Billionaires Prefer Blondes (2 page)

“Maybe,” she hedged, backing down to the first floor. “What if I just forgot my key?”

Rick joined her at the foot of the stairs. “You might have knocked at the front door. Wilder is here, and so is Vilseau,” he said, tilting his head at her, his eyes growing cool. “And the daytime staff.”

He hated having her try to pull one on him, whatever the circumstances. Samantha blew out her breath. At least she knew when to give up. “Okay, okay. Boyden Locke talked to
my boobs for forty minutes while I sold him on some security upgrades for his townhouse. And then I went shopping for the dress, and I just kept noticing…things.”

“What things?”

“Cameras, alarm systems. Everything. It was making me crazy. Plus we’re going to an art auction tonight at Sotheby’s, of all places. I was just feeling a little…tense. So I decided to subvert my bad self by busting in somewhere. I picked a safe place.”

“And I caught you again.” He reached out, curling a strand of her auburn hair around his fingers. “The last time I did that, we broke a chair afterward, as I recall.”

Technically this time he’d caught her well after the fact and only because of a huge mistake on her part, but as the raw, hungry shiver traveled down her backbone, she wasn’t about to contradict him. She drew her free hand around the back of his neck and leaned in to give him a deep, soft kiss. “So you want another reward, I suppose?”

He nuzzled against her ear. “Definitely,” he whispered.

She was going to explode. “Why don’t you get rid of your minions, and I’ll reward you right now?”

Rick’s muscles shuddered against her. “Stop tempting me.”

“But I broke into your big old house. Don’t you—”

He pushed her back against the mahogany banister, nearly sending them both over it as he took her mouth in a hard, hot kiss.

Ah, this was more like it. There had to be something wrong with her, with the way that even after five months she couldn’t get enough of him. Thank God he had the same problem where she was concerned.

Still, the sooner he finished his meeting, the submerging logical part of her brain said, the sooner they could get to
Sotheby’s. Deep as her hunger for Rick ran, that place was like a thief’s Mecca. Knowing the special auction was taking place was the reason she’d agreed to abandon her new security business in Palm Beach and join him in New York, though she’d never admit it aloud.

His mouth crept down to her jawline, and her legs turned to spaghetti. “Stop, stop, stop,” she muttered, probably so quietly he couldn’t hear her.

He could. Rick backed off an inch. “I’m supposed to be the responsible one. Not you, sweetheart.”

“I know, but I’m getting hungry.”

Rick narrowed his eyes. “For me, for dinner, or for the auction?”

“All three, Brit. Get back to your office and get rid of those guys.”

“Give me an hour, Yank.”

“You got it. Any more, and I’m going to dinner with the butler.”

“No, you’re not.”

With that he vanished back upstairs, quietly closing the door behind him. For a long moment Samantha frowned up the staircase. Man, she’d screwed up. No, Rick hadn’t exactly caught her, but he wouldn’t have known anything about her window entry at all if not for her own bumbling. Not that there was any real harm in interrupting one of Rick’s meetings except for the embarrassment factor, but she’d just waltzed into a room full of people without having a clue that they were there. If she’d done that in her previous life, she’d probably be lying on her back with a chalk outline around her right now.

She grabbed an apple from the kitchen, probably offending Vilseau the chef, then returned upstairs to the room beside the office. In the large brown and black bedroom suite that she
and Rick shared, Samantha flopped backward onto the bed. No doubt about it, she was getting soft. The question was, did it matter?

Obviously as long as she stayed with Rick she couldn’t go back to her old way of life. He was too high-profile, and there was that sticky issue of morality, plus the fact that he was chummy with far too many of the people from whom she’d stolen.

It was only the rush that she missed, the intense sensation of being alive that came from sneaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be in order to acquire things she wasn’t supposed to have. She didn’t keep those things, but she had damned well enjoyed the money she got for them.

Right on cue her cell phone rang, to the tune of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” “I told you never to call me here,” she said once she dug the phone out of her purse and flipped it open.

“Where are you, then?” came the familiar voice of her ex-fence, surrogate father, and current business partner Walter “Stoney” Barstone. “’Cause unless it’s the john, baby, I don’t remember you telling me any such thing.”

