Don't Look Down (2 page)

“Christ,” he grunted. “Take off your shirt and get up here.”

Well, that might be pushing who was in charge, but it sounded like a damned fine idea all the same. Pulling her black sweatshirt over her head, she dumped it to the floor, her bra following. She wasn’t generally into power plays and domination, but there was something intoxicating about having him completely at her mercy. It didn’t happen often. Lifting up, she offered her breasts to his mouth and tongue, groaning as his pinned hands went to work on the zipper of her black jeans. For a hostage he was quite enterprising, but she’d never had cause to doubt that.

Samantha gripped the spires on the back of the chair and arched against him. “You’re nearly as nice as a good B and E,” she murmured.

“‘Nearly as nice’?” he repeated, his voice muffled against her left tit. “And speaking of breaking and entering, take your damned pants off.”

With a breathless chuckle she slid back off his thighs, shrugging out of her jeans and then flinging her underwear over the corner of the nearest bookshelf. “Your turn.” Bending down, she unbuttoned the fastening of his jeans.

She knelt between his thighs and inch by inch began lowering his zipper. With each click of freeing metal teeth her breath came harder, while he lay his head back against the carved mahogany and took it. Finally he gave a clenched moan. “You’re bloody killing me, you know.”

“That’s the idea of torture, isn’t it?” As he came free but for the thin, tented material of his boxers, though, she couldn’t stand it any longer, either.

Yanking his jeans and shorts down past his thighs, she climbed onto the chair again. She could have tortured him further, she supposed, but she wanted him at least as much as he wanted her. She always seemed to want him, far more badly and far more often than could possibly be normal.
Then again, she had very few long-term relationships to measure this one against. Her hands locked around the chair’s arms to steady herself, she slowly sank onto his hard, ready cock.

Rick rocked his hips up against her, the most action he could make while tied to the chair. Firming her grip on the arms, she slid up and down the length of him as slowly as she could stand it, gasping for breath at the hard, filling sensation of him inside her. Rick leaned his head back again, pumping into her and obviously fighting for control. “Dammit, Samantha,” he rasped.

She increased her pace, leaning against his chest as she plunged onto him hard and fast. “Let go, Rick,” she breathed, biting his ear. “Come for me.”

“Jesus,” he grunted raggedly, pushing up into her again and again.

She came first, wildly, clenching onto the arms of the chair and flinging her head back as her body quaked. She felt his muscles contract beneath her, inside her, his animal growl of satisfaction—and then the chair collapsed beneath them.

They dropped to the floor in a tangle of limbs and rope and two-hundred-year-old armchair. After a stunned moment sprawled across him, Samantha lifted her head to look down at Rick. “Are you okay?”

He chuckled, twisting a hand free from the loosened ropes. “Not since I met you.” Tangling his fist into her hair, he pulled her face down for another deep, long kiss. “And keep the rope handy. I may feel the need for payback, Yank.”

“Mm. Promises, promises, Brit.”

Wednesday, 7:18 a.m.

R
ichard Addison awoke before Samantha. He usually did. When most people claimed to be night owls, they had no idea what they were talking about. Sam lived for nights, and with few exceptions she detested rising early.

Their sleeping habits were a pointed reminder of the differences between them. The necessities of running a worldwide conglomerate forced him to rise early and keep long hours. Until three months ago Samantha, on the other hand, had done most of her work at night. Cat burglaries, robberies, art and jewel heists, things he knew about in general terms but would probably never learn the specifics of—except for her last job. That one had been memorable. And if she hadn’t been in his Palm Beach house trying to steal his priceless stone tablet, he would have been killed in the explosion that had literally thrown them together. She’d saved his life that night, and since then he’d made it his goal to save hers.

Richard leaned over to kiss Samantha softly on the cheek, then slipped out of the King George II bed and into the large
adjoining private room. Once he’d called New York for an update on the Chinese tariff research he’d ordered, he buzzed the kitchen downstairs to request a pot of tea and headed into the shower. He had a bruise on one hip from the chair collapse last evening, but as far as he was concerned, the sex had been worth the damage.

Samantha had startled the hell out of him when she’d jumped through the library window. If he hadn’t driven three hours to get home, and if he hadn’t happened to begin his search for her in the library, he would have missed her arrival.

And thank God he hadn’t; the only way to convince her she shouldn’t return to her former—and extremely successful—life of crime seemed to be for him to stay one step ahead of her.

Mindful of the typical Devonshire weather in January, he shrugged on a heavy pullover sweater and his jeans before he left the residence on the upper floor of the north wing of Rawley House and headed downstairs to his office. The tea was waiting for him when he sat down behind his desk, and he held the warm cup in his hands for a blissful moment before he took a drink and logged onto his computer.

After eight o’clock he called his London offices to request the latest paperwork and updates on the pipe-fitting company he was in the midst of acquiring. He bumped the day’s appointments so he wouldn’t have to drive back into town until tomorrow, and had his assistant, Sarah, schedule a meeting for him with the Commerce secretary for after the weekend. That finished, he sat back to check the closing numbers for the American stock market, sipping his tea as he surfed.

