Partners in Crime (18 page)

But more important was Sandy Caldicott. She needed him to make as big a fool out of himself as she had of herself. She still hadn’t quite figured out how to do it, but she wouldn’t sleep until she had. And once she’d gotten rid of him, she could concentrate on finishing her business in Princeton.

Richard didn’t deserve her vengeance, but Stephen Tremaine did. Enough of this messing around—tomorrow morning she’d head back to Princeton, alone, buy whatever seemed ultimately inflammable, and torch Technocracies Ltd. If she couldn’t stop Tremaine from selling the formula she could certainly make a mess out of his business.

She should get moving and go find some clean sheets, make up a bed. While she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay here alone in this big, empty house, she definitely didn’t want Sandy around for longer than it took to wreak a considerable amount of havoc.

Embarrassment would do it, she thought, wanting to head for another glass of whiskey but not daring to. She hadn’t eaten anything all day and that first glass had hit her like a mallet. She needed to keep her wits about her if she was going to outfox her accomplice.

She was too tired to think of how she was going to do it. She’d simply have to play it by ear. Draw him out into a long, incriminating conversation, and then let him have it. Maybe simply bash him on the head and have done with it. She hadn’t been thinking ahead—she’d end up being stranded here without a car. Still, it would be worth it, just to see the look on his face when she calmly, evenly, told him to go to hell.

In the meantime, she’d better get to work. There was a decent amount of old paper trash in the kitchen—she could go back there, dump it on the floor, and begin sifting through it for any sign of where Richard hid the formula. And she could help herself to just a tiny bit more of the whiskey.

It took Sandy too long to find the only open grocery store, and he had to give up on the Scotch. He’d forgotten it was Sunday, and there were still certain things you couldn’t buy on a Sunday. He was getting to the point where he’d kill for a glass of Scotch.

The sun had almost set by the time he pulled the Audi back into the cracked driveway, but as far as he could see no lights had been turned on in the house. He tried to quell the sense of uneasiness that had been plaguing him all day. He’d never had any psychic ability, but all day long he’d been dogged by the feeling that something was very wrong.

He forced himself to move slowly, fetching the groceries from the back seat and walking deliberately toward the kitchen door. He saw her the moment he walked in. She was seated in the middle of the floor, surrounded by garbage. There was a smudge on her cheek, he hated to think of what, her wire-rimmed glasses had slid down her nose, and she was clutching a McDonald’s bag in her hand. He could still smell the memory of the onions.

She looked up at him, and for the first time that day her expression wasn’t wary, defensive, on edge. In the dim light of the kitchen he could see her cheeks wet with tears, and her mouth trembled with a vain effort at control.

“Stephen really killed him,” she said in a broken voice, and without hesitation he crossed the room and sank down beside her, ready to draw her into his arms.

H
is arms felt so good around her, his body warm and strong, and for one weak, desperate moment Jane absorbed the comfort, the sheer loving presence that radiated from him. And then she remembered.

She shoved with all her might, sending him backward among the McDonald’s wrappers and then scrambled to her feet. Normally she wouldn’t have been strong enough to do it, but she took him off his guard. He lay sprawled there, staring up at her, a bemused expression on his too-handsome face.

“I take it you finally figured it out,” he said.

If he hadn’t said the word “finally” she might have kept her temper under control. That word was like a red flag to a bull, reminding her just what a deluded fool she’d been. All the frustrations of the past few years washed over her in a haze, and she reached for the first thing she could find. It was a tin pitcher that had once held iced tea, and she hurled it at his head.

He dodged, rolling over in the garbage, but she’d already followed it with the bag of groceries and the bottle of Scotch. He struggled to his feet, half laughing, half terrified, as he held his arms up to ward off the barrage.

“Calm down, Jane,” he said, backing out of the kitchen. “If you’d just think about it you’d realize it was funny.”

“Hilarious,” she snarled, flinging a ceramic lamp at his head. “Just a complete riot.” Her glasses were slipping down her nose, her hair had come loose, and she felt like an avenging angel.

“Come on, Jane, it wasn’t my fault,” he said, ducking the lamp and dodging behind a chair. “You were the one who decided I was a criminal.”

