A Touch of Minx (6 page)

"At about two-forty," the driver returned.

"Thanks." He and Tom had probably gone golfing again. Personally she didn't see the point of hitting a little ball around a park unless there was loot in the holes, but Rick enjoyed it. And he'd taken her advice to go have some fun.

Smiling, she headed upstairs to change out of her business clothes. And then she went up to the third floor and the long art gallery there. Long, floor-length windows lined one side of the hall, while suits of armor stood on the other side, other war-related artifacts scattered among them.

This was where she and Rick had first met. Of course she'd been trying to rob him at the time, and he'd returned home early from a trip to Stuttgart in time to get himself involved in an explosion and a triple-cross that had nearly killed both of them. "Ah, the good old days," she murmured, grinning.

A large part of the gallery had been replaced after the explosion, and several of Rick's pieces had been damaged or destroyed. Anyone coming for a first look wouldn't have any idea—not only did Rick have enough antiques and pieces of art to keep several houses full, but he had very sharp taste about what looked good where.

She sat cross-legged on the floor beside a set of samurai armor and looked through the magazines. A couple of the houses in the layouts featured Japanese and other Far Eastern decor, but she knew enough about the items she saw in the photos to eliminate all of them. People showed off their best staff for a photo shoot, and while she didn't expect to see the Yoritomo armor, there wasn't anything close to that monetary value.

"Damn." Okay, no suspects, but at least she had six non-suspects. That was a help, dull and mundane as finding it out was.

"How was the camera installation?"

She jumped, looking up as Rick topped the stairs. Her breath always caught when she first got a look at him—if she'd been the girly, giggly type it would have been flat-out embarrassing. Wherever he'd been, he still wore the jeans and gray T-shirt with a black open shirt over that, a pair of sockless loafers on his feet. "Lucrative," she returned, standing up to grin at him. "When I told Gwyneth that my appearance would cost her an extra grand, she was too snooty to turn me down, so I stood there for two hours and ate her cashews."

Rick chuckled. "You still want spaghetti, though, I assume?"

"That's a different stomach." She slid a hand around his waist. "What did you do this afternoon, stud muffin?"

He closed his arm over her shoulders and drew her closer to kiss the top of her head. "More golf."

"Did Donner lose?"

"Yes."

"Excellent."

"Any leads on the school or the armor thefts?"

"Some ideas on the school. And I know a couple of collectors who didn't take the armor."

After a moment Rick let her loose and walked over to one of his two prime suits of samurai armor. He'd gotten pretty good at letting her go before she started to get squirrelly about it, but she'd been working at stuff, too, at touching him before he had to reach out to her. She and Martin had left her mom when she'd been five. She didn't remember anything about unconditional acceptance before then, and after that her job had been to learn everything she could to be good at what she did. Better than Martin, eventually. Rick was a whole new chapter; hell, a whole new life.

"The armor Joseph wants you to look for is from the late Heian period," he said, half to himself. "This is about three hundred years later, from the middle Muromachi period."

She nodded, strolling over to join him. "Viscanti seat me the exhibit book and a couple of photos. How much do these things weigh?"

"About sixty pounds. It's mostly metal and leather. Samurai fought from horseback then, and the saddle supported some of the armor's weight."

Samantha grinned again. "Look at you, knowing all kinds of stuff about ancient Japan. Way to go, Brit."

"I collect what I like," he said with a shrug.

"That's kind of what I wanted to ask you about," she said, running a finger down the overlapping plates of steel that would have protected a samurai's upper arm while he shot arrows at people. "People collect what they like. Do you know of anybody else who likes warrior stuff? Japanese in particular?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "So now we're suspecting my acquaintances?"

"Your acquaintances have money. Somebody wanted the armor and swords of Japan's first shogun. That's not a random snatch-and-run. This is somebody who places a lot of importance on this stuff."

"Mm hm. Let's discuss it over dinner, shall we? And then I'll show you my sword."

With a chuckle she looped her arm through his, guiding him back toward the main staircase. "I've seen your sword. Very impressive."

"Saucy," he returned. At the top of the stairs he pulled her to a stop, took her chin in his fingers, and leaned down to kiss her softly on the mouth.

Her toes practically curled. "What was that for?" she asked, after she cleared her throat.

Blue eyes regarded her. "Because I love you."

"I love you, too."

He smiled. "Good. I am very charming."

"And full of it. Take me to spaghetti dinner, or lose me forever."

Well, he'd put one past her, which didn't happen often. Tom had agreed to admit to a loss on the golf course, and if anyone asked her, Katie had spent the afternoon at home relaxing. Now all he needed to do was wait for Harry Winston to call and tell him that the ring he'd commissioned was ready, and hope that the company valued him enough as a customer that they wouldn't leak any information to the press about Rick Addison ordering a custom-madefive-million-dollar diamond ring. And then he needed to decide how and when. How and when, and whether proposing to her would destroy what they'd managed to find over the past year.

"What are we watching tonight?" she asked, walking into the spacious sitting area of their master bedroom suite and holding a bowl of popcorn and two sodas cradled in her arms.

"Something in honor of your latest gig, as you call it."

"Godzilla: Tokyo S.O.S.?" she suggested, plopping herself onto the couch.

Richard shook his head. "The Seven Samurai''

"Kurosawa? You rock."

Grabbing up the remote, he sank back beside her. "I've been thinking about what you said regarding collections and collectors," he said as he turned on the plasma television and the DVD player. "What if the thief was just some fan of Shogun and happened to grab two crates that coincidentally both had Yoritomo items in them?"

