Billionaires Prefer Blondes (3 page)

As soon as they hit the interior of the restaurant Samantha went into her blending routine. She’d learned the rules a long time ago—the key to not being remembered was to be exactly like everyone else. She’d done it for what seemed like forever, and it would take a lot more than Rick Addison to convince her to change that.

“This is great,” she murmured, taking the seat the waiter held for her.

“I thought you’d like it,” Rick answered, asking for a bottle of wine.

“I didn’t expect the color scheme to be beige,” she said, half her attention not on the beige walls, but on what covered them and stood tastefully in every nook and cranny. “That’s an actual Renoir.”

He followed her gaze. “They decorate with pieces going up for auction.” Reaching across the table to take her fingers in his, he used the gesture to indicate the alcove in the south corner. “See that one?”

She looked. “The Rodin?”

Rick chuckled under his breath. “You’re better than a book.”

Samantha grinned at him. “And I can do so many more things than a book can do.”

“Don’t I know it. What do you think of the piece? The Rodin, to avoid any unnecessary innuendo.”

Yep, he knew her pretty well. Taking a sip of wine, she looked again. From his manner he wanted her to be discreet about showing interest, but she practically had a doctorate
in that kind of thing. “I’ve never seen it before. It’s definitely his, though. Bold lines, the unfinished stone at the bottom. The mood’s very similar to
The Thinker
, isn’t it?”

“There’s been some speculation that it’s a companion piece. It’s been in the hands of a single family in Paris since 1883. Their story is that Rodin wanted to put both sculptures on public display, but the city of Paris would only pay for the one.”

She continued gazing at it. A nude woman in mid-step, her body slightly twisted as she looked back over her shoulder, her back-facing hand closed and downturned, and the forward-reaching one palm up, fingers stretched out. Her rear foot looked as though it were rising out of the stone, her front one as though it were sinking back into it. “What’s it called?” she murmured.

“Fleeting Time.”

Before he or anyone else could accuse her of staring, she faced forward again. “I like it.”

“I’m going to buy it.” He spoke in a whisper, obviously concerned that at least one of their fellow diners might pass that word along and encourage interest in other buyers. “It reminds me of you.”

Her cheeks heated.
Great
. A little flattery, and she went all gooey. “I have a better tan.”

“And your skin’s warmer,” Rick agreed, tapping his wine glass against the rim of hers before he took a drink. “Could you find a place for it in the gallery back in Devonshire?”

“Definitely. I designed the sculpture gallery at Rawley House to be oversized. We’ll just squish in the Michelangelo closer to the Donatello, and I’ll realign some of the lighting.”

“‘Squish’?” he repeated, managing not to wince. “Don’t tell me any more. You’ll spoil my appetite.”

“Hm. We wouldn’t want that.” Samantha glanced at the statue again. “Does it really remind you of me?”

“It does, in ways I can’t quite describe.”

“And that’s why you want to buy it?”

He gazed straight at her. “That’s why I intend to own it.”

In Rick’s presence she’d learned that it was possible to feel safe and uncomfortable all at the same time. At his words, that same whisper of satisfaction and uneasiness twisted up her spine. Of course, he was being metaphorical—he didn’t want to precisely
own
her, but he did want a little more control. But hell, she was having a hard enough time handling herself without letting somebody else into that arena.

The waiter appeared, and she was grateful enough for the interruption that she probably smiled a little too hard at him as she ordered the guinea fowl. Rick went for the sea bass.

As soon as the waiter left, Samantha blew out her breath. “Look, I don’t—”

“You never gave me any details about your meeting with Boyden Locke,” he interrupted, buttering a piece of table bread. “Anything interesting?”

“So now
you’re
changing the subject?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You’re bloody fearless, my dear,” he returned, “but I know when I’ve blundered into your panic button. Did Locke show you his Picasso?”

“Yep. And he showed me the wiring circuitry and the alarm panel. If I were still in the business, I’d have a field day with his shit.”

“Samantha.”

“I know, I know. But people are so damned trusting.” She leaned forward, tapping his knuckles with her butter knife.
“If I walked into your house, would you show me your security system just because I said I knew Donald Trump and I had nice tits?”

