A Touch of Minx (9 page)

Pendleton looked at Samantha. "Which gentleman will you give the honor of escorting you, Miss Samantha?" he drawled.

If Pendleton wanted a fight, Richard would have been happy to accommodate him. On the other hand, he had to give the bloke credit for looking out for Samantha's well-being. He could respect a gentleman, even when the fellow stood against him.

"It's okay, Aubrey," Samantha said, moving around to the passenger door of the Barracuda as Richard pulled it open for her. "I'll see you back at the office in a little while."

Inclining his head, the walker slid behind the wheel of the Bentley and drove oft". Smart fellow. "Shall we?' 'Rick gestured her to climb into the car, and then closed the door behind her.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," she grumbled, pulling on her seat belt as he sat down behind the wheel.

"Do what?" he asked, starting the car. "Open the door for you?"

"I know you can't help that, Galahad," she retorted. "No, I mean I wish you wouldn't act like you're my dad and you caught me breaking curfew or something. Because I'm pretty sure I never had a curfew."

"I have no desire to be Martin Jellicoe," he muttered as they roared into the street. Her father was, as far as he could determine, the very last person he ever wanted back in her life. "You didn't need to lie to me about whom you were dining with."

She folded her arms across her pert tits. "And when did you decide to lunch with the Picaults, Lord Hypocritical?"

"After I stalked out of Tom's office and you said you were celebrating Boss's Day. I thought perhaps I could lend a hand."

Samantha lowered her arms again. "Back the bus up there, Brit. You did what?"

Richard blew out his breath. Bloody hell "We're talking about lunch."

"You're talking about lunch. I'm talking about why you stalked out of Donner's office," she insisted. "What were you arguing about? Me, right? I thought I'd been pretty normal and humdrum lately."

"You are never humdrum," he retorted, seeking about for an excuse to argue with Tom that didn't include the questioning of his wisdom in purchasing her an engagement ring. "And it was business. I think he feels a little threatened now that I've hired John Stillwell to help represent my interests."

"Well, Donner's stupid, then. He knows how loyal you are to your friends, and that you have way more than enough business to keep ten Donners busy—even though the idea of more than one of him really scares me."

"Multiple Toms?" Richard went along with the meandering tale, even though it had nothing to do with Samantha and her insistence on putting herself in potential danger for a paycheck. It explained the argument with Tom, and that was what he needed.

She gave an exaggerated shudder. "Yipes. That'll give me nightmares. What were you mad about, though? You're the one who stalked out, you said."

Sometimes Samantha's overlarge share of intelligence and perceptiveness could be a pain in the arse. "His assumptions, I suppose. Now about Toombs. Next time you decide to go to lunch with a possibly dangerous man, will you please tell me first?"

"I had Aubrey with me."

"And what would Aubrey do if push came to shove, anecdote him to death?"

"Fine. I'll try to remember to tell you first," she conceded with obvious reluctance. "As long as the same goes for you."

"Deal."

As they drove along, he could feel her gaze still on him. He tried to ignore it, but ignoring Samantha was like ignoring sunlight.

"What?" he finally demanded.

"You need to go slap Donner on the butt or whatever you guys do to solve arguments."

"I'll manage my own friendships, thank you very much. And you don't even like Tom. You should be pleased that we've had a difference of opinion."

"I thought so, too," she returned slowly, "but I'm not. Except for Stoney, I never really had friends until I met you. I like having you as a friend. Friends are cool, and important. And I would guess that best friends, people who tell you things nobody else would, are pretty rare."

As they stopped for a red light, Rick leaned over and kissed her. "Tom is a very good friend," he murmured. "You are my best friend. And a very unusual and fascinating woman, Samantha Elizabeth Jellicoe."

She kissed him back, smiling. "And don't you forget it. Besides, I'm working for Olivia, and if you and Tom are fighting, I'll never get in to see her."

"Are you so certain that's a bad thing? You've been worried about your reputation. I would assume, then, that you don't want it spread about that you're helping a ten-year-old find Anatomy Man."

"Clark the Anatomy Man."

Richard lifted an eyebrow. "He has a name?"

