Authors: Anne Stuart
She drew herself upright. “You startled me. And I think it’s understandable that I’d be edgy. I’ve never broken into a building before.”
He nodded, sober for once. “The first time is always the hardest.”
She looked at him curiously. “What was your first time like?”
He shook his head, a smile once more curling the corners of his mobile mouth. “You wouldn’t want to know,” he said softly. “You’ll do as I tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t sound so sulky, Jane. I may very well save your life.”
She had to stop the sudden clenching of her heart. “It’s not going to be that dangerous, is it?” she demanded.
“I made a few calls. Tremaine favors armed guards and patrol dogs.”
“What?”
He shrugged, grinning that disarming grin. “This wouldn’t be any fun if it was too easy. Trust me, Jane. Do as I say and we’ll be just fine.”
“And if we’re not?” she said, resisting that charm stonily.
“Then I know a heckuva lawyer.”
And Jane, remembering the weasely little face in the grainy newspaper photo, snorted derisively before following him out into the brightly lit New Jersey night.
They drove through the sparse nighttime traffic in the blue MGB. It ran a little rough, and Jane gave it a doubtful look as her companion sped down the wide roads. “Are you sure this is the car to take? I’d think we’d want something reliable for a quick getaway.”
“This car’s reliable,” he said, clearly stung. “It’s in classic shape—you don’t see many like these nowadays.”
“Amen,” muttered Jane. “It needs a tune-up.”
“It had one three days ago.”
“Doesn’t hold it long, does it?”
He glared at her. “Suddenly you know about cars, too, Madame X?”
“I read a lot.”
He managed to hold the glare for perhaps fifteen seconds longer. And then he laughed, a short bark of humor that lessened the tension filling the car. “Now is not the time to pick a fight with me. We’ve got a challenging night ahead of us—we don’t need to be at each other’s throats.”
“It keeps me from being nervous.” She slid down in the leather seat, stretching her legs out in a useless effort to relax.
“Well, it makes me edgier. Cut it out.” Without warning he cut the wheel to the left, pulling into a narrow, vacant lot and stopping the car behind a billboard advertising Tanqueray Gin. Jane had a sudden, intense longing for a tall glass of the stuff, forget the tonic, as Jimmy the Stoolie bumped to a halt, flicking off the key with one well-shaped hand.
“Am I allowed to ask questions?”
“Feel free. I need blind obedience, not silence,” he replied, pulling on a pair of leather driving gloves that he hadn’t bothered to wear before. “Look in the glove box. There should be another pair in there.”
“Why don’t I just promise not to touch anything?” Jane suggested brightly.
“Put them on.” There was no room for argument in his tone of voice. “Your pal Tremaine’s building is just beyond that vacant warehouse. We’re going to walk from here.”
Jane opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. All she could do was trust this stranger and do as he ordered. Six hours ago she’d never spoken a word to the man, now she was in the midst of committing a felony. The Baraboo Board of Libraries wasn’t going to tolerate a felon in their employ, nor were most libraries in her experience. They tended to be a conservative bunch, quick to condemn and slow to understand. No, if they were caught her career was down the tubes.
She could tell Jimmy the Stoolie she’d wait in the car. She could tell him forget it, she’d changed her mind. After all, Uncle Stephen doubtless thought he was doing the right thing. He must have good reasons for believing he had the right to sell the process to whomever he chose.
But he was wrong. And she couldn’t let Richard’s life mean nothing. She pulled herself out of the car, taking a deep breath of the night air. It tasted of damp earth and autumn and the tang of exhaust. “I’m ready,” she said, meeting her companion’s curious gaze.
If only he didn’t have such beautiful gray eyes, she thought. If only his smile wasn’t completely bewitching. He smiled at her then, and it took every ounce of effort to keep from melting. “Good girl,” he said. “Keep your head down and follow me.” And Jane followed.
Technocracies Ltd. was a sprawling complex of buildings on Route 206 just north of Princeton. In the daylight it was beautifully proportioned, perfectly landscaped, a spacious, elegant place to work. At night, that moonless night in particular, it was a dark, ominous huddle of buildings. The decorative shrubs hugged the building, menacing shapes to add to Jane’s already terrified state of mind. The parking lot was empty, but somehow she failed to be reassured.
The guards, and she truly believed her accomplice when he told her there were guards, must have parked somewhere.
Jane did as she was told, following her companion’s tall, well-built figure as he approached the building, hiding in his shadow as he in turn hid in the shadow of the building. He moved with unerring instincts, directly to a bank of doors, and stopped in front of one of them.
“Are you going to use a credit card?” she whispered. “I’ve never seen anyone jimmy a lock.”
“Shhh.” He pulled something out of his pocket, and she leaned forward, curious to watch a lock pick at work.
Her companion held up a key, inserted it in the lock, and opened the door, gesturing her inside. She went, stopping dead still inside and turning an accusing glare on him.
“Where’d you get that key?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. “And don’t tell me it’s a skeleton key—I know better.”
“I wouldn’t think of telling you any such thing. Where do you think I got it?” He stood there looking down at her, patient, amused, and she was sorely tempted to kick him in the shins.
“From my godfather? Maybe you figured you could get more money from him if you strung me along and reported to him.”