"According to Viscanti the crates were on two separate pallets. Whoever took them would've had to find them on the bills of lading and then locate each, box in a stack with nineteen others."

"Very well. A professional, and therefore probably hired for those particular items."

Samantha tossed a piece of popcorn in the air and caught it in her mouth. "So who do you know besides you who collects samurai stuff? Somebody here in the States."

Richard helped himself to a handful of the popped kernels. "Tell me again why you think it's somebody I might know?"

"Ten years ago the exhibit had stops in Tokyo, Hamburg, Paris, London, New York, Chicago, and San Francisco," she returned, snuggling against his shoulder. "The stuff went missing in New York, which to me says that's when somebody decided they couldn't live without it—so that's where they got a good look at it. So East Coast residence and rich is my guess."

Remarkable. "I suppose I could be considered a suspect, then," he mused.

She shook her head. "I've already cleared you," she said between mouthfuls. "Only one thief allowed in the house."

"Oh, so there are rules now?"

"Ha ha, funny man. Who else collects?"

It was a good question. He did know most of the legitimate collectors around, mostly because he'd bid against them on items. lapanese collectibles had a small but fierce following—his two pieces of armor and half dozen daitu and wakizashi swords had mostly been to round out his ancient warrior collection, but there were people who collected nothing else.

"Okay," he mused, ticking off the names on his fingers, "Ron Mosley collects, and—"

"Not Mosley," she interrupted. "I saw his spread in Fabulous Homes. He doesn't own anything even close to the value of that armor."

"Okay. There's Yvette and August Picault, Gabriel Toombs, and Pascale Hasan."

Beneath his arm, Samantha stiffened a little. "Gabriel Toombs and the Picaults both have houses here in Palm Beach."

"Yes, they do. And we all have townhouses in Manhattan. And I'm certain there are a couple of others."

"Don't get all high-and-mighty on me. You'd be surprised how many of your acquaintances have sent work my way. In my old line of work, that is."

"Close to the same number you've stolen from?"

"Probably," she returned, surprisingly without heat. "Somebody wants something, somebody else loses something. It kind of has to work that way."

He gazed at her profile. In those clothes, in this house, she looked like she belonged here. She blended in anywhere; that was part of why she was—had been—so successful. But in this setting it would have been easy to forget that until a year ago she'd been a high-class cat burglar and had made an exceptional living at it.

"Have you worked for or against anybody I just mentioned?"

"Toombs," she returned after a moment. "He wanted a

Japanese war horse's bridle, of all things. I tracked one down for him and made fifty grand."

Alarm sped his heart. "So he knows you're a thief?"

"No. He knows that Stoney's a procurement agent."

"Was a procurement agent, now retired."

"Well, now working in security. Like me." With a sigh she sank back again. "Looks like I'll be checking out Toombs."

"Checking him out legally," he said carefully.

"Mm hm."

"Samantha, Toombs acquires weapons because he thinks he's some sort of Spartacus reincarnation or the Japanese equivalent thereof."

He felt her shoulders shake as she laughed silently. "'Spartacus'?"

"It was the first name that came to mind."

"I don't know if I'd admit to that, Sparky. Maybe he thinks he's the reincarnation of Minamoto Yoritomo."

"Which doesn't say much for his mental stabil—"

"Look, I'm going with what I know. Toombs spends most of his time here in Palm Beach. If he's got the armor, he'll have it here with him so he can admire it. Whoever has it, it's going to be where they spend the most time. That's just… human nature, I guess. You don't take that huge a risk and spend that much money without being able to enjoy the results."

"So thieves are predictable?"

"Everybody's predictable, once you learn their habits. Except for you, of course."

He gave a half grin. "You're just trying to flatter me, now."

"Is it working?"

"It always works. Sam—"

"Shh," she interrupted, holding the popcorn bowl up for him. "I like this part."

Richard ate popcorn and watched the movie with her. Only later did it occur to him that she'd never actually given her word to do her investigating legally. She had good instincts, but she also had a very deep craving for danger and excitement. Until he knew which Sam would win out, he needed to keep an eye on her—something that wasn't easy even under the best of circumstances. Thankfully he enjoyed a challenge.

When Samantha opened her eyes to look at the clock beside the bed, the time read nearly three o'clock in the morning. Stifling a groan, she slowly and silently rolled out of bed, grabbed up her emergency clothes from under the night stand, and slipped into the bathroom to dress in the dark. That done, she leaned back into the sleeping area to see Rick on his back, his chest moving slowly up and down, his face relaxed. So far, so good.

Given that it was the weekend, she could probably go by Olivia's school any time she wanted. With the climate of suspicion right now concerning people who hung around elementary schools, though, middle of the night seemed better.

Halfway out the suite's door, though, she paused. If Rick woke up to find her gone he would freak, and while there were instances that were worth the trouble, this really wasn't one of them. "Shit," she muttered, and went back into the bedroom.

"Rick," she murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He woke up with a start. "What?" he asked, sitting up in an explosion of sheets. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm going to look around Olivia's school, just to see how easy it would be for a hack to get in."

Rick rubbed a hand across his eyes. "I thought you said it was probably an inside job."

"It probably is. I'm just going to confirm that."

"Hold on. I'll go with you."

"No, you won't. This is the easiest thing I've done in a year, even with being retired. I'll be back in like half an hour." Samantha leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

For a second he looked at her, and she wondered whether he would demand that he go along anyway, either because he was Sir Galahad and needed to protect her, or because he didn't trust her judgment or abilities. Finally, though, he lay back again. "Don't blow up anything, then."