Twenty minutes later he stood, stretching, and strolled into the chilly hallway. He’d provided an office for Samantha next to his, in what had historically been the estate man
ager’s quarters. He hesitated before he put a hand on the door handle. Despite her colorful past, she’d been honest with him from the beginning, and if she said she’d decided to set up a small security business, then that was what she was doing. The problem, though, was twofold: One, a small business seemed more like a hobby than a permanent career change; and two, if her reaction to her interview with John Harding was any indication, apparently recommending alarm systems didn’t provide enough of a rush to satisfy an adrenaline junkie. Richard frowned.

“I heard somewhere that you shouldn’t frown, because your face could freeze like that,” Samantha’s voice came from a few steps away.

He just barely avoided jumping. “That’s just a rumor,” he returned, facing her, “perpetrated by people who sell cosmetics.”

The sight of her stilled his breath, as it did nearly every time he set eyes on her. His best friend, his thief, his lover, his obsession—what she was coming to mean to him changed and evolved with every beat of his heart. Her parts—green eyes, auburn hair hanging to her shoulders, slim, athletic figure—drove him as mad as the whole of her.

“I thought so, damned antiwrinkle cream people,” she commented, stepping by him to swing open her office door. “It’s not locked. What were you looking for?”

“I thought I might lend a hand with your proposal for John Harding,” he improvised, following her inside.

“I’m not sure I want to give Harding a proposal,” she said, flipping on the lights. “I told you I’d rather focus on getting something manageable started in Florida before I open a worldwide megaconglomerate. I’ve never run a business before.” Samantha offered him a fleeting grin. “Not a legitimate one, anyway.”

Of course she would prefer to work in Florida. That was
where they’d met, and where she’d begun to put down a few tenuous roots. Taking her fingers, he pulled her closer for a kiss. “There’s no such word as ‘megaconglomerate,’ Harding’s a neighbor, and I need to stay in England for at least another fortnight.”

“Not ‘fortnight.’ Two weeks. And I get it. You’re telling me to keep busy while you’re working,” she commented, breaking his hold. “That’s lame. I have my own business, and it has nothing to do with you, bub. I mean, shit. Next you’ll tell me that you decided to turn the entire south wing of your house here into a public art gallery just because I said I liked art and you didn’t want me to get bored.”

That had only been part of the reason
. “I enjoy art, as well. If I recall, you tried to steal some of it.”

“Only one piece.” She looked at him, green eyes speculative.

Time to go on the offensive before she figured out everything. “I’m setting up a public gallery because I want to. I asked you to help me because you’ve worked in museums, you have a damned fine eye for aesthetics, and I don’t have to pay you.
And
you happen to know something about keeping my property secure. Besides, you have a nice ass.”

“Mm-hm. Obviously you have a fine eye for beauty, yourself, Brit.” She grabbed his hand again. “Now stop bugging me about starting my business and follow my nice ass into the gallery wing. I want to know what you think of the lighting we’re setting up for the sculpture hall.”

“Ah.” That was Samantha and her mental sleight of hand; confront and redirect. But if she wanted to change the subject from business to art display, at least it stopped the argument for the time being. “And how much is this lighting going to cost me?” he asked, playing along.

Her quicksilver smile reappeared. “You don’t want your
Rodin to look all glary with a cheap lighting system, now, do you?”

“It’s far too early in the day for you to keep making up words, love,” he returned, pleased to hear the genuine enthusiasm in her voice. “And I meant to ask you, if someone can break into Rawley Park as easily as you did last night, why are we moving my Rodin here, anyway?”

“
I
can break in. That doesn’t mean anybody else could. Besides, it was a test. The idea is to keep improving security until I
can’t
break in anymore.”

“Is that how you’re going to test all of your security work?”

“I don’t know yet. It might be fun, though. There are companies who hire people like me just to test their security.”

Wonderful
. “Did you make those phone calls I suggested to get an idea of what you might charge for your services?”

Samantha sighed. “Rick, butt out. You go make your billions, and I’ll work my stuff out for myself.”

He wanted to keep pressing, mostly because once she did have a business established, it would be more difficult for her to throw her things into a knapsack and vanish into her former life. But he also recognized the expression on her face. She was someone who hated being handled as much as he did, and he’d been pushing hard.

“Fair enough. Might we at least have breakfast before I face the gallery?” He did genuinely like the idea of creating a public gallery, a place to display his priceless artworks and antiquities and to encourage their study and preservation. What he found annoying was the construction crew inside his house, tromping on his privacy and calling him “my lord.” Democratic or not, his fellow Brits were unable to ignore a dusty old inherited title like the Marquisdom of Raw
ley. Thank God for Americans, and in particular for the one currently walking beside him.

“Fine. Breakfast first. Just remember that even though the gallery’s a favor, you are paying me to do the security.”

“I remember. You keep in mind, though, that this favor you’re doing is costing me a small fortune.”

