Billionaires Prefer Blondes (12 page)

He slammed down the phone.

So he’d lost himself twelve million dollars and hopefully stopped the police from tailing Samantha, but that didn’t keep
him
from wanting to do so. He had some hunches, and some clues, but he wanted facts. In business, his people presented him with facts—profit margins, overhead costs, location, economy—and he decided on a strategy and made a decision based on that information. No official crime might exist any longer, but he still wanted his bloody painting back.

What did he know for certain? Samantha was fiercely uneasy about something. Walter Barstone had left Florida on what amounted to the first flight after Samantha’s release from jail. The person or persons who had stolen the Hogarth had broken in exactly the same way that Samantha had twelve hours earlier. With the abundance of other art and antiques in the townhouse, only the Hogarth had been taken. Therefore, it had been the specific target. And Samantha had tried to talk him out of buying it.

Richard slowed his pacing. He’d forgotten about the way she’d tried to cajole him into leaving the auction early. And she’d thought she’d recognized someone.

His phone intercom buzzed. “Mr. Addison? I have Sam Jellicoe in reception to see you, and Mr. Hoshido on the line.”

Think of the devil
. “Please send Samantha in, and put Matsuo through.”

The phone clicked. “Richard? You are giving my people heart attacks,” came Matsuo Hoshido’s low, Japanese-accented voice.

Richard lifted the receiver as his door opened. “You’re the one who keeps changing the price and the conditions,” he said, motioning Samantha to come in. “I’m buying a building in an old, established neighborhood, not a tank of gas.”

“Ah, but when circumstances change, prices change.”

“Circumstances. Allow me to put it in perspective, then, Matsuo-san. I’m in the process of locating a missing painting. It’s worth less than one percent of my net value. If you think I’ve been damaged or weakened by the theft, you are in error. If you think it makes me willing to pay more than what we’ve been negotiating, you’re being foolish. And I know you’re not a fool.”

“Then I suppose the negotiations will continue. Have a good day.”

“And you, Matsuo-san.”

Richard hung up. “Hello,” he said, watching Samantha as she wandered the length of the room’s windows. She’d worn slim black jeans and a cute green T-shirt with a glittery heart over the bosom. New York casual—designed to fit in just about anywhere.

“Hi. That was your hotel guy, I presume?”

“Yes. Matsuo Hoshido.”

“You were pretty forceful with him.”

She hadn’t yet met his gaze. Low tension ran through his muscles. “I suppose so. Any police adventures this morning?”

“It’s hardly an adventure anymore. They give up way too easy.”

“I can’t really blame them. You’re pretty good at what you do.”

“Thanks.”

He waited until she finally faced him, her long, slender fingers knotted into fists. “I’m going to tell you something.”

“Is this the thing you were thinking over last evening?”

Samantha nodded. “I didn’t plan for any of it, and I didn’t know, but I do now. And you need to know, because…because it’s about both of us.”

Richard swallowed, his vision swimming. Quickly he reached for the chair behind him. “Are you…are you pregnant?” he asked, his voice shaking a little. Elation, abject terror—he did his best to hold it all back. He’d thought this conversation would be about the painting, but…this…could explain her distraction of the past few days. Facts. He wanted some bloody facts.

“What? Why—” She flushed. “No. Christ, no.” Scowling, she finally emitted a small snort. “It did sound like it, didn’t it?”

“Kind of, yes.” The odd sensation in his heart—was it disappointment?—he would review later. “Go on, then.”

“Okay. And I’m sorry in advance, since we probably won’t be speaking by the time I’m finished.”

That did not sound good. “As I’ve said before, you can tell me anything.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Walter Barstone paced in the reception area of New York’s Addisco headquarters. He couldn’t believe he was in the damn building in the first place.

Sam had gone through the third door down the hall on the left, and he kept his eyes on it. She was an idiot, risking a good thing over something as changeable as the truth. In her own way, though, he supposed she’d always been the honest type. She had her own code, anyway.

