A Touch of Minx (5 page)

"You're very shiny," he said in his smooth British accent.

She laughed between her subsiding huffs and puffs. "What I am is sweaty. Stand back; I may be lethal."

"I've never doubted that." He gestured her toward the bathroom. "I have some information for you. Do you want it pre-or post-shower?"

"'Is it life-threatening?" she asked, wondering if any other couples regularly started their twenty questions games by asking that. Probably not. Trying to level out her breathing, Samantha turned on the shower.

"No, not life-threatening," he answered, hopping backward onto the counter as she tested the water and then stepped inside. Ahh. Showers were why humans qualified as civilized.

"Well, that's a nice change, isn't it?" She dumped shampoo onto her palm and went to work on her hair. "Hey, can we skip the Bahamas tonight? I ran across Hans when I came into the house, and he mentioned something about spaghetti. I love his spaghetti." And she also wanted to drive by Livia's school and see how hard it would be for an amateur to sneak in after hours.

"I would never presume to separate a woman from her pasta."

She chuckled again. This was much better than when he'd been testy earlier. Not that she didn't enjoy arguing with him, but she liked to know what they were fighting about. And tomorrow she'd promised to show him her garden sketches. Yipes. "Okay, what's the information?" she asked, before a panic attack could hit.

Rick's figure shifted outside the frosted glass of the shower wall. "It can wait. I'm fantasizing right now."

"Come in here and say that." Sex would distract her. Sex with Rick would distract anybody.

"In all fairness, my love," his deep voice drawled, "if we have sex and then I tell you the news, you'll be mad at me twice over."

That did not sound good. Samantha wiped shampoo off her face and leaned out of the door. "Then stop fantasizing and tell me, or I'll be mad at you a half-dozen more times just for the hell of it."

Rick gazed at her for a moment. "Walter called me looking for you. Gwyneth Mallorey wants you to be there when they install the cameras at her house, to make certain the walls don't get damaged."

Great. More fun for Jellicoe. "Okay. Why is this making me mad? Because Stoney told you? That's between him and me." And Stoney would hear about it. She didn't call Rick's ex to give Patty tidbits about Rick's business dealings.

His eyebrows drew together. "It makes you mad because she's treating you like a lay person."

"She hired me. I work for her." Samantha blinked away a water droplet and tried to think like Rick. "You don't like that she's ordering me around, so you figure I won't like it, either. Right?"

"Partially. Good enough." He stood again, and pulled his gray T-shirt off over his head. "No reason to hold off on the sex, then."

Samantha pushed her palm against his bare chest as he approached, keeping him at arm's length. "No way, Brit. What's bugging you?" He was wearing his you're-not-the-boos-of-me face, so she went over it again herself. Let's see. Rick hears that some woman is trying to order me around. Being a knight in shining armor for real, he doesn't like that I answer to anybody but him."

"That is not the—"

"Hush. I'm being you. Samantha and I are a couple," she went on, assuming his accent, "and treating her badly equals treating me badly. If Sam's a servant, I'm a servant. And wait a minute, I'm much better than these blighters. I could swat them like bugs." From his darkening expression, she was on to something. "You think that she put me in a position that makes you look bad, don't you?"

"I never said any such thing."

"But you thought it, didn't you?" Fucking wonderful. Work she didn't particularly like but that he considered safe was acceptable to him, except that he didn't like when she contracted with people who moved in his circle. Removing her hand, Samantha retreated into the shower.

"Samantha."

"Gee, it must suck to be you," she continued, going back to washing her hair. "All powerful and stuck with somebody who drags you down. It's even funnier when you think that if I used my ill-gotten gains I could buy and sell some of these people, too."

He yanked the shower door open again. "No, I don't like it when some wife of a wholesale refrigerator manufacturer thinks she can make herself feel more important by asking ridiculous things of you." Rick unfastened his belt and jeans and shoved them down, kicking out of them. "You're with me, and you're doing security work to ease your conscience and my blood pressure."

