I held up a semi-impressive bicep.
“Then, you both stage a scenario in which Samantha has been taken hostage and fights back, allowing Shelley to be caught when Sam sets off the alarms on purpose and then drugs himself. All the while, leaving the cape there, but slightly busted.”
Sam nodded. “I left the Plexiglas slightly off the display case so that when I reset the alarm, all hell broke loose.”
Nicolette chuckled. “I admit, that’s pretty nice. But aren’t you worried that Valerie is still pissed and out for blood?”
He took my hand and squeezed it. Such a nice gesture, even though it interfered with me grabbing the last slice of sausage, which Ellen stole, the wretch. Sam said in a low voice, “Yes, but we’re hoping that Scotland Yard picks her up, and soon. I’ve told them everything. At least I think I have. I spilled my guts to a man in the park who knew a lot about me.”
Nicolette frowned. “You two had better go somewhere else. She’s been to this apartment?” I nodded, my heart thumping. “Yeah, y’all need to jet.”
“Yes, this was stupid of me.” Sam downed the last of his beer. “Pack it up, starlet. Let’s put you in a penthouse somewhere.”
I clutched my chest. “This is so much better than the first time you kidnapped me.”
“I’m gonna barf.” Ellen stood and wiped crumbs off her pants. “Have a care for my blood pressure.”
“Ellen.” Sam shot to his feet, his expression shockingly earnest. “Everything you know about me is terrible, I understand that. But I will tell you, though you have no reason to trust me, that I love her.” He hid his eyes towards the floor and breathed deep. “I love her more than I’ve loved anyone save my grandparents. And I will work the rest of my life to make her happy and safe.”
A sliver of softness broke through Ellen’s gaze, and she nodded at his obvious emotion. “’Cause if you don’t, I’ll kill you and use Nicolette to conceal the crime.”
Nicolette’s head popped up. “What?”
“Deal,” replied Sam.
* * * *
We stepped into one of the suites of the Stafford London about an hour later, registered under the assumed name of Sonny Malone. British country elegance greeted us from every angle. Sam tipped our bellhop and flashed me a dimple-riffic smile. I nearly knocked him over with the force of my hug and kisses. He immediately hurried me to the bed.
“I guess you like the hotel,” he said, scooping me onto the soft blanket.
“What I like is you telling my best friend how fabulous I am and how you’re devoting your every moment to my happiness.” I grabbed his T-shirt and yanked him down to my face, which is where his face needed to be.
He pulled back. “I don’t remember saying that exactly.”
“Yes, you did.” I ran a finger along his collarbone. “You said you worship me in every way and live to serve me, like a sexy slave. I believe you mentioned how you’d like to wear some sort of gladiator loincloth in my presence.”
The dimple twitched. “Funny how we remember things differently.” Despite his obviously shoddy memory, he pulled me into his embrace, and I settled in for a long, horizontal snuggle. His lips brushed the top of my head. “I really do love you, Lady Pain in the Ass.”
“Good. Because I lied to the cops for you again.”
Knock knock. He sat up on one elbow, his head cocked. “Are we expecting anyone?”
Knock knock. “Hello, Ms Lytton? It’s the police.”
The lady detective!
We both sat straight up. Sam swooped in close to my ear, his breath hot on my lobe. “I’m not here. I went out for food.” After driving the point home with a finger to his lips, he ducked into the bathroom off the living room, leaving the door open a crack.
I was the pain in the ass? He was the one who’d just abandoned me to my lies and the cops who disbelieved them. With a sloth in my step, I answered the front door. “Hello, officers.”
“May we come in?”
“Of course!” Of course, nothing to hide here. Just the enormous fiction I already related to you, and my criminal man candy hiding on the toilet. I swept my eyes along the thankfully-empty hallway, shut the door behind them and locked it. “How did you know I was here?”
“Internet,” she replied, taking a seat on the couch. “At least two different people snapped photos of you checking in.”
“Sherlock Samantha,” said the male cop flatly. Still a fan of mine.