“You
are
a criminal. You’re a cold-hearted, lying, manipulative bastard.” She hurled an antique copper fire extinguisher, a copy of
Shakespeare
’
s Complete Plays,
three glass ashtrays and a box of matches. One of the ashtrays connected quite smartly with his forehead, eliciting a yelp of pain, and the matches bounced off his nose.

“Jane, I have been helping, even if I didn’t admit who I am,” he said. “If you’d just...put that down...listen, you’d realize...ow!” She’d gotten him with a brass hurricane lamp, and he went down into a heap, hidden behind the chair.

She was reaching for the fire poker when the silence penetrated her rage. The house was still. From outside the open windows she could hear the muffled thunder of the surf, the sound of intermittent traffic. But inside, behind the chair, all was silent.

Her sense of horror and remorse was as sudden as it was overwhelming. “Sandy?” she said, her voice weak as she dropped the poker on the ancient, sand-embedded carpet. “Say something,” she pleaded. “Curse, moan, anything.”

There was no sound, not even the rustle of clothing as he lay out of sight. Her last ounce of mistrust vanished, and she shoved the chair out of her way and sank down beside his prostrate body. His forehead was bleeding, his face was pale, and his taunting, teasing gray eyes were closed. Perhaps forever.

“Damn you,” she said desperately, picking up one lifeless hand. “Don’t you dare be dead.” He didn’t move, his eyelids didn’t flicker, and as she reached up to touch his face he made no response. His skin felt icy beneath her hot, shaking hands, and she thought back to all the things she’d ever read about head injuries. She should pull back his eyelids and check to see if his pupils were unevenly dilated, she should take his pulse, listen to his heartbeat.

The last seemed the easiest thing to do. She pressed her head against his chest, her hair fanning out around her, and was rewarded with a slightly accelerated thumping. Not too fast to worry about, and it proved he was still alive. She sat back up, missing the hand that was just reaching to touch her, and pulled his inert body into her arms, cradling his bleeding head in her lap.

“Damn it, Sandy, wake up,” she moaned. “I didn’t mean to kill you. I just wanted to hurt you a little. Please, Sandy, don’t die. You can’t die! I can’t live without you.” As stupid as the words sounded, she realized with sudden shock that they were true. She didn’t want to live without Alexander the Stoolie Caldicott.

Her dying lover’s eyes shot open, his eyes clear and curious. “Why not?” he inquired calmly.

She considered dropping his head back on the hardwood floor, but she had vented her violent rage enough for one night. “I take it you’re not dying,” she managed with admirable nonchalance.

“Just mortally wounded. Why can’t you live without me?”

“Don’t you think you’re pushing your luck? The iron poker is still in reach.” She tried to pull away, but he’d somehow managed to get an arm around her while lying in her lap, and short of actually dumping him back on the floor she had to stay put.

“You’re not going to beat me to a bloody pulp, Jane,” he said softly. “You can’t live without me, remember?”

She stared down at him for a long moment. The room was sinking deeper and deeper into shadows, with only the light from the kitchen illuminating the darkness. A wind had picked up, sweeping through the open windows, bringing the dampness and scent of the ocean around them. “I’ve already drawn blood,” she said, her voice husky as she reached out and touched his forehead with gentle fingertips, bringing them back wet and sticky.

He winced, whether from pain or the sight of blood she couldn’t be sure. “Well, then,” he said, his voice not much more than a low, sexy growl, “kiss it and make it better.”

She thought about it for a moment, then, leaning forward, she kissed his mouth instead, her own lips pressing softly, questioningly against his hard ones. He still felt cool against her fevered skin, and then his mouth opened, his arm slid up around her neck, pulling her down to him, and he was as hot as she was. Suddenly the darkness was all that mattered, the darkness and his body next to hers, his mouth hungry, claiming, this time taking only yes for an answer.

Moments later she was on the floor herself, the scratchy rush matting beneath her back, Sandy Caldicott above her, his body lean and hard and pressing her into the floor. He was no longer a comic-book felon or her partner in crime, he wasn’t even a burnt-out yuppie lawyer. He was darkness, powerful, sexual, wiping out the terrors of the night and the anguish of loss and betrayal, he was life and heat and desire, and he was everything she ever needed.