"My conscience is just fine, thank you very much."

"My blood pressure, then."

Rick stepped into the shower, closed the door behind him, and grabbed both sides of her face. Kissing her hard, he pressed her back against the far wall. His blood pressure seemed pretty good, because it was obviously all heading away from his brain. Samantha moaned as his palms grazed her slick breasts and then came around for more.

He trailed his mouth down her chin to her throat, where he licked and nibbled until her legs felt ready to give out. Every time she tried to touch him, slide her palms down his chest, he elbowed her hands out of the way. God, it frustrated the hell out of her when he did that, making sex all about her, mainly because she liked the knowledge that she drove him as crazy as he drove her.

His mouth closed over her left breast, his tongue teasing at her nipple. "Rick," she rasped, "you had me at 'blood pressure.' Stop fooling around."

When he chuckled, the sound reverberated into her chest. The sensation practically gave her an orgasm right there. And then he slid a hand down her belly, through her curls, and curved a finger up inside her. She gasped, throwing her head back and nearly braining herself on the toiletry shelf in the corner.

"Sorry," he murmured, turning his attention to her other breast. "I forget my own power sometimes."

"You lying British bastard," she growled, finally pushing past his arms to slide her hands around his shoulders. She dug in with the pads of her fingers, holding him close against her, skin to skin, warm water cascading over both of them.

"I want you, Sam," he said, pushing against her hold to raise his head and take her mouth again. "I always want you."

"There's probably something wrong with us," she panted in agreement, shifting to tangle her fingers through his damp black hair. He'd let it grow out a little; not enough to be considered shaggy, but stylishly so that the ends brushed the collar of his suit jacket. She liked it like that. A. lot.

Rick swept his hands down her back, cupped her bottom, and lifted her up. Samantha laughed again, sweeping her legs around his hips and locking her ankles as he shoved her against the shower wall again, impaling her with his cock. God, she loved when he did that, like he couldn't stand the delay of foreplay and teasing and just wanted her.

"I don't know about something being wrong with us," Rick returned, beginning his rhythmic humping. "Everything feels pretty damned good to me."

"I have to agree with that." Breathing hard, losing the power of speech, Samantha leaned her damp cheek against Rick's and kissed his ear as she held on to him. Slowly she drew tighter and tighter, reveling in the feel of his body against hers, inside hers, until with a half shriek she came. "There you go," he breathed, lowering his head to her shoulder and thrusting faster. A minute later he gave a deep groan and convulsed against her. "And there you go," she said, kissing him again. Slowly he lowered her feet back to the floor. Sliding his arms around her, he held her close. Samantha smiled, listening to the hard beat of his heart against hers. This was it—the thing. The warmth and safety Rick gave to her. The thing she'd never had until she'd met him, and now didn't think she could breathe without. Whatever the thing was that she provided him—and she still wasn't entirely certain what it was—she knew very well how she felt about Rick Addison.

"I love you," she murmured, kissing his shoulder.

"I love you."

"And now I have to get dressed and go see Gwyneth Mallorey."

With obvious reluctance he released her to wash the remaining suds out of her hair. "To quit?" he suggested.

"To tell her that my being there will cost her an additional thousand bucks, and then to stand there while my guys install her security cameras."

"Mm hm. That's good, but maybe you shouldn't work for people we socialize with."

"Then I'll have to take more jobs from Stinky Pete the Sausage Man and Bob the Builder." Eyeing him, she shut off the water and led the way out of the shower. "My ego's okay with this, Rick. If yours isn't, that's not my problem."

"I know. I'm just trying to figure out how I'm going to respond when Gwyneth stands up and publicly compliments your work in assembling her security system."

Samantha frowned as she picked up a towel and tossed him a second one. "Say that you hope my system works as well for her as her husband's refrigerator has worked for us."

His sensuous lips twitched. "That might serve."

"You work for a living too, you know. Somebody could just as easily compliment their plumbing joists from Kingdom Fittings, and you'd have to say thank you."