“You do have a devious mind.” He was clearly admiring rather than offended. “I never even thought of that. The idea has merit, but it’s full of holes. Tremaine doesn’t sound like the sort who’d appreciate my offer of assistance. He’d probably just turn me in to the police and double the security. Guess again.”
Her nerves were at a screaming pitch, her palms damp and slippery inside the over-large pair of driving gloves he’d forced her to wear. “Now isn’t the time to play games.”
“Why not? It eases the tension.”
“For you, maybe. Not for me.”
He took pity on her, his gloved hand cuffing her chin lightly. “Cheer up, Madame X. If you’re going to embark, on a life of crime you’ll have to be cool, calm and collected. I got the key off your key ring.”
“Mine?” He surprised her into a little shriek, and the hand that had cuffed her chin immediately covered her mouth, pushing her against the wall.
“Not that cool,” he muttered in her ear. “We aren’t supposed to be here, remember?” He removed his hand. “You had a set of keys lying on your dresser. Presumably your brother’s? Everything was nicely marked—apartment, beach house, Vermont house, L-l, L-2, Techno. It didn’t take a great criminal mind to figure the last key would get us in here without having to resort to credit cards and jimmies and the like.”
“I should have thought of it myself,” she said, self-recrimination warring with another, less acceptable emotion. He was standing close enough for her to feel the body heat emanating through the expensive gray sweat suit. The feelings he aroused in her were disturbing, unacceptable, and inescapable. She was reacting to him as a woman reacts to a man she wants, and she was a hundred times a fool to do so.
“That’s all right,” he said, still not moving, too close, too damned close. “All part of the service.”
“Service?” The word was breathless. She could lean a little closer in the darkened hallway and be touching him again. It was tempting, very tempting.
“Jimmy the Stoolie’s Rent-a-Crook.”
It was enough to break the hypnotic spell. “Are we going to search this place or not?” she snapped, remembering to keep her voice to a whisper.
“I suppose we’d better. It’s now—” he checked the ultrathin gold watch on his strong wrist “—eleven fifty-three. Tremaine uses Foxfire Security Systems, which means two men, two Dobermans, and probably two guns, will be here sometime after one o’clock. They have three stops before this one, and it depends whether any of my colleagues have chosen tonight to break into one of Foxfire’s other clients’ offices. I don’t expect we’ll be so lucky, so we’d better be out of here no later than quarter of one. Okay?”
She stared up at him. “How do you know all that?”
“Professional secret. Quarter of one okay with you?”
“Fine,” she said, fighting back the distrust.
“Then let’s go.”
It was damned lucky she was gullible, Sandy thought. He couldn’t very well tell her he’d called a colleague who’d called a client who’d called a friend to find out how Technocracies Ltd. handled security. She probably didn’t want to know the sordid details, anyway. She’d rather believe he had some sort of criminal osmosis.
The keys had been a stroke of good luck. They’d get through the night with similar luck, if his sources had been correct. As they moved through the empty hallways he wondered what the real Jimmy would have done if Madame X had shown up at his motel room.
Tried to seduce her, for one thing. And while that reaction hadn’t been Sandy’s first, it was becoming more and more appealing.
Except that prim and proper Jane Dexter wasn’t the sort to fall into bed with a professional criminal. He’d have to overcome all her misgivings, all her doubts, all her very strong defenses.
The thought was challenging. Could he make someone want him so much she’d be willing to turn her back on years of security and ethics? The question had never come up before. The women he met knew he was a well-paid, unmarried lawyer of healthy habits and well-mannered disposition. They were running no danger at all getting involved with him.
With Jane it was a different matter. If she ever went to bed with him she’d be taking untold risks. If she went to bed with him it would be an act of faith and trust such as he’d never experienced. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted it.
“This is it,” Jane said abruptly.
For a moment he didn’t know what she was talking about. And then he looked at the heavy walnut door in front of them, the raised bronze lettering announcing the executive offices. “In there?”
“Where else? You told me there wouldn’t be anything in Richard’s lab, and I expect you’re right. Uncle Stephen’s office is the best place to start.”
Uncle Stephen’s office, he thought glumly. He’d been hoping to back her into a corner in some empty little lab. “All right,” he said easily, reaching for the doorknob. The heavy brass handle didn’t budge.
Jane was watching him, her eyes steady and curious behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “I don’t suppose you brought a key for this one?”
“No sarcasm,” he uttered. “We’ll have to be inventive.” The idea of breaking into an office with his gold American Express card would have appealed to his sense of humor if he had any kind of assurance he’d be successful. He pulled the thin sliver of plastic from his wallet, squatted down, and tried to look as if he knew what the hell he was doing.
It didn’t help having Jane breathing down his neck. He could catch a slight trace of the perfume she was wearing, something faintly flowery that was nevertheless more sensuous than innocent. He spared himself a brief glance over his shoulder at her intent face. Plain Jane indeed. He wanted to push her over onto the too-expensive carpeting that lined the hallway and forget about her damned brother.
He turned his attention back to the task at hand. He heard the little click, and ignored it, refusing to believe it would be that easy.
“You did it,” Jane whispered, reaching past him and turning the handle. The weighted door swung open.
“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.”