Billionaires Prefer Blondes (18 page)

“There’s a parking garage up on the right,” Stoney said, checking his mirror. She’d already checked hers. Nobody followed them.

“Got it.”

She turned down the ramp, took a ticket, and parked the Jeep. They took turns climbing out and closing the doors using the cloth, before she wiped down the keys and tossed them on the seat. The car would probably be gone within ten minutes, but that would be to her benefit.

“I don’t think you’re losing your edge, honey,” Stoney said, handing her the backpack and leading the way to the stairs. “That was nice.”

“Thanks. I just hope the guy in the Lincoln really was a cop.” Shouldering the backpack, she followed him back up to street level. “What say we divide up the rest of the shopping list, and I’ll meet you in front of Trump Tower at…” She looked at her watch. “At three? That gives us another couple of hours.”

Stoney nodded. “I’ll take the splitter and the wire strippers. You get the infrared glasses and the thermometer.”

“And then we’ll roast the turkey.”

She let Stoney find a cab first, then walked another block before she hailed one herself. In the distance she could hear multiple sirens, but since nobody else on the street was reacting or looking around, she didn’t do so, either.

As she sat on the back seat of the taxi, a Mercedes-Benz service rental drove by at just more than legal speed. She
caught a glimpse of black-silver hair and Ray?Ban sunglasses. Boyden Locke. That was quite the coincidence, unless he’d been following her, too. Did
he
suspect that she’d taken his Picasso?

“Follow that Mercedes,” she said, gesturing.

“Okay.” The driver started off. “You a cop?” he asked in broken English.

“I’m his wife,” she returned, painting a pained, affronted look on her face.

“No shoot-ups from my cab, lady.”

“I just want to know where he’s going. No shoot-ups.”

“Okay.”

Locke circled the block, then the next one over. Yep, he was looking for her. So much for implying his support by inviting her to parties—though he’d still had his Picasso then. Patty had probably ratted her out. Great. She’d be getting the phone call turning down her services any day now, then. If this theft thing got any more play in Palm Beach, Donner wouldn’t be the only one calling from there, either. She needed to check in with Aubrey Pendleton, to see if anybody had canceled appointments with her because of this mess. Damn Martin, and Damn Nicholas Veittsreig. If she couldn’t advise security, she didn’t know what the hell she would do to keep herself from going insane.

“That’s good enough,” she told the driver. Instead she requested him to drive her to the nearest electronics superstore. Veittsreig and his crew probably had surplus gear, but if she was coming in as a professional she was damned well going to be equipped like one. It was a matter of pride; after all, she was Sam Jellicoe, Martin’s kid. The girl who’d surpassed her dad in the business and been resented by him for that ever since.

If he resented her so much, though, why had he arranged
for her to be part of this job? Did he intend to get her picked up by Interpol, as Rick seemed to think? She honestly didn’t know. Martin played her like he played everyone else, but he was, after all, her dad.

Inside the electronics store she headed past the televisions, the cell phones, the iPods, and the Xbox 360s. They only carried two brands of hunting binoculars with infrared and night-vision capabilities, but the lighter one looked like it would do the trick. She usually went with lower-tech gear herself, preferring to rely on her skills rather than a piece of engineering with tiny, breakable parts, but the Met was extremely high-tech. She would have to adapt.

Halfway back down the television aisle she heard the murmur of a familiar voice, and she stopped. Rick, his face multiplied by about twenty sets, stood in the middle of a mob, the Planet Hollywood sign over his right shoulder. Swiftly she moved to the nearest TV and turned it up.

“…artin, my lawyer, at noon. I imagine he’ll come to my office.”

The reporter asked something about that Jellicoe woman and then about marriage. After Rick’s “no comment,” Samantha stopped listening.

“That big, sneaky bastard,” she muttered, hurrying to the checkout line and paying for the glasses—no sense getting nabbed for shoplifting while collecting gear for a two-and-a-half-million-dollar job.

Outside she hailed another cab and headed for Brook-stone. They would probably have digital air temperature thermometers. And then she was going to Rick’s office and find out why the hell he was trying to contact her dad.