"Apparently Livia's teacher, Miss Barlow, thinks he looks like Clark Kent."

"I find myself fascinated."

"If I find him, I'll bring him by and introduce you. You superheroes should all know each other, anyway."

"Speaking of which," he said, unable to help his abrupt smile, "I had John Stillwell track down an item for me during his Los Angeles trip."

"A bottle of Botox?"

"It's behind your seat. Another anniversary present, I suppose."

"Okay," she said slowly, and undidher seat belt to lean around behind her seat. "Oh…my…God," she giggled.

Actually giggled, as she freed the clear-plastic fronted box.

"He roars, and walks with the remote control."

Samantha settled the two feet of boxed Godzilla onto her lap, refastening her seat belt. "He roars?"

"There are some mini frightened Tokyo residents taped to the inside of the box. And the background forms into a skyscraper he can knock over."

"You got me a Godzilla, you handsome devil, you." She stretched over and kissed him soundly on the cheek. "Thank you!"

"My pleasure." He laughed as she pulled the monster out of the box and made him roar while they drove back to Worth Avenue. He probably could have forgone the hundred-thousand-dollar nursery gift certificate and just gotten the toy, and she would have been as happy. Happier, because Godzilla could travel, and the garden couldn't.

Monday, 9:49 p.m.

"I'll be back in a moment, Ben," Rick said, opening the door of the stretch Mercedes S600 as soon as it came to a stop at the curb. Calling first probably would have been a good idea, but he still wasn't certain what he would say, and direct confrontation yielded much more interesting and telling results, anyway.

A few seconds after he rang the Donners' doorbell the porch light flipped on, and he heard the muffled voice of fifteen-year-old Mike calling out his identity, followed by the more distant reply of Tom. The Donners had best not leave him standing there on the bloody porch.

As he was beginning to debate whether ringing a second time would be a show of weakness, the door opened. "What?" Tom asked, leaning against the frame and blocking him from entering the house.

"Get a jacket," Richard returned in the same tone.

"Why?"

"We're going out."

Tom looked at him for a minute, then reached back to grab a denim jacket from behind the door. "I'm going out," he called over his shoulder.

"Don't kill anybody," Katie's voice came.

"You told her?" Richard asked, leading the way to the car.

"I told her we had a difference of opinion. Did you tell Jellicoe?"

"Kind of. I didn't think she needed to know the details."

"I bet she's pissed that you're here, then."

As Richard pulled open the rear door of the Mercedes, he paused. "She made me come, actually," he said conversationally. "Apparently close friends who speak their minds are rare and wondrous and to be treasured beyond all reasonable expectation. And I'm supposed to slap your arse, but I assume that's an American thing and we can forgo it."

"Okay," Tom returned warily, climbing into the limo. "Where are we going, then?"

"A place we can get drunk without making the cover of the Inquirer tomorrow."

"I'm all for that."

"I thought so. Just keep in mind that I'm here because Samantha refused to have sex with me until we made up." Well, she hadn't precisely said that, but he understood the significance of the sweatshirt and ponytail and the thick book on Japanese history across her lap.

"After I get some beers in me I'll think about it."

"Fair enough."

"And if I'm getting drunk, I'm probably going to be late getting to the office tomorrow," Tom added, sliding over to give Richard room.

"Shut up before you make me slap your arse."

"You'll have to get a lot of beer in me before that."

"Don't you know it."

Samantha reached for the television remote and switched the channel to CSI:Miami. Their forensics was a little ahead of the reality curve, and that Horatio guy drove her nuts with his monotone and the hands-on-his-hips thing, but she liked the problem-solving approach.

As she turned the page of the book she'd been perusing, the house phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. The Donners' home number. Maybe that meant that Donner and Rick had made up already. She presumed that was why Katie hadn't called her about lunch—if their men were on the outs, they probably wouldn't be eating together. Of course it could also be Livia, asking for an update on her case.

She picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hi, Sam. It's Kate Donner."

"Hi, Katie," she returned, a little relieved that she didn't have to tell the little girl that she hadn't already located Anatomy Man. "Rick showed up over there, then? You haven't called the cops on him, have you?"