The muttering of distant voices grew louder. Oh, boy. Next things would start breaking, and then somebody would probably end up pitched out the window. Since they were on the fiftieth floor, that couldn’t be good.

On the other side of the door, something crashed. Walter rolled his shoulders. Okay, time for an intervention. He started forward.

The receptionist stood. “I’m sorry, sir, but you need to wait here. Sir! You can’t go in there!”

“It’s all right; I’m family,” he said, and shoved open the office door. He heard her calling for security, but ignored it as he closed the door behind him. “Wow. Nice office, Addison,” he said, stepping over the platter of broken drinking glasses.

Rick spun around to face him. “Walter. I see you were included in the Jellicoe family reunion.”

“I was as surprised two days ago as you are now. Nobody asked for this.”

Addison’s eyes were stone cold. “Apparently
I
asked for it. And now all the bloody Jellicoe family and friends have carte blanche to steal from me. You can imagine how delighted I am to finally be informed of my abject stupidity.” Precise, icy, and vicious. Sam really knew how to pick ’em.

At the far end of the room Sam stood glaring at Addison, her shoulders heaving and the expression on her face one that Walter knew as hurt fury. Great. Two volcanic eruptions—with him in the middle. “Since I wasn’t in here for the party,” he said, “I’ll just sum up for my own sake.”

“Why don’t you do that somewhere else?” Addison suggested, his British at full force. “This is a private conversation.”

“Nah. I think I’ll stay for a minute. So you told him that Martin showed up and said he was trading for a life sentence in prison by working for Interpol, right?”

“Don’t bother, Stoney,” Sam finally grumbled, her attention staying on Addison. “I came clean, and Mr. Lord of the Manor flipped out. Let’s get out of here.”

“No,” Addison broke in, before Walter could. “I’d like to know what other items Miss Take It If It’s Not Nailed Down has offered to her friends.”

“What friends? How can I have friends when I’m around you?”

“You—”

“Oh, give me a fucking break,” Walter said loudly. “Don’t you get it, Addison? If she takes the painting back, the crew figures Martin ratted them out, and he’s dead. Probably Sam is, too. If she—”

The door shoved open, a pair of armed security guards moving through and fanning out on either side. “Don’t move!”

Addison stepped forward. “It’s all right. Just a family disagreement. Thanks, lads.”

They holstered their weapons and backed out. “Okay, Mr. Addison. Sorry about that.”

“You missed your big chance to have me hauled off in cuffs again, Rick,” Sam taunted.

“Shut up, will you?” Addison faced Walter again. “You were saying?”

“Yeah. If Sam doesn’t try to get the painting back and instead turns the story over to the cops, Interpol misses its big bust, and Martin goes back to jail. I told her not to say anything at all to you, and it would blow over. Sam’s got this thing, though, where she doesn’t like to lie to you.”

For a minute Sam and Addison glared at each other, the unstoppable force against the immovable object. At least he’d shut them both up for a minute.

“I was already a target for thieves once,” the Brit finally said in a quieter voice. “I didn’t tolerate it then. If I do now, then I may as well hang out a ‘Kick Me’ sign. None of your other former associates will care if there were extenuating circumstances this time.”

“You mean they’ll associate me living with you as a
welcome sign for them,” Sam put in. “After this they will, anyway. I know that.”

“You install security, honey,” Walter broke in.

“No, Rick’s right,” she countered, her voice dropping further. “I knew this would happen, as soon as I saw Martin. I’m just terrific at security.” She lowered her head. “Dammit.”

“Your job is not to protect my things.”

“It’s not to get them stolen, either.”

Addison closed his eyes briefly. “Walter, will you excuse us for a moment?”

“Sam?” The reinforcements didn’t leave unless the Indians had the Cowboys surrounded.

She looked up. “I’m going for a walk. You two do whatever you want.” Pushing away from the wall, she headed for the door.