Richard paced the length of the glass-walled conference room. At the table behind him John Stillwell, using a fair
share of his British patience and biting politeness, actually made some headway with the New York Building Commission. If felt odd to be on the sidelines during a negotiation, but he’d already made the decision that his life with Samantha was not going to go the same way as his marriage with Patricia Addison-Wallis-whatever it was today.

He’d been growing his business, turning wealth into an empire, and he’d been very successful. He’d also been a failure. And he did not repeat mistakes. And Sam—he refused to lose her because he was spending too much time fixating on square footage and profit percentages.

His phone buzzed. “Addison,” he said, picking it up.

“Sir,” Maria’s voice came, “the lobby has a lawyer named Mr. Martin to see you? I don’t have him list—”

“Send him up.”

He’d come. From the near end of the conference room Richard could just see three of the six elevators that serviced the building. At twenty-five minutes past twelve, a man strolled out of the elevator lobby and paused on his way to reception to look around.

Richard watched him through the glass walls of the conference room.

Medium build, half a head or so shorter than himself, brown hair peppered with gray, and a nice, fairly expensive-looking gray suit and nice leather briefcase—just perfect to blend in to an upscale office, the fellow was someone that any other time, or rather previous to his acquaintance with Samantha, he would have glanced at and passed over.

That was her speciality, too, blending. She was a bloody chameleon, and only as he’d come to know her better had he found the real humorous, unflinching, and even a little softhearted Samantha.

Something else that his own life of reading people and
circumstances had taught him, though, was keen observation. And so he noticed the high cheekbones, the long fingers, the easy way this man had of moving. He knew that walk, and it was Sam’s. And therefore, her father’s. Martin Jellicoe. In the flesh.

Without a word to the group arguing behind him, he pushed open the conference room door and walked into the reception area. “Mr. Martin, I presume,” he said in a low voice.

Brown eyes turned to assess him. “My client, I presume,” he returned, his inflection matching Richard’s.

“Indeed. Will you join me in my office?”

“Lead the way.”

“Maria, hold my calls,” Rick said, leading the way to his office. He didn’t turn around to see whether Martin followed, though he wanted to.

Inside the office, he gestured Martin to a chair, and seated himself on the neighboring one. He could sit behind his desk, he supposed, but this was a tricky meeting. This man was the father of the woman he loved, and he was also probably the greatest threat to her continued well-being. They would begin on the same even ground.

“Perhaps I should formally introduce myself,” he said after a moment. “Rick Addison.”

“I know who you are. The Brit who’s screwing my daughter.”

“If you like.” Rick inclined his head. The testing had begun. “I see it as a bit more complicated than that.”

“It would have to be, if she told you that I wasn’t dead.”

“I hear that you’re currently working with Interpol. Is that what you’ve been doing for the past three years?”

“You just go right for the throat, don’t you? Is that how you nailed Sam?”

For the moment Rick ignored the cut. “I only ask because for at least the past five months you’ve known exactly where Samantha has been residing, and you never made any attempt to contact her until three days ago. And within hours of that, she was arrested. It makes one a bit suspicious.”

“You think I set up my own girl?”

“If I thought that for certain, I would be shooting you right now. In case I haven’t made it clear, I don’t like you.”

“Of course you don’t. Kind of hurts your ego, doesn’t it, that she’s willing to throw over knocking the headboard with you to spend time with me? I guess you’re not as important to her as I am.”

“You’re certainly more trouble for her than I am.”

“Right. I’m the one who gets her on TV and her picture in the papers. Get this straight, Addison. I taught that girl everything she knows, and she’s made millions doing exactly what I raised her to do. You’re a long weekend.”

“I’m not the one who had to make a deal with the authorities to get out of prison. I think maybe she’s outgrown you.”

“Fuck you, Addison.”

Ah, he’d hit a sensitive spot. “Why did you decide to involve her in this, after three years of not bothering to give her a ring?”

“Involve her in what? You’re one paranoid fella, Addison.”