Katie chuckled. "No. They went off in the limo together, I assume to go drinking and play pool."

With a small sigh, Samantha smiled. However she felt about Donner, Rick liked having him around, and that meant the lawyer needed to be around. "Good."

"So I was wondering if you might be free for lunch tomorrow."

"Sure. Cafe l'Europe?"

"Ah, calzone. With real cheese. Do you want to meet, or should I pick you up?"

Katie sounded like she was ready to go right then. "I'll be at the office, so let's just meet there," Samanfha said, her smile deepening. "What time's good for you?"

"How about noon? That'll give me time afterward to go grocery shopping before the kids get home. I'll make the reservations."

"I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Samantha hung up the phone and sat back on the deep couch. So tomorrow she would be having lunch with a stay-at-home soccer mom. Huh. She could add that to the list of things she'd never expected to do. Hell, she'd never expected to have to make a list at all until she'd met Rick.

She stretched out her bare toes. It might be fun to have a pair of bunny slippers. They were pink and frivolous, and somebody who lived in the shadows and who had to be ready to leave with one minute's notice and kept all her essential belongings in a backpack stuffed in the closet didn't have room for them. Didn't have a life where they fit.

Samantha shook herself. Focus, Jellicoe. Enough about the stupid bunny slippers. First things first. And the first thing was Yoritomo's armor. As she'd thought, Ron Mosley didn't qualify as a suspect. He hadn't even started collecting until about five years ago when he'd inherited a ton of money from an uncle. Rick's other non-Palm Beach suggestion, Pascale Hasan, could have afforded the armor, but according to the Internet and the few sources who still spoke to her, Hasan's obsession was with the silk and geishas, not samurai.

Considering the theft had been ten years ago, it surprised her that after a couple of long hours on the computer she could eliminate the number of people she had. Rich people tended to have their whereabouts well-publicized, their comings and goings well-documented, and she stuck by her theory that the buyer had seen the display, probably in New York, at which time they'd decided to acquire it. Whoever she could confirm had never seen the exhibit at any of its stops was out of the running.

In her book that left her with the hippies or Gabriel "Wild Bill" Toombs. She'd worked for Toombs once, though Stoney still hadn't called her back with the details. If Toombs had had anything to do with the Met job, at least one other guy had worked for him, too—since she didn't rob museums. And there might be others, if theft had become his favored method of collecting Japanese antiques. Since her sources were drying up and probably wishing her dead, she needed to find new ones.

Mentally adding another entry to her notebook of weird-ness, she picked up the phone again and dialed. Two rings later she heard a familiar gravelly voice. "Castillo."

"Hi, Frank. It's Sam Jellicoe."

"Sam. I heard you were back in Palm Beach. Is this social, or do I need to call the coroner?"

She grinned. "You're such a cop."

"Yep." The homicide detective was silent for a moment, but Samantha could practically hear him running a finger across his thick, graying mustache. "What's up?"

She figuratively crossed her fingers. "Well, I know you're the homicide go-to guy, but is there any way you could find out information about a robbery?"

"Rick didn't get hit again," his voice returned, sharper. "I would have heard about that."

"No, this is more like a hypothetical theft, taking place sometime between now and the past seven years." The PD probably didn't keep records past then, anyway.

Castillo snorted. "Seven years' worth of thefts? Can you narrow that down? You know, days of the week, alphabetical order, anything like that?"

She ignored his mouthing off, willing to take the sarcasm as long as he would help her out. "I can give you a name, to see if there's anything connected to it. Three names, actually."

He grumbled something that didn't sound very nice. "I am not your damn snitch, Sam."

"I know that. We're two professionals sharing information."

"Mm hm. One, I'm the professional, and two, sharing means you give something back to me."

"Something like helping you solve Charles Kunz's murder, maybe? Or—"

"Okay, okay." Beneath the sound of his sigh, Samantha heard his ever-present notepad opening. "Give me the damn names."

"Gabriel Toombs, and August and Yvette Picault."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Sam? Should I add Trump to the list? You're talking about pillars of the community."

"Hey, the Sodom and Gomorrah people were pillars of their community, too. Pillars don't mean anything."