He laughed. “No, but then I’m fairly suspicious. One time a female thief did try to break into my—”

“‘Try?’” she repeated.

“The point being, if you could
prove
that you knew Trump—as in you both appeared in several magazines together and were known to be living with him—then I might be more inclined to trust you. Locke knows your history. The part that’s for public consumption, anyway.”

“And that’s all he went by. Poof, she’s in New York. Poof, she knows Rick Addison.”

“So I’m a passport and a calling card. If that brings your business more attention, then what’s the difficulty?”

“There isn’t one.” She frowned at him. “I’m just cynical.”

“I’ve noticed that about you. Some of your clients do call me first to check up on you, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Who’s called you?”

“Some of them. Obviously I say nice things about you.”

“Gee, thanks. Did Locke call you?”

“No. Apparently he did use the ‘poof’ method, as you suspected.”

She could have spent the next forty minutes speculating about why Rick had decided not to tell her that some of her potential clients were checking up on her until that moment, or she could enjoy some very tasty pancetta-coated guinea hen. She took the second option, mainly because it also allowed her to gaze about the room. Rick had been right about the decor: plain walls, but covered with representatives of the pieces going up for auction. Christ. She hoped nobody
slopped spaghetti sauce on the English landscape painting by Constable.

They had to be alarmed, didn’t they? Or did Sotheby’s rely on the number of witnesses, the crowded gauntlet of booths and tables, and the scattered security to ensure the safety of what amounted to millions of very tantalizing dollars?

“What is it?” Rick asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Samantha blinked. “What is what?”

“You’re practically drooling.”

“I am not. I’m just wondering at the level of security. The last time I was at Sotheby’s, this was the storage basement. I mean, forget thieves, but what if somebody sneezed on a Rembrandt?”

“I don’t know what precautions they take. Would you like me to put in a request to see the director?”

She wasn’t entirely certain whether he was teasing her or not, but she was not going to have a sit-down with a guy whose business she’d robbed a half dozen times over as many years. “I’m not that curious. When do we go upstairs?”

“The auction starts in an hour. I figure we’ll have time to take a walk around the gallery before it begins.”

“Good. I like that part.”

“I imagine you would.”

For a moment Samantha concentrated on her dinner. “You really are acting like you think I’m going to pull a job or something.”

“You’re the one who agreed to join me in New York only after I received the invitation to come here tonight.”

Okay, so he’d noticed. “This isn’t the only reason I’m in New York. But I admit, I
am
curious to be here in a legitimate capacity—even if it’s just as Rick Addison’s arm candy.”

“You’re a very sour type of arm candy tonight,” he noted mildly. “I wish you would tell me what’s truly troubling you.
It has something to do with your shopping today, I know, but you’re a bit of a tough nut to crack, as they say.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Inhaling a deep breath, Samantha set down her knife and fork. “Okay. I don’t know what’s bugging me. I’m just all keyed up for something when I damn well
know
nothing’s going to happen.”

Deep blue eyes gazed at her. “It makes sense. You’ve spent most of your life walking into trouble and then avoiding the consequences of it. So now—”

“Hey,” she cut in, scowling. “That does not sound very flattering.”

“It’s a fact. You steal a Monet, and then do your damnedest not to get caught. So now that your life has calmed down a little, I think you’re waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.”

“I really hate being analyzed.”

“I’m just attempting to help.”

“Well, stop it. Whatever’s bugging me, I’ll deal. And not by grabbing a Picasso and running for it, so don’t worry.”

“I always worry, but not about that.”

After that it seemed a better idea to just keep her thoughts to herself and finish dinner. Rick evidently realized he was about one word away from getting a three-inch heel stuck in his calf, because he desisted as well. Yes, perhaps she was overly aware of her surroundings—like that was a bad thing. Maybe it wasn’t entirely necessary any longer, but considering that in the five months since she’d met Rick she’d been nearly blown up, had her head broken, been in two car crashes, been shot, and had ended up on a first-name basis with at least one Palm Beach police detective, being aware seemed a pretty bright reaction.

“Dessert, or gallery?” Rick finally asked, touching his
napkin to his mouth in that very macho yet sensual and sophisticated way he had.