Rick gave his professional, cool smile. “If you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to tell you. It does seem to me, though, given your…affiliation with Interpol, that any contact with Samantha can’t be very good for her. Especially under questionable circumstances.”

The thief leaned forward a little. “Sam thinks she knows everything. She doesn’t. And educating her is my job. Not yours.”

“We can agree to disagree about that. All
I
care about is whether you have Samantha’s best interests in mind or not. I happen to think that you don’t. And I’m wondering whether I shouldn’t beat the bloody hell out of you for putting her in danger.”

Jellicoe—Rick couldn’t quite get comfortable with the idea of thinking of him as Martin—finally settled back into the opposite chair. “I have my reasons for getting hold of her.”

“And they are?”

“If she hasn’t told you, then don’t ask me.” He smiled. “Maybe you two really aren’t as close as you think.”

Richard kept his fraying temper reined in as tightly as he could. The more information he could get from this man, the better. “What purpose does Samantha serve in all this?” he persisted. “You’ve contacted Interpol about the goings-on, I presume, so you’re essentially sending her straight into peril.”

For the first time brief irritation crossed Jellicoe’s serene face. “She knows exactly how much peril she’s in. It’s part of the job, weighing the risk versus the reward, and deciding whether to go in or not. Looks to me like she’s decided she wants to work with her dad once more.”

“Even though she’s retired.”

Her father chuckled. “Yeah. She retired like Michael Jordan retired, I guess.”

Rick took a slow, steadying breath, forcing his fingers to unclench from the fist they’d made. “And you know this because you’ve been so close to her since she made her decision.”

“I know my kid. Is that why you wanted to see me? So you could chastise me for not being more involved in her life?”

“Not when I know what kind of trouble your reappearance has made for her.”

“Maybe like you said, we should agree to disagree, Addison. You say it’s trouble, and I say she loves it. And she’s working with me again because she knows her old dad still has a few lessons left to teach her.” He stood, retrieving his briefcase. “So if that’s it, I have a meeting to attend.”

“When Interpol moves in to grab Veittsreig and his crew, what do you have in mind for Samantha?” Rick pursued, standing as well. “Or has that even occurred to you?”

“I know what I have in mind for me. I’ll be taking a new name and a nice big house on the Mediterranean. Seems like Samantha’s already got that for herself. Not the new name, but I imagine she’s working on that. I don’t think she needs my help in that department.”

Rick let him walk to the door. “Your daughter’s an incredible young woman,” he said as Jellicoe pulled open the door. “And not because she’s a cat burglar. And certainly not because of any influence you may or may not have had in her life.”

“Right. I read the news. You two met because she was robbing your house. So you go ahead and tell yourself whatever lets you sleep at night, Addison. Like I said, I know my kid. She’s just like me. Adios, Rick.” With a quick smile that didn’t have nearly the charm of his daughter’s, Martin Jellicoe slipped out the door and headed for the elevators.

As Jellicoe vanished, Rick walked over to his window. He supposed what he’d wanted from Martin had been an assurance that someone in the crew would be looking out for Samantha, or at least be on her side. What he’d heard didn’t leave him any more reassured. Just the opposite, in fact.

Whoever’s side she might be working on, Interpol wouldn’t have any more love for Samantha than the NYPD did. Even
less, probably. And without a deal like Martin Jellicoe had, they would probably jump at the chance of putting her away for thirty or forty years. Unless their little band could come up with something else, then, they were on their own.

Even more troubling, Martin seemed to have the idea that he was teaching Samantha some sort of lesson. Considering the circumstances, that could mean several things—how to rob a museum, how to double-cross your crew and work for Interpol, or how not to trust even your father when it came to matters of money. All three of them terrified Richard.

As for her father, Martin could say that Sam was just like him, and he might even believe it. Richard, though, knew differently, because he knew Samantha Elizabeth Jellicoe. And he knew that she would do the right thing—even at the expense of her own well-being.

And her well-being was firmly and irrevocably attached to his heart.

Sunday, 1:40 p.m.