"Pillars mean money, and that means it's better not to piss them off. I'm going to have to be careful with this. If one of their attorneys gets wind of this and thinks the

PBPD is investigating them, then I'm stuck writing parking tickets out on Worth Avenue."

Samantha blew out her breath. "I hate lawyers."

"You and me both. I'll call you in a couple of days, because I have real, actual crime to investigate."

"I need it by the weekend, Frank."

"Fuck. You and Rick are buying a whole table's worth of tickets to the next police charity dinner. Two tables' worth."

He hung up the phone before she could reply to that; evidently he thought the tickets were a sure thing—which they were. Things were lining up okay, but after sitting on the damn file for ten years, Viscanti and the Met could have given her a little more time to solve the theft. She might be Cat Woman, but she wasn't Superman. That honor went to Clark the Anatomy Man.

For the next hour she read up on samurai armor and swords, comparing the book's photos with the ones Viscanti had sent her from the Met. She needed to be able to recognize them if she saw the items in person. The armor with its red and orange coloring would be pretty easy, but the daitu and wakizashi swords were very typical of the period, rare as anything that old was. They had the folded steel blades, and hilts made of wood and wrapped in stingray skin and silk. The scabbards were lacquered and inlaid with copper symbols for faith and good fortune—they would be distinctive, once she knew what to look for. Chances were that once she saw any of it, she would have to move fast.

When she checked the clock it was eleven-thirty, Letter man was starting, and Rick was still out bonding with the lawyer. Stretching, she stood up and went to bed. Maybe Katie could give her some gardening tips before she had to call Piskford Nurseries, and she could start a whole new chapter in her notebook of the unexpected. At the least, she needed to know when she could corner Mike Donner without his friends or his parents finding out about it.

She awoke with a start as cold feet touched her calves. "Christ, Rick," she muttered, parting her knees and closing them again around his feet. "I'm glad we don't live in North Dakota. You're going to give me frostbite."

He chuckled against the back of her hair. "If we lived in North Dakota, I would have worn socks."

"Well, that's something, anyway." She craned her neck around to eye him leaning there with his head resting on his crooked arm. "Are you and Yale okay? Did you scratch your crotches and spit and make up?"

"I thought I was supposed to swat him on the rump. This is very complicated."

Samantha turned on her back to face him. "Are you guys okay?" she repeated.

"Yes, we're okay." He leaned down and kissed her on the tip of her nose. "Thank you for pushing me to talk to him."

"You're welcome." Good. Good for Rick, and good for her that she wouldn't be blamed for breaking up a friendship. She slid her hands up his bare chest and kissed him back softly. "Wanna fool around?"

Rick returned the kiss. "Ordinarily, yes," he murmured, curving a strand of her hair behind her ear, "but I had about a half-dozen beers and something Tom called a 'Texas Scorpion,' and I can barely keep my eyes open."

"Okay. I'd be kind of mad if you fell asleep in the middle." She settled back onto her pillow and closed her eyes. "Good night."

"Did Katie ever call you?"

Pushing back the foggy sleepiness that still clogged her brain, Samantha opened her eyes again. "She did. We're going to lunch tomorrow. Today. It's today, right? Tuesday?"

"Several hours into it. Where are you eating?"

She frowned. "If you're so interested, why don't you come along?"

"No, thanks. I was just curious."

"Well, stop it. You're making me cranky."

"Okay."

Shutting her eyes again, she sighed. The fact that she hadn't awakened until Rick's cold feet had attacked her said a great deal about how comfortable she'd become in this house, and with him. And tonight she didn't even want to beat herself up for having blunted instincts. Rick had several times risked his life and his reputation for her. If there was one place she should be able to sleep safe and sound, it was here.

"Are the kids coming?"

Samantha opened one eye. "What?"

He moved a breath closer. "Are Olivia and Mike going to have lunch with you?" he clarified.

"No. They have school, doofus. Go to sleep."

"I like Tom's kids."

With a growl Samantha pushed upright and slung her pillow across his head. "For a sleepy drunk guy you're pretty pesky," she snapped, not sure whether she was more amused or annoyed at him.