Jane stumbled into the elegant foyer with only a tenth of her usual curiosity. She wanted to ask him where Caldicott had been the past few days, but she didn’t bother. Instead, she asked the question that was uppermost in her mind.

  “Where’s the shower?”

  “Straight down the hallway. You want some clean clothes? I’m afraid your suitcase was in the MG, but I think I can come up with something.”

  “Anything,” Jane said with a shudder.

  “I’ll leave something outside the door,” he promised. “Though I’ll miss the leather bra.”

  “You try and wear it,” she offered, heading toward the bathroom. She stopped halfway down, turning to look at him with the last ounce of curiosity in her weary body. He was standing in the entrance, staring after her, his spiky hair rumpled.

  “What is it?” he questioned softly.

  “Matteo was bluffing, wasn’t he? He didn’t really want me?”

  Sandy shook his head. “Don’t count on it. You were in deep trouble at that moment.”

  “What if he hadn’t given in? Would you have left me?”

  The dim light cast eerie shadows on his face, and she remembered the steel in his voice when he’d threatened his lawyer, the danger radiating from him when he’d confronted Jabba. “What do you think?” he asked, not giving an inch.

  Jane thought about it. “I think Jabba was lucky he decided to let me go,” she said finally, turning back toward the shower.

  The sun was rising over the canyons of New York when Jane finally emerged from the shower, her towel-dried hair dripping onto her shoulders, an oversize black sweat suit presumably belonging to Caldicott enve
loping her body. At least it didn’t smell of that awful cologne. The apartment was huge, with a living room, formal dining room and three bedrooms, each one the size of a studio apartment. She found Sandy in the kitchen, laying out thick sandwiches and imported dark beer.

  There must have been two showers in the rambling old place. Sandy’s hair was still spiky, though this time it was wet from the shower, and he was wearing faded jeans and nothing more. The jeans were zipped but not snapped, and Jane noticed that somehow in between his bouts of criminality he must have found time to work out. He’d already made it clear he’d never soil his hands with physical labor, so his smoothly muscled chest and shoulders had to come from something slightly more elitist.

  “Do you want anything to eat?” he inquired, padding across the tile floor on bare feet.

  “I think I just want a bed,” she said in a small voice. She backed up as he advanced. She was in no condition to fight off any errant advances, in no condition to fight her own desires. He kept moving closer, and his body was even more beautiful as he drew near, and she wanted to burst into tears.

  She did. He stopped within a foot of her, not moving closer, and even without her glasses she could see the skepticism in his face. “Is this part of your act?” he asked. “Or are you really crying this time?”

  “You can tell when I’m really upset,” she said between choking sobs, “my nose gets red and I get the hiccups.” She punctuated that watery statement with a noisy “hic,” and her sobs increased.

  “Proof enough,” he said, crossing the distance between them and pulling her into his arms. She was beyond thinking, beyond caring, and she went willingly, grateful to be enveloped against a strong, warm chest, a soundly beating heart, a male body that had protected her. So many emotions had swept over her during the past few hours that she could no longer summon the energy to fight. The rage and terror, the outrage and determination had vanished with their escape. All that was left was a shimmering desire washing through her, and all her rational, logical doubts vanished. What she wanted tonight was comfort and oblivion, and her partner in crime could provide just that.