S
amantha saw Rick sitting in the main, glass-enclosed conference room as soon as she stepped off the elevator and onto the fiftieth floor of Addisco. Slinging her backpack onto a chair as she passed by, she kept her eyes fixed on her target.

In jeans and a tank top she was way beyond anything that passed for even casual dress, but today she was not there to blend in. In fact, she hoped that Rick took really good notice of her.

Most everyone there knew her now at least by sight, and nobody got in her way. As she reached the conference room double doors, she yanked them open. “Hello, Rick,” she said in her coldest voice.

He turned around to face her, shoving to his feet in the same motion. “Samantha, what—”

“Might I have a quick word with you, sweetheart?” she
cut in, ignoring the surprised muttering of the other dozen people in the conference room.

His jaw tightened. “Of course. Would you wait for me in my office for just a moment?”

Obviously she couldn’t yell at him in public. With a hard nod she turned on her heel and marched to his office. Halfway there she snagged her backpack and took it with her.

For five more minutes she fumed, stomping back and forth and tempted to start breaking things, if there had been anything in there to break. Considering his lavish homes, Rick’s office gave new meaning to the word
spartan
. Finally he pushed open the door and closed it behind him. “As you may have noticed,” he snapped, “I was in the middle of something.”

“Fuck off. What the hell do you think you’re doing, broadcasting for Martin to come and see you? You think you get to go on television and summon people?”

“It worked for you,” he said, his voice low and controlled.

“So you just thought you’d try it again for Martin? You went out there specifically to get his attention.”

“Yes, I did. You went out in the middle of the night to meet with him.”

“He’s my dad.”

“Yes, he is. And I wanted to talk to him.”

“Why, so you could ask his permission to court me or something? How dare you butt into my life like that without even asking me first! Not to mention the fact that Nicholas and his crew might have been watching. What the hell do you think they would make of you meeting with Martin?”

Rick stalked to the desk and back again. From the straight line of his back, he was as angry as she was. Good. She hated a one-sided argument.

“You’re going to break into a museum in three days, are you not?” he asked, his cultured Devonshire accent deepening.

“Yes, I am. And I don’t need your permission for that, eith—”

“Sod off. I wanted to meet the man who waltzed back into your life after three years only to throw you into the middle of God knows what,” he interrupted. “I reserve the right to butt into your bloody life, because it matters to me.”

“You—”

“I didn’t ask your father for secrets or insights into your character, or for his permission to be with you. I asked him why he picked this job to bring you back into the fold. And I didn’t get an answer I find acceptable.”

“
You
find accept—”

“Have you asked him whether he has an escape plan for you after he calls in Interpol? Because I would guess that he doesn’t. He doesn’t, Samantha. He’s not going to perform some selfless, heroic deed to see that your assistance is rewarded or that your freedom is protected.”

She swung at him. Rick blocked the blow with his forearm and grabbed her wrist. “Let me go!” she yelled.

“Never,” he growled back, his voice shaking.

With a shriek she yanked her arm free and threw herself at him. They went over the top of his desk and landed on the floor in front of the window. Nothing coherent would form in her head. Nothing but spitting black fury. And then abruptly she was sobbing, and Rick beneath her had his arms locked around her, holding her against his chest.

“I am not…having a breakdown,” she sobbed.

“I know.”

“I’m very angry with you.”

“I know.”

“Why did you talk to him?”

“Because I’m concerned about you.” His grip loosened a little, and he began rocking her. Dammit, he was rocking her.

She shoved upright, sitting across his thighs. “Stop that. I’m not some stupid little kid.”

He sat as well, his arms straight behind him to keep him upright. “Did I say anything of the kind?” For a moment he was silent. “When my mother and father died, Sam,” he continued abruptly, “I was two thousand miles away at boarding school. It was very…hard. If my father suddenly reappeared and then forced me to…to go back to school, while I was still trying to grasp that he wasn’t actually dead—I can’t even imagine.”

“It’s not that,” she said, sniffing and wiping a hand across her eyes. She hated stupid crying. She didn’t do it very often. Only Rick could make her cry, apparently.

“Then what is it?”