“I meant while I’m on vacation.”

“You’ve never taken a real vacation in your life. And I just wanted to find out how the thing with Locke went.”

She blew out her lips. “It went fine. The guy’s a perv, but he’s loaded. I’ll fax you in half an hour or so with the details so we can send him a bill.”

Stoney stayed quiet for a beat. “You sound real excited about it.”

“Yeah, well, I kind of broke into the house here, and stumbled right into the middle of Rick’s meeting.”

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“Because I tried to go shopping earlier, and I cased every
store I walked into on Madison Avenue. It was giving me a fucking panic attack.”

He had the bad manners to laugh at her. “Then stop shopping on Madison Avenue, honey. There’s better stuff at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, anyway. In fact, I know two guys who have open requests for anything you can pick up by Renoir or Degas. We’re talking a cool half million for each.”

“Shut up. I don’t want to know about those people.” Frowning at the phone, Samantha rolled onto her stomach. “Besides, I don’t do museums, if you’ll recall.”

“I recall. What about Sotheby’s? Did you talk the billionaire into going with you tonight?”

“It was his idea,” she returned defensively. “And I’m keeping my hands in my pockets. I’m just going to take in the view, and maybe to advise Rick on artwork.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say.”

“That
is
what I say.”

“Fine, honey. I was just trying to help distract you from your crisis.”

Samantha blew him a raspberry. “With friends like you, yadda yadda yadda.”

“I love you, too, Sam. And hey, as long as I’m already interrupting your vacation, those business cards we’ve been spreading around Palm Beach are paying off. Aubrey took three calls for appointments over the weekend. One mansion, one art studio, and an attorney’s office.”

Oh, good, more joy and excitement for her. “Blech. Go talk to ’em, then.”

“They don’t want to take security advice from me, Sam. They want Rick Addison’s girlfriend. The one who has fistfights with murdering heiresses and lays the smackdown on guys who steal paintings from Rick.”

“Christ, Stoney, you make me sound like the Masked Mangler or something. I used my brainpower, thank you very much.” Of course on various occasions she’d also ended up with a concussion and a bullet graze and a series of other cuts and bruises, but hey, she’d won.

“Then that’s what they want. Your brainpower. And you in person.”

Three calls on a March weekend in Palm Beach, Florida, wasn’t bad at all, when she considered it. Most of the wealthiest part-time residents had left for their summer homes, and the number of year-round residents was tiny compared to the winter influx. “Did Aubrey tell them I was on a business trip?”

“Is that what you’re calling it now?” She heard his sigh. “Yes, he told them.”

“Then we’ll schedule something when I get back. It’ll be another ten days or so.”

“Whatever you say. Just keep in mind that I’m not running this shit all by myself. We’re partners, remember? And besides, I think Aubrey’s getting kind of interested in me.”

Samantha snorted. “You are pretty cute. Ten days. I promise. I’m trying to be a good significant other.”

“Then you’d better quit casing stores. Addison probably wouldn’t like that.”

He actually hadn’t seemed too upset, or even surprised. And she’d told him, which had to count for something. “I’m hanging up now. ’Bye, sweetie.”

Groaning, she sat up again and strolled into the bathroom to turn on the shower. As if she needed Stoney to tell her that thievery wouldn’t mix with her new life. Hell, she’d been straight for five months now—and it was for her as much as it was for Rick. It was still so odd, to think of a life where she could settle in one place and not have to wipe her fingerprints
off every doorknob in case the police or Interpol were following her, looking for evidence.

She was in that new life now. Why, then, did she feel like she both wanted to keep on her toes, and that she needed to? Old habits and all that shit, she supposed. But to stop looking over her shoulder—that would be harder than remembering to smile for the paparazzi.

Tuesday, 6:08 p.m.

B
y the time Richard Addison ushered his minions—as Samantha called them—out the front door, he was ready to forgo both dinner out and the Sotheby’s auction in favor of spending a quiet evening with Samantha. If he knew her, though, she wouldn’t want to do any such thing.