“Go, as long as you’re coming back.” Addison took a step toward the door.

“Stop bossing me around, Addison,” she shot.

“Stop being so defensive, Jellicoe. I’ll meet you at the café in the lobby in half an hour.”

“You’re buying. And invite Stoney. He’s been sleeping on a couch.” She stepped through the door and closed it behind her.

Richard faced the ex-fence. “What the hell are you doing in New York, exactly?”

“She called me, told me she’d seen a ghost, and wanted me to come and verify whether she was crazy or not.”

“If you hadn’t come, she might have confided in me. Did that ever occur to you?” Still trying to absorb the conversation of the last twenty minutes, Richard felt very tempted for a moment to beat the hell out of Barstone, just out of
convenience. Christ. Of all the things he’d expected to hear from Samantha, learning that her father was alive and well and apparently still in the business hadn’t been one of them.

“No, it really didn’t. She called; I came. We’re family.”

“And what am I, then?”

Barstone grimaced. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.”

“Certainly I do.” Walter was bulkier than he was, but they were about the same height. Considering that he was about twenty years younger and worked out, he’d give himself the advantage. “Indulge me, Walter.”

“Fine. You’re a rich guy hanging on to a novelty until she starts impacting your business—like now. That’s why you’re mad, isn’t it? Because now having her around is a liability?”

“Bullshit,” Richard shot back, pacing to the window. “Bull shit. I’m mad because she decided that I would just…throw my hands up and walk away because her past showed up at the door. She didn’t even tell me; she just assumed. And you told her to leave me out of it. You told her to lie to me. This isn’t my fault, as much as it’s yours.”

“Me? Why the hell are you putting me into the middle of this?”

“Because as long as you’re around she can go back,” he said flatly. “You give her somewhere to go besides forward.”

“No, I give her a choice. You’re pretty cool, but if she wants to stay with you there’s only one way she can go. The difference between us is that I’ll back her up whichever direction she chooses. If you make her happy, then I retire so she won’t feel like she has to worry about me. If you back her into a corner and make her feel like she has to prove
herself, then you’re damn right I’m going to step in and try to keep her safe.”

Richard took a deep breath, closing his jaw against the retort he wanted to make. The only thing that terrified him more than Samantha going back to her old life was her doing it alone. “Do you think she’ll stay out of this?” he asked finally.

“No, I don’t. You made it pretty clear that you aren’t happy being used. She isn’t, either.” He shook his head. “You know, this is typical Martin. Vanish for three years, let his little girl think he’s dead, and then reappear just so he can twist her up into one of his schemes and tell her it’s a learning experience.” Walter blew out his breath. “He’s always got to be the teacher. I mean, some of his ‘lessons’ are lifesavers, but he’s closer to being Fagin than Howard Cunningham.”

“Apparently,” Richard said slowly, approaching Barstone again, “I misjudged you. A little.”

“Yeah, well, thanks.”

“My main concern is Samantha’s happiness and her well-being. You may not believe me, but I do love her. Very much. I don’t want to lose her.”

“Let’s say that maybe I believe you.”

“That’s good enough for now.” Richard offered his hand. “How about a truce, at least until we figure a way out of this?”

After a hesitation Walter’s large black hand gripped his. “Truce.”

Friday, 12:12 p.m.

S
amantha wished she’d worn jogging shoes instead of the five-hundred-dollar Ferragamo sandals she had on. The low heels were comfortable enough, but at the moment she wanted to run. And run, and run, and run.

Maybe she’d approached Rick the wrong way, apologizing in advance and offering to go away. It wasn’t her fault that she was Martin’s kid, and even if she had followed in his footsteps for most of her life, she wasn’t doing so any longer. At least she was trying not to.

“Fu…” she started, amending it to “…dge,” when a lady and what looked like her two young daughters exited the Old Navy store in front of her.