His hands were wondrously, infuriatingly deft, sliding up her leg, beneath the khaki skirt, along the finely muscled line of her leg. Her own hands were far less practiced, pulling at the rugby shirt, ripping the buttons, needing his cooperation to strip it over his head. And then his chest was warm and bare against her, the chest she’d spent far too many moments eyeing with surreptitious longing. He was smooth-skinned, with only a smattering of golden hair in the middle of his chest, and the tactile sensation of his golden flesh beneath her fingertips was unbearably arousing. She whimpered with longing, back in her throat, and he swallowed the sound, his mouth hot and devouring on hers.

While she’d been fumbling with his shirt he’d managed to strip her of her skirt and sweater with such expertise that she’d scarcely been aware of it. When he lifted his head to look down at her with such fierce, heady desire she suddenly realized she was stretched out on a scratchy rug in nothing but her thin scrap of bikini underpants and lacy little bra. All her exposed flesh was tingling with desire, with heat and hunger that she hadn’t known she could feel. All the while her heart and soul were longing for him, and her brain was screaming no.

Her mouth was connected to her brain. “I don’t want this,” she said clearly. “I don’t want to feel this way.”

For a long moment he didn’t move. “If I had any sense of honor or decency I’d back off,” he said finally. “But we’ve already proven that when it comes to you my honor and decency get shot to hell. Too bad if you don’t want to feel this way—you do. You want me as much as I want you. And I’m not about to give you time and space to come up with a dozen lame excuses that will keep us both in the state of advanced frustration we’ve been suffering through for the last few days.” He dropped his mouth back onto hers with a brief, savage kiss that left her dazed and breathless. He pulled away, and that look of fierce possession was back on his face.

With one graceful movement he stood up, pulling her with him. She swayed for a moment, hoping to keep out of his arms, but she couldn’t fight both him and her own deep-rooted desires. When he swung her up into his arms she went willingly, closing her eyes in dizziness as he headed for the stairs.

“Don’t do this,” she muttered when he kicked open the bedroom door at the top of the stairs. The house had only twin beds, but it didn’t seem to daunt him. He dropped her on the bed, then reached for his belt.

“Give me one good reason, Jane,” he said, kicking off his shoes. “Just one.”

She didn’t bother trying to climb off the bed—he’d stop her and she didn’t really want to go. “If you leave me alone I might learn to trust you, respect you.”

He unzipped his pants and stripped them off. “Sorry, Jane. Tonight I don’t want trust and I don’t want respect. I want love.”

She tried one last time. “Isn’t that a euphemism?”

“Maybe for you, lady. Not for me.” He climbed onto the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms.

It was close enough to a declaration on that windswept Indian summer evening. He’d left the door open, and the only light in the cavernous second floor of the old cottage was the fitful shadows bouncing off the water. There was no one to watch, no one to listen, no one to judge. For now, for tonight, she would do what she knew she shouldn’t. She would do exactly what she wanted.

His hands slid down her body, beneath the thin bands of her panties, pulling them off and tossing them away from the bed. Her bra came off with equal simplicity, and then she was naked beside him, her long legs sliding, twining with his rougher ones.

She felt as if she’d been running, running, and she didn’t know if it was from something or to someone, maybe a little bit of both. She wanted the darkness to close around her, to wipe out the shadows and half-light, she wanted anonymity, to be alone in bed with a man she couldn’t even call by name. Alone with a man she shouldn’t want, but did.

She kept her eyes tightly closed, savoring the possession of his mouth on hers, savoring the feel of his deft, arousing hands on her body, simply wanting to lie back and be pleasured by someone else who had taken control. It was no longer her responsibility.

He pulled his mouth away from hers, and she waited for its fiery possessiveness to travel down to her aching breasts, waited for the seduction to continue.

It was a long wait. Slowly, reluctantly she opened her eyes and looked up into Sandy’s wary gray ones.

“I thought I told you,” he said, his voice husky with strain, “that I don’t provide sexual Valium and instant forgetfulness. I’m not a dream lover, Jane, here to fulfill your fantasies while you lie back with your eyes closed. This is a game for two players, lady. Ante up.”