He’d half suspected, in fact, that her enthusiasm to accompany him to New York had a great deal to do with the Sotheby’s invitation he’d received—whether she pretended ignorance about it or not. “The Great Masters Auction” sounded right up her alley, so to speak. And if she’d ever attended one before, it hadn’t been to bid.

“Samantha?” he said, pushing open the door to the master bedroom suite.

Considering how little time he had to put on his tuxedo and get her to dinner if they were to make the auction, part of
him was relieved that she wasn’t in the room. On the other hand, having to sit behind his desk for the past hour in order to maintain his dignity hadn’t been easy. Forced to concentrate on images of the old Queen Mum while trying to hammer out a reasonable offer for the new Manhattan Hotel, he’d ended up with both a headache and a fair concentration of sexual frustration. Wilder had laid out his tuxedo for him, and after a quick, cold shower that didn’t help either affliction, he dressed and headed back downstairs to find his obsession.

She was sitting in the front room, gazing across the street at Central Park. “I hope you took the tag off that dress,” he murmured, his throat constricting at the sight of her, “because I’m thinking you should wear it to bed every night.”

Samantha faced him, grinning. “We’d get sparklies all over the sheets.”

“Yes, we would.”

The red of the dress brought out the copper color of her shoulder-length hair, which she’d pinned into some sort of upswept tangle. Richard wanted to run his hands through it. He walked over to offer his hand. “Shall we?”

“Such the gentleman, you are,” she drawled in a very good Southern accent, dipping her fingers across his and rising.

The gesture was more because he wanted to touch her than because of his deep-seated gentlemanly qualities. “If you had any idea what I’d like to be doing with you right now, I doubt you’d call me a gentleman,” he returned, drawing her up against him to kiss her soft red-colored lips.

“Don’t smudge me,” she stated, sweeping her arms around his shoulders.

“Later, then,” he whispered, taking a step backward and
not trying to hide his reluctance to let her go. Every time he did so, he had the whisper of a thought in the back of his mind that he’d never be able to catch her again. “We have reservations at Bid.”

“I’ve been wanting to see what it looks like now,” she said, following him to the foyer where Wilder waited for them, her black shawl in his hands.

“Now? It’s only been open a few months.”

Samantha flashed him a smile as she allowed the butler to put the shawl over her shoulders. “As a restaurant, yes.”

Wonderful. So she’d been in the Sotheby’s basement
before
it had been converted to a restaurant. Did he want to know more than that? Yes, but he damned well wasn’t going to ask her in front of Wilder.

The limousine pulled up in front just as they reached the bottom of the steps. The driver jumped out and hurried around to open the door for them. “Ben,” Samantha said, smiling at the driver. “Did you find that…thing I mentioned?”

“What ‘thing’?” Richard broke in.

Ben grinned, pulling a candy bar from his pocket. “Chocolate and caramel,” he said, handing it to Samantha.

“You rock, man.” Favoring the limo driver with a kiss on the cheek that made him blush bright red, Samantha dove into the back of the limo. For a moment Richard second-guessed his decision to fly Ben up from Palm Beach with them. Acquiring a driver in New York would have been a simple matter, but Ben knew things about them, about their…habits, that he would never discuss. And therefore having him about provided both of them with an extra layer of security. Or so Richard had thought. The bloody driver was supposed to work for
him
.

Richard followed her. “Don’t you dare eat that now.”

She was already unwrapping it. “I’ll share.”

“You’ll spoil your dinner.”

Samantha scowled at him, and deliberately took a huge bite of the chocolate bar. “We are
not
having this conversation,” she mumbled, chewing.

Dammit, she was doing it deliberately, annoying him about the candy so he wouldn’t ask her what she knew about the basement at Sotheby’s. And he’d very nearly fallen for the distraction. Again. “So tell me about your experiences at Sotheby’s.”

“Nope.” She swallowed, folded the wrapper back over the bar, and tucked it into her purse. Fleetingly he wondered what else she had in the small, red-spangled Gucci bag—probably paperclips, electrical tape, a magnet, and some string. It would all pass security anywhere, and with those tools at her disposal she could lift a Picasso in thirty seconds flat with nothing else needed.