The youngest girl reminded her of Tom Donner’s daughter, Olivia. Kids were interesting. She couldn’t remember ever really being one herself, despite her nearly photographic memory. Mostly she remembered picking pockets, researching
with endless fascination the items Martin obtained and turned over to Stoney for “redistribution.”

She’d loved growing up that way—no rules, no schools except when they’d settled in one place for a couple of months, picking up knowledge and languages on the fly. Even in retrospect the thrill of her first job, the first Rembrandt, the oldest Egyptian relics, that Roman fertility statue that had been so well endowed it hadn’t fit into her bag…She chuckled.

What the hell was she doing, hanging out with Rick Addison? Not just hanging out with him, but living with him, sharing his life, falling in love with him? On the other hand, how could she not be doing what she was doing, now that she’d experienced it?

“Sam Jellicoe.”

As she heard the low voice, a hand touched the small of her back. She stiffened, tensing as she turned around.

A tall, pale man about Rick’s age looked down at her, his hand now at about the level of her breasts. Pale hair, almost clear, stuck out from his head in a butch porcupine cut. His eyes were just as pale, barely blue enough to qualify as a color.

“Nicholas Veittsreig,” she said, taking a slow step backward.

“You remember me,” he returned, showing perfect teeth in a smile. The German in his accent was barely detectable; if she hadn’t known, she might not have noticed it. Well,
she
would have, but most other people probably wouldn’t.

“I always remember hacks.” If he was in New York, it was either the biggest coincidence in the history of coincidences, or she’d just found some missing puzzle pieces.

“Oh, Sam, you are so cruel, always thinking you’re better than the rest of us. You wound me.”

“I am better than the rest of you.”

“It didn’t look that way when you were wearing the handcuffs. Or when you were talking with your daddy yesterday.”

Great. The good guys
and
the bad guys were following her. “Did you want something, or are you just high? Martin’s dead, remember?”

“Your boyfriend looked very peaceful asleep on those blue silk sheets. I was hoping you would be home, too, but Martin warned you, I suppose. Do you still want to play the who-knows-what game?”

Samantha just managed to keep from hitting him. He’d been in their freaking
bedroom
, with Rick there sleeping. “Addison does look good,” she agreed, keeping her voice soft and aloof, “but I didn’t know you swung that way, Nicholas. Gosh. You learn new things about people all the t—”

“Enough shit, Sam. I’m here to do you a favor.”

“What kind of a favor? Because I really don’t swing
your
way.”

“You see? This is what I’m talking about. I know why you’re angry; the cops busted you for the job I pulled. So I figure I owe you one. Martin knows B and E, but you’re better at alarm systems. Why don’t you come along with us on our next job?”

“I don’t think so, Fritzy.”

“Ah, but I think I can convince you. I know your dad talked to you. Don’t you think everyone would feel safer if you were included now? I’ll even give you a percentage.” He looked her up and down. “Maybe afterwards we can become partners. Who knows? After all, with your boyfriend and your new job, you have access to the world’s most exclusive and wealthy places.”

“You think I didn’t realize that when I hooked up with
him?” she ventured, feeling out the path he was taking. “But cats work alone.”

“Not the smart ones. If you’d been with us in Paris last year, you’d have an extra three million American in your retirement account.”

Thinking fast, Samantha gave him the same assessing look he’d favored her with a minute ago. She’d been offered partnerships before, but never by anybody on Veittsreig’s par. If this had been a straight proposition with no other circumstances or strings attached, she would have told him flat out that she didn’t work with guns—much less with killers. This guy, though, had Rick’s painting, and if she said the wrong thing she could also be putting Martin and his cover in jeopardy.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re hitting?”

“Not until I know you’re in and we can trust that you won’t trade the information to the police in exchange for them dropping all charges.”

“I doubt anything I said to the cops would convince them of anything,” she said truthfully, hoping that Gorstein and his people hadn’t tracked her down again in time to see this little meeting.