"It's not the same thing."

"Yes, it is. And I'm good at what I do. So stop worrying about how you'll look around me, or stop being around me." She wrapped the towel around her hair and headed for the bedroom. "Besides, don't forget that one day it might not be about security alarms. One day Detective Frank Castillo might come by with handcuffs and arrest me for stealing a Klimt or a Monet. You'd be better off spending some time thinking about how you'd respond to that." He took her elbow. "Don't even jest about it."

"I'm not jesting. If you're worried about PR, Rick, I'm not the best choice for you to have around. I thought you would have realized that by now."

Saturday, 2:18p.m.

Richard released Samantha's arm and watched as she pulled on a lacy blue bra and a matching thong. She was absolutely correct about her work and his work, and it simply wasn't like him to lose sight of the larger picture, as it were. She was gainfully employed, and he was complaining that the jobs weren't as lofty as he'd like. Idiot. A few months ago he'd been worried that she would reject any gainful employment at all for a quick, exciting, and illegal job somewhere. Bloody muggins.

"You're the perfect choice for me," he said aloud. "I apologize."

She glanced over at him. "I'm not perfect," she said smoothly, stepping into a pair of jeans, "but I am kinda cool. Don't worry about it. You were wrong; I was right. I rule the kingdom."

Richard snorted. "You had something you wanted to ask me about Japanese antiquities?"

"Mm hm. Put your clothes on, first. You're very distracting with just that towel on."

Obviously he hadn't fumbled badly enough to make her angry, though that was pure and simple good luck on his part. If he was looking for signs that she still had her doubts about their relationship, he wasn't finding any. Richard gave a slow smile as he exchanged the towel for boxers and jeans. Rather, if he was looking for signs that she meant to stay with him, he was finding them. And that was a very fortunate thing as far as he was concerned.

"Better?" he asked, fastening his pants.

Samantha gave a quicksilver grin. "Not necessarily. But I'd like to have our conversation in your armor gallery. Can we do it after dinner?"

"Certainly. Do you want me to keep you company at the Malloreys'?"

"I don't think so. You just don't know what to do with yourself when you don't have work, do you? It's called relaxing. Taking it easy. Call Donner. Maybe there's a ball game you can attend or something. Or golf those other nine holes you missed yesterday."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" he asked, collecting his gray T-shirt.

"Let's just say that I don't want you sharing your opinion of Gwyneth Mallorey with her until after I get paid. Whoever said words can never hurt me obviously never had an argument with you."

That seemed like a compliment, although she probably hadn't meant it as one. "Very well. I'll call Tom and keep myself occupied. Perhaps Mike is playing ball today."

"He's not. He's having dinner at his friend David's house."

Richard paused. "And how do you know that?"

"I'm looking for Anatomy Man, remember? I had to go talk to my client." She glanced at him as she glided on her deodorant. "Mike's a good kid, isn't he?"

"Yes. Why?"

Samantha shrugged. "Just a question. I don't know kids very well."

"The Donner kids certainly like you."

"I didn't say I didn't like them. I said I don't get them."

That made sense, given her so-called upbringing. "Ah. Any clues so far?"

"It's too early to tell."

Samantha went into her walk-in closet and reappeared a moment later pulling on a yellow blouse and a black dress jacket. Christ, this was strange, her going off to meet a client and him scrambling to keep himself occupied. She was right again. He needed to learn how to relax a little. Of course, enjoying the moment was considerably easier when she was present to enjoy it with him, but he could cope for an afternoon. He'd use it as a character-building exercise.

Tucking in her blouse, Samantha lifted up on her tiptoes to kiss him softly on the mouth. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

He grinned. "That doesn't eliminate much. Good luck with Gwyneth Mallorey."

"Luck's for schmucks, but thanks."