I graciously handed them each a ridiculously expensive bottle of water from the bar and sat in a chair opposite the sofa. “How can I help?”
“Do you remember anything else about the robbery?”
I took a moment to stare off and search my memory before responding. “No. I’ve been trying, but it’s all a mush.”
He sat beside his partner. “Because Shelley insists that you were in on it.”
“I wasn’t.” I put my hand to my chest and leant forward. “Why on earth would I risk my entire—life, career, on such a stupid thing to do? I’m not really hurting for cash. I’ve been very lucky.”
He snorted. “We found your fingerprint on the inside of the case.”
I couldn’t hide my shock. My brain rewound at a hundred miles an hour, replaying the thwarted robbery while I tried to catch my breath. No way. I’d never touched the inside. I’d worn gloves the whole time. “That’s impossible,” I said one hundred per cent confidently.
He was fishing. I saw the frustrated shift in his eyes. He thought I was lying, but had no idea about what. Or maybe he was just under a lot of pressure to get such a high-profile investigation right.
“Who is Veronica, and why hasn’t anyone else on your staff ever heard of this ‘publicist’? You have a different publicist, correct?”
My mouth opened into a round O. I licked my desert-like lips, my mind, so full a few moments ago, a barren wasteland of ‘LOL nope’.
He stood. “I think we need to keep discussing this down at the station.”
I laughed and stood as well. “I’m happy to help, but this is bordering on harassment.” Dammit dammit fuck aaaaahhhhh! “If you’re going to continue treating me like a criminal,” I shot eyes at the woman detective, still awash in sympathy, “then I must have my attorney present.” This was not an empty threat on my part—my brilliant attorney, Deborah Diaz, Attorney to the Stars, had hopped on a plane the moment the story broke. She was already in London.
The cops agreed with me, and that was how I found myself getting ready to slog to a police station. Ha ha, no, not for the first time. But for the first time on this continent! I was an international embarrassment.
I ducked into the bathroom Sam occupied before we left in order to consult with my Chief Evasive Officer. I yanked on the door to the shower and froze.
Sam was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Worth My Weight in Gold
How cosmopolitan it was, branching out into a new country’s penal system. Deborah met me at the police station, all sassy chestnut pixie cut and ‘stab a bitch’ black spike heels. Her going rate of obscene dollars/hour was so worth it.
My unfriendly neighbourhood detectives ushered us into a little room with a mirror—definitely not two-way, wink wink. Deborah and I smiled at one another, but said naught besides her advice of “Don’t say a word about anything.”
We waited. And waited. Thirty minutes went by. I guessed this was to make me sweat things, but, per usual, the cops were the least of my problems. Where the hell was Sam? He’d crawled out the freaking window and shimmied down a drain pipe like Spider-Man. I couldn’t blame him, because, you know, criminal, but I felt abandoned just the same. What if Valerie had got him again? Deborah patted my sweaty, cold hand, and I told myself that as long as I said exactly nothing, I’d be okay for now.
After another twenty minutes or so, the male detective entered the room. I sat up straight, but Deborah maintained her air of “I’m already vacationing in the south of France, that’s how sure I am thi
s is all going away.”
“I’m assuming you’ve wasted enough of Ms Lytton’s valuable time?” Deborah intoned. Sure, my valuable time—eating pizza and humping. I had important business to be out of jail for!
But what if this was it? What if my unlucky luck had finally run out? They knew everything. Hell, maybe Valerie had told them everything, and they’d throw me in jail for not coming to the police, for allowing the cape to be damaged, for letting vile persons walk around the movie set. I’d be fired, and sued, probably. By the museum, the production. Me in prison, Sam in prison. Everything wonderful in my life ripped away in an instant. My heart ran so fast I nearly spun myself out of the chair. My eyes hurt, and I reached out to grasp Deborah’s hand, and my forehead broke into a fever, and—
“She’s free to go.”