“You said you’ve hit them before. Three years ago, wasn’t it?”

She faced him, her green eyes as cool as her dress was hot. “First of all, do you really want to know the details of my lawlessness? And second, would my answer one way or the other change our plans for tonight?”

Holding her gaze, Richard blew out his breath. “Yes, and no.”

Quicksilver humor crossed her face. “I’ll assume you’re not being wishy-washy.”

“Not where you’re concerned, my love.” He took her hand in his, fiddling with her long fingers. “You know your secrets are safe with me.”

“I know.” For a moment she gazed past him out the window. “We play at things a lot, but I have to admit that it still
makes me…squirmy to realize how much you know about me. And how much damage you could do with what you know about me.”

“If I may make an observation, I could say the same thing about you where I’m concerned.”

“Right. I could tell the world that you’re a Great White in the world of business sharks, that you don’t like American-style baked potatoes, and that you’re hell on wheels in bed. Your reputation would be forever destroyed.”

God, he wanted to kiss her right now. Everywhere. “You’re changing the subject again.”

“Am not.”

He tugged her closer, carefully tucking a straying strand of her auburn hair behind one bare ear. She hated earrings; apparently they could fall off at very inopportune moments during cat burglaries. “You asked me if I wanted to know, and I said yes. Now it’s up to you. Tell me or not, Samantha, but don’t pretend you’re not dodging the issue.”

“Smart ass.” She drew a deep breath, which did some nice things for her breasts beneath the low front of the spaghetti-strapped gown. “I’ve hit Sotheby’s six times.”

Six times?
That made it the Jellicoe equivalent of a supermarket. “And why are you so set on going there again, and tonight specifically?”

“Do you think I’m setting up another job or something?”

“I think someone might recognize you, and you might end up in prison for a very long time, you nitwit.” He shifted his grip from her hand to her elbows, barely restraining himself from shaking her. “And you’d better not give me some flip answer to that.”

She actually opened and closed her mouth, as though she’d been considering that very thing. “I always wore a disguise. Wig, colored contact lenses. The last time I was a really hot,
booby blonde. This is the first time I’ll be attending as me.”

Whoever that was. Sometimes he thought that he really had no clue at all. “You think after six times that there’s still no chance of anyone coming up with a composite that looks like you?”

“Are you going to let go of my arms?” she asked, her voice dropping. “Because you may remember that I really don’t like being grabbed.”

No, she didn’t. Clamping down on his concern, he released her. All he needed was a knee to the groin to spoil any possibility for fun later in the evening. “Six times. How frequently were you here?” he returned in a more even tone.

“I made it like a yearly thing, starting when I turned sixteen. For some reason I won’t be doing it this year.” She sent him a sardonic look. “But yes, I probably should have warned you earlier that they might be looking for a girl who’s about my build.”

The chill in his chest turned into an iceberg large enough to sink the
Titanic
. “Then why are we going, again?” he asked very quietly.

“Truthfully? Because it’s a rush.” She put a hand over his mouth before he could comment on that tripe. “But nobody’s going to do a thing about me being there, firstly because you have an engraved invitation that says ‘Richard Addison and Guest,’ and secondly because I’m with you. Like they’d try to take down Rick Addison’s significant other.”

For a moment he ignored the fact that she’d voluntarily referred to herself as his significant anything. Despite his serious reservations, her argument made sense. “So I’m your stay-out-of-jail-free card,” he finally muttered.

“You betcha, studmuffin.”

“So how booby was this blonde you became last year?”

“
Baywatch
. I think I still have the stuffing somewhere.”

“And the wig?”

She sent him an amused glare. “If you prefer booby blondes, you should have stayed married to Patricia.”

“I was just curious.”

“Hm-hm.” To his surprise, she turned her back to settle against his chest. “So how was your meeting, dear? Any hostile takeovers or venture capital thingies?”

Richard lowered his face to her hair, careful not to disturb the arrangement of her ’do. “I love you, Samantha Jellicoe,” he breathed, settling an arm around her waist.