She knitted her hands together, twisting her fingers. “I didn’t want you to meet him,” she finally said, her voice sounding thin and wobbly to her own ears.

Rick shifted, sweeping an arm across her shoulders. “Jesus, Sam. You’re not him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Looking over, she met his deep blue, concerned gaze. “But I could be. I hate hitting museums, and…and I am still so excited about this I can barely see straight. And I
know
how good the odds are that I’ll get caught. And I keep things from you, and I sneak out at night just to…just to do it, and my business is starting to pick up, and every time I see one of my ‘clients,’ I’m thinking,
I could totally rip off everything but his underwear, and he’d never know what hit him
. And now Boyden Locke is following me, so he doesn’t trust me, and the rest of my clients probably don’t, either. And they’re right not to. And Patty called, and she thinks I’m setting her up for
another fall. I told her she needs an exorcism, but maybe I’m the one who needs it.”

“You sneak out at night?”

“So I can sneak in again.” She slammed her fists into her thighs. “I’m such a fucking mess. Why do you even want to be around me?”

Slowly he began looping his fingers through her hair. “Because you keep breaking back into my house,” he whispered into her ear. “And because when we first met you saved my life. And because you seem to regularly risk your life to help other people.”

She sighed, trying to pull herself back together. “Okay, okay. So I’m great. Fucked up, but great.”

“Exactly.” He kissed her on the head, then took her chin and kissed her softly on the mouth.

Samantha sank into him, and Rick closed his eyes, relieved. He was also extremely alarmed, but that would wait until he had a moment or two to think. Christ. They’d fought before, but that was the first time she’d come that close to actually hitting him. And that wasn’t even what troubled him.

With a last sigh against his mouth, she stood and offered a hand to help him up. Despite the bruise he would now have on his hip, he refused the assistance and climbed to his feet on his own. “Give me a few minutes and we can get out of here,” he said.

“No, I’m okay. And I have to meet Stoney to collect the rest of my gear.”

“I thought you went shopping together.”

“We did, until the cops caught up to us, and I had to crash their car and ditch the rental, and we split up.” Her lips twitched in a shadow of the grin she wore when she thought she was being hilarious.

“At least your day wasn’t a complete waste, then,” he said mildly, putting an arm around her as they walked to the door.

“I suppose not. Veittsreig will probably call me before you get home. If I have to leave for the face-to-face before you get back, I’ll leave a note in your nightstand.”

It took a great deal of his well-honed willpower to let her walk out his office door. Trying to stop her, though, would put up a fence between them that neither of them could punch through. “For God’s sake, be careful,” he said, hoping that verbal cautions wouldn’t be overstepping. “As you’ve said, these men are killers.”

“I wonder what the guy who hired them is like?” she muttered darkly.

“Let’s try not to find out.”

Samantha faced him, putting her hands on his shoulders and leaning up to plant a soft kiss on his mouth. With a fleeting caress of his cheek she headed out for the elevators.

Richard leaned against the doorframe and tucked his disheveled shirt back in and tried to straighten his jacket. Armani was a good brand, but it wasn’t made for American-style football tackles.

However he felt about it, he could understand Samantha’s excitement and anticipation at pulling a B and E, even if it was one in which she’d been forced to participate. He’d gone on a few minor ones with her even before last week, all for the sake of the good guys, and it was the most exhilarating thing he’d ever experienced. The thrill, the challenge, were as big a part of the lure as the considerable money she used to make.

No, he had something else to trouble him now. As hard as he’d tried to be patient, to let her grow her business at her own pace and in her own way, he’d thought that the more
successful she became, the less likely it would be that she slipped away from him and back into her old, exciting life. It had never occurred to him that she didn’t like her new business in any form.

What else was there for a retired cat burglar, one still at the top of her game, to do? Sitting about and doing crossword puzzles wouldn’t suffice, and she wouldn’t be Samantha if she settled for that. Bodyguard? She didn’t like guns, and he didn’t want her away from him that much. Professional wrestler? Too much in the spotlight, and not enough intellectual challenge, though it did amuse him a little that he’d thought of it.