What? I slid sideways and collided with Deborah, who put a firm grip on my arm and squeezed. Hard.
She rose gracefully, like a ballet-dancing pit bull. “I trust this will not happen again? I’d hate to have to tell the international press about the Metropolitan Police and their incompetent detectives. You have a red-handed thief in custody, or don’t you remember? Have you lost her?”
He seemed to possess no good reply, so we left the interrogation room. Air whooshed into my chest once again, and my sticky, gross feeling fled the farther away from the little room we got. Why the hell had they dragged me down here just to let me go?
We sailed out of the building, Deborah snarling sweetly at all in our path, and me trying not to look like I’d got away with something. I hugged her in the cab, and she asked me if she should know anything.
“Do you want to know?” I asked.
She laughed and held up her hands. “Not unless I must. I have to say, Samantha”—she leaned closer—“you’re definitely one of my most interesting clients. More fun than keeping an A-list drug addict out of the news when he shows up naked in a stranger’s house wearing a tin foil condom.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Smiling, she replied, “I don’t spill secrets.”
“That’s why you make obscene dollars per hour.”
She smoothed her cashmere skirt with diamond-bedecked hands and nodded.
I dodged the photogs in the lobby of the hotel by going in through the service entrance. A helpful waiter showed me the way, and I tipped him enough to make him grin and, hopefully, be quiet.
I trudged into the room and threw my handbag on the couch. “Watch it,” said the couch.
“Sam! You abandoned me! I—”
“Samantha, meet James.” My paramour removed the purse from his legs and pointed to a tiny man standing beside a potted plant. He was one of the most distinguished men I’d ever seen, his medium-brown skin contrasting beautifully with his grey suit, his hair perfectly salt-and-peppered.
A spook, of course.
Sam said, “James is my buddy from Her Majesty’s Government.”
James waved jauntily. At least he was a friendly spook. Were all spies in Britain named James, after Bond?
“You’re more beautiful than even in your films,” James exaggerated.
Finally! This was how I expected to be treated by law enforcement. What was the point of being a rich American movie star if you were forced to pay for your crimes like some schlub?
I poked at Sam’s feet until he made room for me on the couch. Quietly, I waited. I’d learned enough about Sam’s world to know when to shut up and let someone else speak. Besides, my fib bank tilted dangerously towards empty.
James obliged me. “The police will not question you about the unfortunate business at the museum again.”
Thank you, British Jesus. Relief flooded me almost like an orgasm. I nodded my gratitude and remained silent, which earned me a sneaky smile from my lover.
Spooky handed me a card with a phone number on it. Only a phone number. “Call me if you are bothered by the police again. Thank you for thwarting the robbery attempt.”
I smiled and shrugged. Sam began laughing, his eyebrows up. James shook his head. “Charming.” With that, he picked up Sam’s suitcase, which I just noticed had been sitting at his feet, and left. Sam didn’t seem to mind.
First thing I did was get my ass to the minibar and screw off the top to a tiny bottle of Scotch. After a nice, long pull, and the fire in my throat that came with it, I said to my darling one, “Spill it. And if you don’t tell me everything, so help me, I’ll divorce you.”
“We’re not married.”
“I’ll marry you only to divorce you. That’s how serious I am.”
He reached towards my Scotch bottle. “No way,” I said. “I earned this.” I took the second—and last, dammit—pull of Scotch and bent to examine the other offerings. “You can have merlot, vodka, tequila or beer.”
“Beer, and come here. I recount stories of my brilliance better when I’m within boob-grabbing distance.”
Me and my helpful titties sidled to the couch and plopped down. One hand on his beer, one down my shirt, he began. “I’m sorry for running out on you, but I knew I had to do something before they poked more holes in your story than a Swiss cheese.”
“I don’t think they poke the holes in Swiss cheese. They form because of gas or something.”
I received a boob squeeze for that science fact. “I called James, who has been helping me get straight with the British authorities in exchange for information about stolen art buyers. He agreed to make the police drop you as a suspect.”