She chuckled, her shoulders lowering. “Yes, but it’ll look so nice when we’re finished. You might even win an award.”

“Lucky me. Why didn’t you break in through the construction mess?”

“Because that’s where I’ve got most of the live-action security stationed. And besides, it would be cheating.”

His resident chef, Jean-Pierre Montagne, had prepared American pancakes for breakfast. As far as Richard knew, the culinary master had never lowered himself to such a thing before Sam’s arrival, but she seemed to be as persuasive and charming with his Devonshire household staff as she was with his employees in Palm Beach. And pancakes happened to be her favorite breakfast meal.

After they ate, Samantha led him down to what they’d begun terming the gallery wing. Some time ago he’d given up trying to figure out why she had no trouble stealing anything from anyone but refused to rob museums or public collections—and in fact practically worshiped them. A sort of thieves’ snobbery, he assumed. And where Sam was concerned, it made an odd and endearing kind of sense.

“I widened the alcove here,” she said, indicating the blueprint she’d borrowed from the crew chief, “because I thought it’d be a great place for your blue Van Gogh. You need to view it from farther away to see the theme of loneliness and not get tangled up in the details of busy nightlife.”

“I’m still amazed at how well you drew up the blueprints,” he said, gazing at her profile.

She shrugged. “I practically learned how to read by looking at blueprints. Besides, nearly photographic memory, remember?” Sam tapped her skull.

It had more to do with innate talent and skill than memory, but he didn’t want to swell her head any bigger than necessary. “Your memory doesn’t explain how you know I own a blue Van Gogh,” he said instead. “It’s on loan to the Louvre.”

“I’m subscribing to your monthly fan newsletter,” she returned, her voice cool and only the upturn at the end indicating she thought she was being hilarious. “It’s only $12.95 a year.”

“And you’re having it delivered here, I suppose?” he asked dryly. “Because that would be bloody splendid. Yes, Richard Addison subscribes to his own fan club newsletter.”

“I’d do that, if
I
had a newsletter. But no, it goes to Stoney’s house in Palm Beach and he forwards it to me.”

“Wonderful. Your fence gets my newsletter.”

“Former fence. He retired too, remember?”

Moving in behind her, Richard slid his arms around her waist, leaning in to kiss the nape of her neck. “How could I forget? And how is Walter?”

“Like you care.”

“Hey, you care, so I care.”

She shrugged against his chest. “Fine. I’m waiting for his call. He’s…looking into something for me.”

“Something legal?” he asked, keeping his voice amused. Walter “Stoney” Barstone was like the party-loving father to Sam’s reformed alcoholic. The addiction in this case was thievery rather than liquor. And no, he didn’t like Walter. Stoney was the closest thing Sam had to family, and he was a bloody bad influence on her. Rick wouldn’t wager five
pence that he was committed to his retirement, whatever he might say. An acquisitions relocation professional, as the fence called himself, didn’t quit a very lucrative career just on a whim. And certainly not on someone else’s whim.

“Like I’d tell you if it wasn’t legal.”

“Sam, you—”

The cell phone on her belt chimed the tune to “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” from
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
. Just the fact that she had a cell phone with a traceable number—whether he’d pushed her into it or not—spoke volumes about her intentions to join the legitimate world. “Speak of the devil,” she muttered, sliding it off its clip and flipping it open. “
Hola
.”

So she’d chosen a thief theme for Walter’s ring. Richard wondered what tune she’d chosen for his calls. She listened for a moment in silence, then with a glance at him moved away down the gallery. He could hear her animatedly chatting about something, but obviously he wasn’t supposed to know what was going on. He didn’t like that much—and she would know it, too, damn it.

Taking a deep breath, he returned his attention to the blueprints. For someone who generally looked at building layouts with an eye toward breaking and entering, her plans for the gallery wing were amazing: simple, elegant, and designed for the artworks to be seen as the artist would have envisioned. It warmed his heart, and for the oddest reason; she enjoyed doing this, and he’d been able to provide her with the opportunity.

At the sound of her phone snapping closed, he faced her again. “And to repeat, how is Walter?”

“He’s good,” she returned, smiling. “He got the latest newsletter. You’ve apparently turned your fling with that mysterious Jellicoe into something more long-term, and
have in fact invited her to move in to your massive and very private estate in Devonshire, England.”

“Hm. Rumors, you know. Can’t trust them.”

“Right. I can’t wait to check in on your fan board. I bet all the girls start flaming me again.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“I told you, you have a website, hosted by Rick’s Chicks. They don’t like when you’re dating anyone.”

“I’d think they would be happy for me,” he said dismissively, knowing she only kept track of such things because it annoyed him and amused her. “So that’s the only reason Walter called?”

He saw the bare second of hesitation before she rejoined him at the drafting table. “No. He found a place with some good potential.”

“For your office?”

“Maybe. He wants me to go back to Palm Beach to take a look at it.”

He nodded, covering his frustration. As much as he wanted her to want to remain in England with him, he’d known the Palm Beach issue would surface eventually. “Give me a week, then, and I’ll take a look at it with you.”