“I love you, too, Rick.”

She still hesitated, but at least she could say it. And whenever she chose to do so, however rarely it happened, he felt like King Kong climbing the Empire State Building, swatting down all comers. “Hoshido wants to sell the Manhattan,” he said. “He can’t appear to want to sell it, though, or he’ll put himself in the weaker position.”

“That whole Japanese honor thing,” she returned, nodding against his chest. “They’re hard to work with in my biz, too. My old biz, I mean.”

The little tangle of worry touched him again, and he forced it away. “Most of the work today was about crafting an approach that both sides can live with. We haven’t even gotten close to price or conditions yet.”

“Ah. You’re still at the dangerous ‘howdy’ stage of negotiations.”

He chuckled, kissing her hair. “Exactly.”

“Well, you’ll take him down, Brit. You always do.”

“That’s my plan.” Unable to resist, he shifted his hand to glide it down her leg along the slit of her dress. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather do something else tonight?”

“I’m planning on fitting in dinner, Sotheby’s,
and
copulation, thank you very much. And in that order, I might—”

The intercom buzzed. With a sigh, Richard reached back to tap it. “Yes, Ben?”

“We’re about to pull up, sir. Shall I stop, or go around?”

Ben knew his business routine alarmingly well—Richard preferred a drive around the block to emerging before he was completely prepared for a meeting. Now the driver had grown accustomed to his and Samantha’s social routine, as well—he knew he needed to check whether the passengers in the rear seats were clothed or not. “Here is good, Ben.”

They pulled to the curb. Samantha straightened as Ben trotted around to pull open the door. “Oh, great,” she grumbled, plowing into her purse for a mirror to check her hair and lipstick. Rick hadn’t smashed anything too badly, thankfully.

“What?” Rick asked, from his expression clearly not seeing anything wrong with her. Her heart did one of those happy flip-flops. “You look great.”

“Not me. The paparazzi.”

He followed her jabbing finger toward the monolithic building beside them. “You had to expect it. This is a big night for Sotheby’s.”

“I know, I know.” She took Ben’s waiting hand and stepped onto the curb. “But don’t you think it would be nice if we auction-going people could enjoy it in privacy for once?”

“Snob,” he murmured with a grin. Rick followed her out of the limo and took her hand. Immediately the annoying flashes of mini-lightning began, and she pasted on the bland smile she’d been working on since her first terrifying public outing with Addison. Tomorrow everybody who read either the
Post
or the
Enquirer
would see her name and her photo
and know exactly where she was, with whom she spent her time, and what she was doing. But hell, she and Rick had been on nationally syndicated TV last night, so what did it matter, anymore?

“Are you all right?” Rick asked, leaning closer to her. More flashbulbs went off.

Get it together, Sam
, she ordered herself. Whatever she’d told him about being in his company at Sotheby’s, something could still go wrong. And as Martin Jellicoe used to say, if something could go to hell, it would. The key was to have a contingency plan. “I’m good. Just wondering how badly I’ll get flamed on your fan website for this.”

He nodded, his gaze on the doorway in front of them. “If you’d quit going on the message board as ‘Sally from Springfield,’ you’d never know.”

“Hey, somebody has to defend my honor, even if it’s just me.” She dug her fingers into his arm. “And I
knew
you were going there to read the messages.”

“You’re the one who told me I had a fan website, my love.”

Samantha had always thought of herself as the master of distraction and deception, but Rick had turned out to be a fair hand at it, as well. At least she’d stopped grinding her teeth about the press ranged outside Sotheby’s.

Obviously they weren’t the only auction-attendees who’d decided to dine at Bid before the event, but she—and Rick, especially—definitely didn’t just blend into the crowd. Not even when the crowd consisted of the wealthy American upper crust. As they walked inside she recognized them mostly from the magazines Rick had in his office—
CEO
,
Business-Week
, and the like. A couple of actors, though most of those in New York tended to be working on Broadway at this time
of the evening. Critics and producers, though, who apparently didn’t bother to show up to the theater when they didn’t have to, were all over the place. She doubted the critics would be bidding.