“Even so, Martin went through a little initiation in Munich a couple of weeks ago—a very nice Canova sculpture worth about a million. Then he got bonus points for the Hogarth.”

Samantha drew a slow breath. “So you want me to go through an initiation?” she asked. “Like I’ve never pulled a job before?”

“I’d like to know for certain that you’re still pulling jobs, and that you’ll have as much to lose as the rest of us if the cops show up. You shut down Sean O’Hannon. Some people say you got him killed.”

“O’Hannon’s stupidity in working with the wrong people got him killed,” she countered. The whole Rick-stolen-art fiasco that had brought them together—and one of the reasons she’d decided to retire. “You’re the one who approached me, Nicholas. What do you want?”

He smiled, managing to look more frightening than charming. “I want a present. Something small and sparkly, and worth at least half a million. I’ll give you a break on the price since this is short notice. Otherwise you’d have to match your daddy.”

“And when do you want this present?”

“Today’s Friday. Saturday would be good. And I want to hear about the theft on the news. No going out and buying something just to fool me.”

“Jeez. Paranoid much? How about I say no to the whole gig?”

“Not an option, Sam. Remember, I know that Martin told you things. I don’t know what, but you’re in now. Or you’re dead. So prove that I can trust you, or I’ll shoot you right here.”

Fuck
. “What if I accidently hit the place you’re setting up for your big, invitation-only score?”

“You won’t. Is it a deal?”

“Some damned deal, Fritzy.” She pursed her lips, pasting a thoughtful expression on her face and trying to pretend that her brain wasn’t about to implode and that her heart was having palpitations. “Can you swear to me that if this goes down right I won’t have to leave Rick? He’s my all-access pass, after all. There has to be an upside for me.”

“If it goes down right, no one will know what hit them. I’m giving you this opportunity out of professional courtesy, and out of respect for Martin. In, or dead?”

Mentally crossing her fingers, she nodded. “It’ll be fun to work with Martin again. I’m in.”

Veittsreig grinned again. “I knew you weren’t on the straight path. Give me a number where I can get hold of you.”

She gave him her cell number. “I’m only supposed to be in New York for another week. If it’s going to be longer than that, let me know so I’ll have time to come up with an excuse.”

“You’ll be back in cozy Palm Beach right on time.” He took her chin in his long fingers, tilting her face up. “Nobody else gets included, Sam. If I hear of anything, I will send photos of this little meeting to the police. And don’t mistake me—any double-cross and I’ll kill Martin, I’ll kill your rich boyfriend, and I’ll kill you. Are we clear?”

Samantha let him hold her there. “We’re clear. But if you cut me out or try to leave me holding the bag on this, know that you can’t go anywhere that I can’t get to.”

He let her go. “Good. We are in agreement. I’ll see you Saturday. If you pass, I’ll let you in on the details and let you know your percentage.”

“As long as it’s not less than ten percent, I don’t think we’ll have a problem.”

With a nod and a sly smile, Veittsreig headed down the street. Samantha blew out her breath. And she’d thought this morning with Rick had been the worst thing she would ever go through.

Obviously, though, she was going to have to go another round with both him and Stoney. Because whatever she’d promised Veittsreig, she wasn’t going into this without letting them know what they might be facing.

She walked on for another block, then made a show of
checking her watch. Nicholas wasn’t much for bluffing, and she believed him when he’d said photos were being taken of their little meeting. That meant he’d had people watching. They probably still were watching.

Okay, so she knew who Martin was working with, and who Interpol was after. But Nicholas had taken one piece of art from the house. Her new question was, who was
he
working for? And who the hell was she going to rob in order to buy her way onto the crew?

What a bunch of shit she’d landed in. And the old, familiar adrenaline began pumping through her muscles. Yep, that was her—danger junkie. Whatever else happened, she’d just agreed both to a break-in that was big enough to have Interpol’s attention in advance, and to a dirty little deed all of her own. And if she got caught, she had no doubt that she’d end up in Gorstein’s little interrogation room on her way to prison with a “do not pass go” card. To think, a couple of days ago she’d figured that visiting New York as a semi-law-abiding citizen would be dull.