He closed his eyes for a moment. The two of them needed to do some thinking. Neither of them would be happy if she stayed with a job she disliked, especially if it was just to ease his mind that she was keeping occupied, or allowing her to keep at least one hand in her old business. Neither did he want her clients quitting her because her father had managed to link her to a robbery. Leaving the security job should be up to her, not to her suspicious clientele.

Clenching his jaw, Richard headed back to his meeting. The first task in all this would be to make sure that Samantha stayed free and alive past Tuesday. Which meant he couldn’t get involved with contacting Interpol or the police or anyone else.

He stopped. Or did it? Turning on his heel, he went back into his office, closed the door, and sat behind his desk. Then with a deep breath he picked up the phone and dialed.

“Tom Donner.”

“Hello, Tom.”

“Hey, Rick. I’m at Mike’s baseball game. Guess who just scored a double?”

Richard smiled. Tom adored the domesticity of his life.
For a moment he allowed himself to wonder whether he would ever sit on the bleachers and cheer on his own son or daughter.
Tuesday, Rick
.
Focus
. “I would say it was Mike,” he returned. “Tell him I said congratulations.”

“I will.” Tom paused. “What’s up?”

“You’re on retainer, right? So anything I tell you at any time or in any location is considered privileged, yes?”

“Yes. Why, did Jellicoe get arrested again?”

“Not yet.”

“‘Not yet’? That doesn’t sound too promising. Hold on. Let me get over behind the snack bar so we can talk.”

“Don’t miss Mike’s game.”

“He’s not out on the field again yet. Hold on. Okay. What’s going on?”

“Someone’s going to rob the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Tuesday.”

“
What?
She
told
you? Call the damn cops, Rick.”

“It’s an Interpol sting. Samantha’s assisting…a friend of hers in the setup. The problem is, she doesn’t have a deal of her own with the authorities.”

“Then she should pull out.”

“She can’t. It’s complicated. They threatened to kill both of us if she doesn’t cooperate.”

“Interpol did? That’s insane.”

“Not Interpol. The other thieves. I just want to know if we can take any steps to minimize her risk.”

“I’m a corporate attorney, Rick.” Tom growled some very inventive profanity. “And what about your risk? She may have convinced the NYPD that she didn’t take the Hogarth, but if she gets picked up at the museum, that’s going to change. And you’re going to get pulled right into the middle of it, either for being an accessory or for being the total idiot who let it happen right under his nose.”

Richard sat very quietly for a moment, reminding himself firstly that Tom had no idea that he’d been in on the Hodges robbery, and secondly that the attorney was looking out for him and that no one had actually called anyone else an idiot. “I repeat,” he said slowly, “is there anything we can do to minimize her risk?”

“Lemme think. I went to school with a couple of guys in the State Department. I’ll see what I can find out. But it’s Sunday, so don’t expect a miracle.”

“At this point, Tom, a miracle would be very welcome.”

“I’ll call you.”

“I’ll be waiting.” And running through a few scenarios on his own.

Samantha paid the driver and hopped out of the cab in front of the townhouse. Stoney had found her a top-of-the-line splitter, and he’d come up with three different lightweight wire strippers so she could choose the one she liked the best. She’d thanked him and left—and she hadn’t said a word about Rick’s surprise public appearance or his summoning of and meeting with Martin, or even about Locke trying to track her, probably to try to get his Picasso back.

Why she hadn’t said anything, she didn’t know. Ever since she could remember, she’d been able to talk to Stoney about anything. He’d even been the one to go out and buy her first box of tampons, although she had gotten the feeling that that was pretty much where he drew the line.

But when Rick had told her why he’d wanted to see Martin, and when he’d told her about Martin probably not having an escape route for her—it had been so far out of her comfort zone that she didn’t know how to take it. She’d always looked after herself. It shouldn’t have mattered that she would have to do the same on Tuesday. If Martin had drilled
one lesson into her head, it had been that
everyone
always looked out for themselves first. Even Stoney worked that way to some degree, since she’d been the one taking the risks and he’d been the one selling the items she’d obtained, and both of them making a shitload of money doing it.