Richard walked her down to the garage and held open the door of her blue Bentley for her. He'd given her the car a year ago, and had offered to purchase her a new one since then, but she'd turned him down. Apparently the Bentley was the first car she'd ever actually owned legitimately, and she didn't want to give it up, even for a new model. As soon as she left, he pulled out his cell phone again and hit one of the speed dials. After two rings the line clicked open. "Hey, Rick," Tom's voice came. "I don't know where Jellicoe is, if that's what you're calling about."

"It's not."

"Oh. Okay. Problems with the LAX negotiations?"

"No, everything's fine. What are you up to right now?"

"Hold on a sec." Dimly on the open line he heard what sounded like a radio deejay. "Okay, what's up?"

Richard held the phone away from his ear for a second to look at it. "Nothing. What are you doing right now?"

"I'm regluing the leg on a barstool," Tom finally answered. "No more WWE wrestling for Mike this month. Now do I get to ask what you're doing?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Really? Where's Jellicoe, since she's not here?"

"Meeting a client. So Katie's at home, is she?" Richard continued, ignoring the sudden accelerated beating of his heart. Why not do this today? He'd been wanting to for weeks, and Samantha had told him to go enjoy himself. This wasn't what she would have had in mind, but now that the idea had occurred to him, it seemed like a bloody fine plan.

"Katie's here. Mike's at his friend David's, Livia went to her friend Tiffany's house, and Chris is at Yale. Anything else?"

"Might I speak to your wife?" Reminding himself that Tom was his closest friend and that as an attorney he was obsessed with minute details, he took a breath and counted to five.

"Okay, but now I have to go back into the house. Hold on."

"Good God," Rick muttered.

"I heard that," came back to him. "Here she is."

"Who am I talking to?" Katie Donner's voice came in her charming Southern accent. "Rick? Hi, Rick."

"Katie. I was wondering if you had a few hours this afternoon to help me out with something."

"Sure. What do you need?"

"I need you to come with me."

Silence. "With Sam?"

"She's busy elsewhere. Might I pick you up in twenty minutes?"

"Urn, okay. What should I tell Tom?"

"That we're going somewhere I won't disclose to you until you get in the car with me."

"Hold on a sec." Even with her hand over the speaker he could make out "secret" and "sex" and "rendezvous" as she translated the conversation to her husband. If the Donners hadn't been high school sweethearts, and if he hadn't known the two of them for a little over ten years, even the joking implication would have made him uncomfortable. As it was, he grinned and shook his head.

"Tom wants to know if he can come," Katie finally said, her voice amused.

Bloody wonderful. "Only if he swears to keep his opinion on any and all related subjects to himself."

She relayed the information again. "He agrees. Am I supposed to abide by the same demands?"

Rick popped open the lockbox on the garage wall and pulled out the keys to his green Jaguar. "Absolutely not. I want your opinion. See you in twenty."

"We'll be ready. And don't worry, I'll make Tom change his shirt first."

He didn't want to know what Donner might have been wearing to prompt that comment. Instead he debated whether he should change his destination now that Tom had invited himself along. Turning him down would have been simple, but however much he publicly disagreed with his friend's assessment of Samantha and her character, Donner's was the only voice of reason he had where she was concerned.

"Do you want me to drive you, sir?" his driver, Ben, said from the near corner of the garage where he was stacking clean rags in a cabinet.

That would definitely be more convenient, but it would also mean a witness in the household—another member of the staff who'd been charmed by Samantha almost from the moment she'd arrived at Solano Dorado. "I'll manage, Ben. Thank you."

Twenty minutes later he pulled into the Donners' driveway in front of their nice two-story house in the West Palm Beach suburbs. Middle-to upper-class families lived everywhere here, with their two or three children and pets. They even had block parties at least twice a year. Domesticity. He hadn't used to think much of the condition, until recently. Until Samantha. Now, though, seeing the trio of helmeted children riding their bikes up the street actually made him feel warm and fuzzy. Odd, that.

A few seconds later Katie and Tom emerged, and Tom squeezed his long legs into the back seat so his wife could sit up front.

"Okay, do we get to know where we're going now?" Tom asked as they headed toward 1-95 south and Bal Harbour.