The sight in the café made Samantha pause. Toward the back of the large, open room Rick sat at right angles to Stoney. Both men had their heads bent over a piece of paper, and were either playing combat tic-tac-toe or plotting somebody’s murder. Probably hers.

“Hi, boys,” she said, cautiously approaching the table. Fighting with Rick wore her out, and that combined with her chat with Veittsreig had her right at the edge of civility. Everybody had better watch their crap, or else.

Rick stood, as he always did when she entered a room. “Feeling calmer?” he asked quietly, pulling out the chair opposite Stoney for her.

“Yes, and no. What are you two doing?” She nodded her chin toward the piece of paper.

“It’s a twelve-step program to get you out of New York,” Stoney said.

“That figures. You finally decide to like each other, and it’s only so you can screw me over.”

“I still don’t like him,” Rick countered, reaching over and brushing his fingers across the back of her hand. “We merely found a mutual cause.”

“Mm-hm.” Still half on an adrenaline high, at least she could be amused by their presumption. She glanced surreptitiously around the café. It was located in the lobby of Rick’s office building, so most of the people there worked for him, and they’d kept a respectful distance from his table. They were all watching him, sure, but she didn’t think anybody was close enough to overhear. And that was good, because nobody from Veittsreig’s crew could come any closer, either, without being very conspicuous.

“The way we figure it,” Rick said, motioning a passing waitress for a round of Diet Cokes, “you haven’t been charged with anything.”

“Not yet,” she noted.

“And I don’t imagine you will be—until after this big score your father mentioned, anyway. Until that time, no one can stop any or all of us from leaving the country. Once we’re in England, it would be a small matter to fly to anywhere there’s no extradi—”

Samantha tugged him over by the lapels and kissed him softly. “You’re okay, Brit.”

“I’d like to think so.”

She looked him in the eye for a long moment. “There’s something else you need to know, though.”

The waitress appeared with their sodas, and she took a sip as Rick ordered a ham sandwich and Stoney asked for a salad. She didn’t have much of an appetite herself, but she ordered some nachos.

Once the waitress left again, she gave a playful smile and sat back. “No serious looks,” she said, “and no conspiratorial whispering while I’m talking. Somebody might be watching.”

“Somebody like who?” Rick murmured, echoing her smile as he took her fingers again. Businessman or not, he had the soul of a thief.

“Stoney, did you ever do business with Nicholas Veittsreig?”

“A couple of times. He usually dealt directly with clients. He liked—likes—big, showy jobs.”

“Guess who Martin’s setting up with Interpol.”

“Holy Moses.”

“That’s an understatement,” she returned. “Keep smiling, Stoney.”

“Would someone care to enlighten me?” Rick asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Stoney was sucking on his soda, so it looked like she would have to take this one. “He usually works with a crew of four or five, usually European. Like Stoney said, they like big jobs. They’re the ones who hit the Louvre last year and came about thirty seconds from nabbing the
Mona Lisa
. They killed a security guard.”

“And took about fifty million in other art,” he said, nodding. “Interpol contacted me to ask if I’d been offered any of it. I never heard a word, though.”

“It’s all probably in some big Hong Kong businessman’s back room right now,” Samantha said cynically. “Anyway, the point is, Veittsreig’s crew is in New York. And they
hooked up with Martin for some help with a B and E.”

“Did you see Martin again?” Stoney asked. “How do you know all this?”

“Nicholas stopped me on the street a few minutes ago.” Rick started forward, and she dug her fingers into his palm. “We’re planning a tea party or something, remember?”

“Yes. I remember.” He eased back again. “Go on.”

“Okay. He told me that he knew Martin had talked to me. As far as he’s concerned, that makes me either a partner, or a liability. Because of my reputation, he offered me a place on the crew for their next job.”