“Gallery,” she decided, despite the sight of the decadent chocolates rolling by on the dessert tray.

Rick stood, making his way around the table to hold her chair and assist her to her feet. “Then let’s get this show on the road.”

“Amen to that.”

Tuesday, 8:21 p.m.

“I
suppose we have you to thank for this?” Richard murmured as he retrieved his keys and watch from the far side of the metal detection kiosk.

Just behind him Samantha picked up her beaded red purse from the neighboring table. “Probably,” she returned in the same low tone, hooking her arm around his. “The security seems to get a little tougher every year. It was kind of fun, trying to figure out what they’d come up with next, and what I’d need to do to get around it.”

The most recent Sotheby’s auction Richard had attended had been two years ago in London, and security had been adequate if low-key in deference to the clientele. Here in New York, he supposed the next step up would be a body cavity search. “And you’re absolutely certain no one here will recognize you from those ‘fun’ little encounters?”

She leaned the curve of her body against his side, and his
heart accelerated in response. “They probably recognize me from being with you, or they think they recognize me from somewhere, but nobody’s going to make me for lifting paintings here.”

God, she was so confident—but from what he’d seen of and learned about her, she had every right to be. “I’ll take your word for it, then—but I’m keeping my guard up, anyway.”

Samantha shot him her quicksilver grin. “I have to admit, it’d be kind of cool to see you running interference for me while I make an escape.”

“Just remember that you’re not going anywhere without me.”

They passed what seemed like an absurd number of both uniformed and plainclothes security officers, though if Samantha Elizabeth Jellicoe had actually been on the prowl, he doubted all of Sotheby’s personnel would have been enough to prevent her from doing exactly what she intended.

And anyone who didn’t know her would think Samantha was completely at ease and enjoying the evening. While he personally didn’t doubt the latter, he could see her alert gaze, the way she noted every camera, every exit, and everyone who stood between her and the street.

Keeping in mind that Samantha’s self-confidence could on very rare occasions be exaggerated or misplaced, he seated them toward the back of the room and right on the center aisle. Unnecessary as it probably was, Richard had made it his primary job to keep her safe. And however much that task might distract him from some of his substantial business interests, it was also quite possibly the most exciting, arousing thing he’d ever done. For someone of his experience and background, that was saying a great deal.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Ian Smythe,” the thin,
black-clothed man said from the podium at the front of the room, “and I will be your auctioneer tonight. Please be aware that in addition to the bidders on the floor, we have twenty phone lines and five Internet accounts set up for interested parties unable to attend in person this evening.”

Samantha leaned up to Richard’s ear, the caress of her breath warm and intoxicating. “Or for those unwilling to reveal their identities to the IRS or to any cat burglars who might be seated in the audience,” she finished.

Yes, she was definitely enjoying herself. “Shh.”

“And one further announcement,” Ian continued. “We are very excited to report that while our experts were evaluating the Hogarth painting listed in the sales catalog as number 32501, a second Hogarth was discovered stretched on the same frame beneath the first one. After consulting with the owners, Sotheby’s is pleased to announce that they have decided to place the second Hogarth up for sale, as well. The piece will be available for viewing at intermission, and will be designated as item number 32501A.”

From the sudden chattering and excited murmurings of the crowd, Richard wasn’t the only one surprised by the news. Samantha snatched the sale catalog from his lap and flipped to the appropriate page.

“The Fishing Fleet,”
she said, gazing at the photo of the known Hogarth. “This one’s pretty famous. Do you know who the owner is?”

Richard shook his head. “Obviously it hasn’t changed hands recently, or someone would have realized there was a second painting tucked behind the first one well before now. The theme of
The Fishing Fleet
is unusual in itself—William Hogarth’s usual focus was on satirical social commentary. This one’s just…lovely.”

“That is so cool,” she breathed, handing him back the
glossy catalog. “While I was working at the Norton Museum doing restoration, we—”

“Your legitimate job,” he broke in with a slow smile.

“Yes, one of the few. Anyway, we discovered a second canvas behind a Magritte, but it was just an unsigned mess, like his kid had been doodling with the paints and he just didn’t bother to take it off the frame before he put up a new canvas.”