"Yes. We're going to Harry Winston."

He felt the seat jolt as Tom straightened. "Harry Winston?" the attorney repeated, his voice squeaking. "The jewelers?"

"Yes. To look at rings."

Samantha sat at Stoney's Formica-topped kitchen table, her head propped in her arms, and watched his sliding-eyes cat clock tick off the minutes. In front of the counter a few feet away Stoney paced, his phone to his ear and his expression, well… stony.

"You're a real piece of work, Merrado," he grumbled. "I told you I'd pay you for a good lead. Those are directions, not a lead. And I don't need your help to go there." Swearing under his breath, he hung up the phone. She lifted her head. "Directions?"

"On where I can stuff my—well, you get the picture."

"Shit," Samantha muttered. "These people used to fall all over themselves to work with us."

"You don't exactly top the list in Thief of the Month magazine anymore, honey. You helped put Veittsreig and his crew in jail. Fences don't make money when their acquirers are in prison."

"Even scary, gun-toting acquirers who tried to feed me a bullet?"

"Even those. We aren't a discriminating bunch, really." She sent him a grim smile. "You are. Now, anyway."

"Yep." He frowned. "And so are they, now, since nobody wants to talk to me anymore. Not about new thefts, or old ones, or which rich black hat is collecting what."

"So nothing on who's collected samurai artifacts in the past, present, or future."

"Nope."

"What do you know, then? I've commissioned for pieces like that. So did Martin, back in the day."

Stoney cleared his throat. "There were a couple of regulars, it's been a while, though. Since my memory's not as good as yours, I'll have to look through my files."

"Need any help?"

"Not even you get to know where I keep my client files."

"You don't trust me?" She put a hand over her heart. "Me?"

"I don't trust that you'll never use anything you see against somebody we worked for. You remember everything you see and hear, Sam. So if you don't look in the first place, I won't have to worry about some of those really scary guys you stole for getting a visit from you and taking the opportunity to blow your head off. Or my head off, since you live behind big walls and I don't."

Frowning, she pushed to her feet. "So this is for my own good?"

"And mine."

She could probably argue him into giving her a look, but he had a point. She'd turned down security jobs for people she'd robbed in the past, and she already knew a few unsavory things about some of Rick's business and social acquaintances, things he had no idea about. Maybe ignorance would at least save her from a sleepless night once in a while. "Okay. I'll see you Monday, then. But call me if you think of anything."

"I will."

Blowing him a kiss, she left the nondescript house perched at the edge of Pompano Beach and climbed back into her really out-of-place Bentley. Halfway back to Solano Dorado she detoured to one of the chain bookstores to pick up a handful of magazines devoted to showcasing the interior designs of the rich and famous. Stoney might not have any leads about who collected samurai artifacts, but with any luck she could narrow it down herself.

Most people didn't just randomly collect. They collected things they liked—Impressionist art, Greek pottery, Renaissance sculpture. A fan of Picasso probably wouldn't be moved to commission for the theft of a thousand-year-old set of Japanese armor and samurai swords. And anybody who could commission for that would be the kind of person who could afford the cool stuff that landed them in interior design magazines.

It was a long shot, but hey, she lived by long shots. Back at the estate she keyed the front gate open and drove up the long, winding drive amid the swaying palm trees. Even with all of the traveling they'd done over the past year, her business was here in Palm Beach, and she and Rick had spent enough time in Florida that he would have to pay a substantial tax penalty.

She probably would, too, if the government ever found out about any of her income other than that from Jellicoe Security. Her Milan retirement fund, savings from all of her burglaries and other various bad deeds, lay safely in a numbered account in Switzerland. Though she'd been dipping into it in order to set up her business, she wasn't volunteering any information about it to anyone.

Ben Hinnock met her just inside the garage and took charge of the Bentley for her. Despite the number of cars in the bat cave, as she'd begun calling the stadium-size car storage facility, every one of them had its place. "Ben, what time did Rick leave?" she asked, noting the absence of the Jag.