“Thank you for allowing me to tag along,” she said as the men sat at either elbow. “When Aubrey said he was going to call you, I couldn’t resist asking if I might join you.”
“And why is that, Miss Jellicoe?” Toombs asked, looking straight at her again.
Oh, my God, he totally thinks he’s an Akira Kurosawa movie samurai, Samantha thought, keeping her expression demure and pleasant. “You collect Japanese antiques,” she ventured, hoping she wasn’t being too direct. “Rick has some, but I keep wishing he would acquire more. There’s something about the pure warrior look of the swords and armor that nothing else in the world can touch.”
“Ah. A kindred spirit. Do you follow the Japanese antiquities market, then?” He gestured the waiter for an iced tea. Aubrey wanted a margarita, while Samantha stifled a grimace and went with the iced tea, too. Apparently they were keeping themselves pure. No carbonation or sugar substitutes. Crap.
“I try to.”
“Nihongo ga dekimasu ka?”
“Nihongo ga sukoshi dekimasu,” she returned, glad she was able to pass the test part of their lunch program.
“I’m impressed.”
“When I enjoy something, I try to learn as much about it as I can.”
He nodded. “As do I.”
The reply had an edge to it; did he know about her? Stoney always kept as much distance between himself and a contractor as possible, and even more between the money man and her. It protected everybody, and it made it possible for her to be sitting in the Sailfish Club restaurant among the buyers and the marks today.
Still, she knew that she’d once pulled a job for him, and with her old dad’s numero uno lesson of protecting oneself emblazoned across the backs of her eyelids, she was going to have to be cautious around this guy. Especially if he happened to know that Walter Barstone was her current business partner. Throwing Rick’s name around could prove to be a valuable distraction, and not for the first time. How Rick would feel about that, she didn’t intend to ask.
“Did I tell you,” Aubrey put in before she could do more than open her mouth, “why it is I owe Wild Bill this very expensive lunch?”
Thank you, Aubrey. “No, you didn’t. I was just happy to be included.”
“Well, despite my erroneous belief to the contrary, our Mr. Toombs here is a very fine racquetball player. I had the temerity to challenge him, and he went on to wipe the floor with me.”
“It’s a matter of discipline and dedication,” Toombs said in the same expressionless monotone he’d used since he walked through the door.
“I have it on good authority that Aubrey’s a heck of a player,” she decided, sitting a little forward and touching the back of Toombs’s hand. “I think you could add ‘skilled’ to your list of racquetball abilities, Wild Bill.”
His dark eyes assessed her again. “Very kind of you, Miss Jellicoe.”
“Please, call me Samantha. All of my friends do.” And Samantha sounded more regal than Sam. And if he knew that she generally went by Sam, he should understand and appreciate that she was trying to impress him. Everything meant something. Even flattery.
For the first time his lips curved a little. “Samantha it shall be, then.”
Even with the smile he looked like a sleek shark, clothed in black from his shoes to his slicked-back hair. She would have loved to see him in business competition against Rick; he probably wouldn’t look nearly as well-manicured at the end of the day. Rick had been known to make grown men cry like babies.
“What are you going to order?” she asked, perusing the menu and ready to weep herself at the predominance of yucky seafood items. Ah, well. She could eat fish for a good cause. Hell, she’d even drink coffee if she couldn’t avoid it. She wouldn’t like it, but she would do it.
“The lobster Florentine, I believe. And you, Samantha?”
“I’ll follow your lead,” she returned with another smile.
Aubrey’s gaze lifted beyond her shoulder, and his perfectly tanned face paled. Before she could ask him whether he was choking on an ice cube, a pair of warm hands touched her shoulders and then settled there. She jumped about a foot. “What—”
“Apparently we both have the same taste,” Rick’s cultured British accent drawled. As she craned her neck to look up at him, he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. “Apologies for startling you.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Great minds,” she offered, kissing him back. Good as he was at covering his expression, she could read him like a book. The Marquis of Rawley was royally pissed off. “You know Gabriel Toombs, don’t you? Wild Bill, Rick Addison.”
She heard the click of camera phones around them as, shifting his right arm from her shoulder, Rick shook hands with Toombs. “Of course I know Mr. Toombs,” he said. “Have you three met the Picaults? Yvette and August, may I present Mr. Gabriel Toombs, Mr. Aubrey Pendleton, and Miss Samantha Jellicoe?”
Beyond his shoulder stood a couple in their mid-fifties, well-dressed but still managing to look a little…hippie-like. His dark, graying hair was in a ponytail, while hers was even blacker than Rick’s, tightly curled and hanging loose past her shoulders.
Toombs stood and bowed. “August,” he said, “Yvette. We appear to have gathered together all the major Japanese antiquities collectors living on the East Coast.”