“It does happen, rarely. If I kept the Hogarth under wraps until our gallery at Rawley House opens, it would get us a great deal of free publicity. He is an English artist, after all.”

Samantha lifted an eyebrow. “Jump the gun much? You kind of have to own it before you can exploit it.”

Taking her hand, Richard lifted it to kiss her knuckles. “If I like it, I’ll own it.”

“Mm-hm.” She pulled her hand free none too gently. “Watch that bragging, Brit. I’m here due to a coincidence of mutual insanity. Not ownership.”

Dammit
. Eventually he’d remember that she didn’t need to be impressed by his power and wealth. In fact, their frequent mention was probably the surest way to drive her away. “Apologies, Samantha,” he murmured. “I just meant that you shouldn’t doubt my resolve.”

She snorted. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. You’re one resolved guy. Bid away. I’m just here for the view.”

Thankfully Ian Smythe banged his gavel and opened the auction before Rick could start protesting that he’d never tried to influence her with his money. Samantha sat back a little and blew out her breath. Rick made life easy and safe and comfortable, and the part of her that had been looking over her shoulder for most of her life just wanted to fall into the goose-down pillows and pull the satin sheets over her head.

Thankfully the other part of her—the one that could count to seven (the number of years before a statute of limitations for a nonlethal crime expired)—knew that she still had about six years to go before she could truly begin to relax. And that same part of her remained deathly afraid that “comfortable” might equal “boring.” It certainly had when she’d talked with Boyden Locke today. And when she’d consulted with the other dozen clients she’d advised over the past two months. The money was good, but compared with the way she used to earn a living, it just felt too…easy.

Of course, the excitement of her old life had its own drawbacks, too. She’d gotten a couple of hard looks from the more senior of Sotheby’s security staff, but she’d been right that Rick Addison provided a hell of a security blanket. Pressing a little closer against his side, she settled into the exciting rhythm of bids and nodding and the outbursts of applause and commentary. Funny, the last time she’d done this, her heart had been going a million miles an hour while she waited for somebody to make the winning bid on a particularly valuable Degas so the staff would return it to its secure location in the basement. And then she’d gone to work.

With a slight smile at the memory, she returned to gazing at New York’s uppermost upper crust. Some of them were definitely old money, but even if they weren’t regular newsmakers, she knew who they were. She’d relieved at least a dozen of them of some valuable or other in the course of her career. Halfway back on the far side of the room her eyes found a figure standing in the shadow of one of the modern sculptures up for bid. Medium height, thin, wiry build, light brown hair running to gray, and an expensive-looking, tasteful suit, he fit the room as well as anyone else did—except for his hands.

Long fingers twiddled, tapping his thighs in a rhythm
that had more to do with nerves than with Ian Smythe’s melodious, cajoling voice or the bang of the auctioneer’s gavel. As though sensing her gaze, he turned and looked straight at her, brown eyes into her green ones, then faced forward again.

She’d known those eyes for all but the last six years of her life. Martin Reese Jellicoe.

Samantha lurched forward, gasping forcefully enough that she could hear the ragged shake of her own breath. Her heart just stopped. Her fingers abruptly went ice-cold, and her purse clattered to the floor at her feet. Even in the drone of noise from the large room, it seemed loud.

“Samantha?” Richard murmured, glancing sideways at her before he bent down to collect her handbag and return it to her lap. “Sam? What is it?”

Get it together, get it together
. Just because a ghost stood thirty feet from her and she’d lost her mind and she needed to scream and throw up and run away to somewhere quiet where she could
think
, didn’t mean she had to let anyone else know. “Sorry,” she drawled back. “All these dollar figures are making me giddy.”

He chuckled softly. “Wait till you hear
me
get going.”

Samantha barely noted what he said. She took a slower breath. Waiting long enough so no one would notice that her attention was focused on a particular someone in the audience rather than on the auction, she looked back into the shadow again. She’d more than half thought she’d be gazing at empty space, but he was still standing there.