Uncurling myself from his arms, I said, “But why would they do that?”
“In exchange for the Mold gold cape.”
“But…the cape is in the museum. It never left.”
“The cape has not been in the museum for several days. It just left this hotel room in that suitcase.”
I leapt to my feet. “What?”
He grinned, his hair flopping over his forehead like a naughty puppy. “I stole it the day before Shelley pulled her bullshit.”
My breaths came so fast and heavy, he actually got up and guided me back into a sitting position. “You okay?” he asked, his voice full of laughter.
“You bastard! You stole one of the most—you fucking stole from the British Museum! How did you do that?”
“Well”—he brushed a lock of hair behind my ear—“I’ve stolen from the BM before.”
“What!” I pushed him away and took a hard, incredulous look at him. He didn’t appear unrepentant in any way, shape or form. In fact, pride glowed from his skin like an unholy light. “Wait—you didn’t just learn how to break into the BM. You already knew.”
One boob grab.
“Do they know you stole something else?”
A head shake no. A smirk. Another boob grab.
“So…what you were waiting on…was…a copy?”
A third boob grab.
“Holy shit—the copy was made of real gold?”
He nodded and heaved out a breath. “It physically hurt me to pay that much money. Do you have any idea how much gold is an ounce? Not to mention my metallurgy forger. She don’t come cheap, especially for such a famous job at a rush. She made her own alloy to mimic the ancient composition.”
I fell backward onto the arm of the couch.
“Why? Wasn’t there another way?”
“Maybe.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck and sagged into the cushions. “But I was breaking my word to the British authorities, endangering everything I’d spent a fucking year trying to fix. Valerie kept threatening you—”
He shuddered, and I realised guiltily that whatever Valerie had said to me, she’d given Sam a lot more detailed threats. I pulled his hand into my lap. He squeezed mine and gave me a look with such soulful green eyes that I turned to mush. “I knew I needed a trump card, and I figured having the actual cape would save us in the end, one way or the other. And it did.” He made a wry face. “If we never had to give anyone the real thing, I thought we could buy a
n island with it.”
Wow. Wow. “You traded the real cape for my freedom?”
He blinked. His lashes were wet. I threw my arms around him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll give me a chance to make everything up to you.”
“Sam.” I pulled back, my own eyes pouring freely by now. A wave of love swelled in my chest, almost hurting. It was wonderful. “No. You don’t need any more chances. You have nothing to prove to me. I love you, and I’m never letting you go.”
His lip curled, and he stared at his hands. “Really?”
And then we were both crying and hugging and kissing. Truth be told, it was all a little snotty, but wonderful just the same. He gave me such a feeling of peace, after the trials and tribulations. They were worth it, if I got this crazy man in the end. I think I’d needed a bold man of passion to break me out of the doldrums of my life. I could have walked away a thousand times, but I didn’t. He was in my blood, in my soul.
He was my soul.
I planted a soft kiss to his brow and he held me. After a while, I put his hands on my boobs, and he soon forgot his high emotions. Boobies heal—that’s just a fact. “Please tell me they’re going after Valerie?”
“Yes. I’ve sicced James on her. He’s given us a security detail in London until she’s caught.”
“Yay!” I squeezed him around the neck until he made chokey sounds. “Are they going to give you the fake cape back?”
He gave a shout of laughter. “No fucking way.”
“… At least I’m rich.”
The dimple gave me a wink. “That’s what I’m counting on. Why else do you think I’m here?”
Chapter Seventeen
Maui Owie
“Pass the sunscreen, please.”
“No.”
I sat up on my elbows and peered at my darling lover. He sprawled out next to me, his tanned skin glowing in the sun like a pornographic Coppertone ad. “Do you want me to turn into a sunburned blob? It will clash with my hair.”
Sam scooted closer to me on the giant blanket guarding us against the hot sands of a Maui beach. “Of course not. But I take my job as Rubber of Sunscreen very seriously.”
The Dimple Strikes Back Page 21