Holy fucking shit. Her father—her
father
—was at Sotheby’s. Her dead father. The one who’d died in a Florida prison three years ago, and whose cheap prison-grounds burial she’d watched through binoculars from a half mile away. Martin Jellicoe might have been a hell of a cat burglar at one
time, but even at his peak he couldn’t have faked his own death. Escape, sure—that was how he’d ended up at the Okeechobee Correctional Institution, the third and highest-security prison that had attempted to hold him.

Trying to keep her breathing steady and her heart from pounding right through her rib cage, Samantha reached into her purse and fingered her cell phone. Who was she supposed to call, though? The Florida State Board of Corrections? The Ghostbusters? Stoney? If Stoney had known about this…She couldn’t imagine that he could know and not tell her. Not after all that they’d been through together. But then her father knew, obviously, and he’d been somewhere other than six feet under for the past three years. And for the past five months she’d had a very public address. If he’d bothered to contact her, she probably would have remembered.

“Here we go,” Rick said beside her.

She jumped. “What?”

“The Rodin.” He sent her a half-annoyed look. “Do try to stay awake. I, at the least, find this to be rather exciting.”

“So do I,” she countered, shaking herself again. It would be so damned much simpler if she could just walk over and ask Martin where he’d been and what he was up to, but every instinct she possessed screamed that it’d be a very bad idea. “I was just thinking about the Hogarth,” she lied. “I wonder when they actually discovered the second painting.”

“I’ll ask at intermission.” He lifted the catalog in his hand, easy and casual, and Ian Smythe added another ten thousand dollars to the going price of the statue. A minute later, the price started jumping in fifty-, then hundred-thousand-dollar increments.

Intermission. Maybe she could arrange to talk with Martin then. As she sat and tried to match her expression to Rick’s calm, mildly amused and interested one, yet another
thought joined the others crashing through her brain: the
why
of Martin Jellicoe—the why here and why now.

If
she’d
been the reason, he could have made his appearance anytime before now. Even not counting the past three years, there had been shopping for two hours earlier today, and the morning run she’d taken through Central Park several hours before that. Sotheby’s wasn’t a logical place to spring his non-death on his daughter, which meant he wasn’t there tonight for her. Which left the other option—theft. But of what?

“The bid on the phone is twelve million four hundred thousand. Do I have twelve-five?” Ian Smythe’s voice interrupted her thoughts again.

Rick raised the catalog.

“Twelve-five. Twelve-six anywhere?”

“Rick,” Samantha whispered, “can I see the catalog?”

“Now?” he mouthed.

“Yes.”

“I’m using it.”

“I need to look at something.” For a clue about what might have enticed her father to suddenly reappear after three years.

He signaled with it again. “Look in a minute.”

Samantha drew in a breath. “Fine.” Wrestling him for it wouldn’t do her much good. Anxious, nervous as she was for answers, another five minutes would hardly change anything.

“The bid is now thirteen million dollars with Mr. Addison,” Smythe said, twirling the gavel in his hand. “Do I hear thirteen two-fifty?”

The room around them buzzed, but no one blinked, nodded, scratched, or lifted a hand. Samantha held her breath, too. Rick wanted the Rodin, but he was also a keen businessman who wouldn’t pay more than something was worth.
Whatever his limit was, they had to be close to it. His expression, though, remained calm and unconcerned. Despite her nerves, anticipation coursed through her. And she was only a damned interested bystander. He was amazing. No wonder he owned a good portion of the world.

“No one? Thirteen-two, perhaps? Mrs. Quay? No? All right, then, going, going, gone”—and the mallet struck the desk—“to Richard Addison for thirteen million dollars.” Smythe smiled. “Congratulations, sir. Or should I say, my lord?”

The room burst into applause, which Samantha belatedly echoed, as Rick waved away the question. He was so low-key about his blue blood that most people—unless they were a part of his fan club—probably had no idea that he was the Marquis of Rawley, a real, genuine aristocrat. “You’re so cool,” she breathed at Rick, sliding over to give him a kiss on the lips.

“Thank you, my love.” He had the good manners to pretend that she made such gestures of affection in public all the time, and broke the kiss before she could do so. Then he handed her the catalog. “Now, what did you want to look at?”