Oh, good. At least now they all realized it. Samantha began to feel faint. Rick would never believe it, though, if she feigned passing out and left the mess for him to handle. “We’re—”
“I owed Wild Bill lunch,” Aubrey interrupted, standing to shake hands with Mr. Picault and kiss Mrs. Picault’s knuckles, “and didn’t want to leave Miss Samantha alone at the office. That would be far too ungentlemanly.”
“And you are always a gentleman,” August Pendleton finished in a light French accent, smiling.
“Indeed, I am. Would you care to join us?”
“We couldn’t impose,” Yvette said, her accent a little heavier—but more cultured—than her husband’s. The money probably came from her side of the family, then.
“It would be no imposition,” Wild Bill stated, signaling the waiter to join a second table to theirs. “Samantha has been asking me about my collection. Perhaps all of us together might satisfy her curiosity.”
“A grand idea,” Rick said with an easy smile, his left hand still gripping her shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Though I suspect that Samantha was going to try to find those Hina dolls for Livia before I could manage it.”
Hina dolls. “It’s only fair,” she ventured, mentally crossing her fingers that she was following the hint he’d shoved at her. “You’ve been a Donner family favorite for better than ten years. I have some catching up to do.”
Richard wasn’t certain how much of a favorite he was with at least one of the Donners right now, but he would deal with that later. He took the seat beside her, while Yvette ended across from him and August at the head of the table opposite Aubrey. A gentleman escort, a thief, and the three most avid collectors of Japanese antiques on the East Coast. And him. Life was very strange, sometimes. And much more often since he’d met Samantha.
The waiter appeared to take the drink and lunch order of the three late arrivals, while Samantha smiled and chatted and played the novice in awe of the professionals and looking for any information they would be so gracious as to share with her. Thankfully Hina dolls originated at the same time as Minamoto Yoritomo’s armor, during the Heian period. That was the reason he’d chosen them—a flanking maneuver in order to acquire the information he wanted. They wanted, he amended with a sideways glance at Samantha.
“Do you know why Hina dolls are always royalty or members of the royal court, rather than samurai?” she asked.
Of course she would know about Hina dolls. They weren’t as exciting or lucrative as diamonds or rare paintings, but some of them were worth hundreds of thousands of yen. Right up her alley, as it were.
“The dolls are traditionally put on display, nat
ionally in Japan, in fact, on Girls’ Day,” Yvette said conversationally. “I suppose samurai are too warlike for such a celebration.”
Toombs shook his head. “Girls’ Day is a recent idea,” he said in his absurd Kwai Chang Caine monotone. Didn’t the poof realize that Caine was Chinese? Well, half Chinese, though admitting that he knew the plot of Kung Fu would have Samantha calling him a geek. “The dolls,” Toombs continued, “have been around for much longer than the festival.” He fixed his gaze on Samantha. “Your question is an astute one, and warrants further investigation.”
She grinned, lowering her lashes. “You’re very kind to say so, Wild Bill.”
“The little girl you mentioned doesn’t want a samurai doll, does she?” August Picault asked.
Since he was the one who’d brought up Olivia Donner, Richard supposed that he needed to be the one to field that question. “No, I don’t think so. But she’s quite a collector,” he said. “Eventually I think she would like to acquire a complete set, including the miniature accessories—altars and cabinets, and things.”
“I suppose it’s one thing to be able to duplicate silk clothing and furniture in miniature,” Samantha put in, “and another to create miniature leather or metal armor plating. Maybe that’s why samurai armor’s never been attempted. I’ve seen the two suits of samurai armor that Rick owns, and they’re pretty intricate even at full size.”
“Two sets of armor?” Toombs repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “What time period?”
“One is Muromachi, and the other, early Edo,” Richard returned with an easy smile he didn’t feel. This wasn’t about his things. “My interest was in acquisition of armor and weapons from around the world at various periods. Russian, Greek, Aztec, whoever had culturally traditional armies at the time.”
“I’ve seen photographs of some of the items in your collection,” Yvette stated, smiling again. “Quite impressive.”
“I can probably get Rick to show you his, if you’ll show me yours,” Samantha said with an excited breath.
“Certainly I would be honored,” Toombs and his bloody foolish nickname returned. “If Rick is amenable.”
“Yes, we would be thrilled to see your collection,” Yvette added.
Richard clenched his jaw, smiling around it. “It would be my pleasure.”
After that their lunch arrived, and they spent the next forty minutes chatting about the perils and thrills of collecting, and the respective value of Hina dolls depending on where and when they’d been made. Samantha managed to get an invitation to view Toombs’s collection on Thursday. The Picaults decided to hold a small house party on Sunday, and extended invitations to everyone at the table.
That was well and good, but Richard did not like the way Toombs spent most of the meal talking just to Samantha, or that she’d scheduled her tour of his collection even after Rick pointed out that he had a video conference scheduled for the same time. He gave himself several pats on the back for not throwing punches right there at the Sailfish Club, but he wanted to—not necessarily because he was worried over Samantha’s safety, which he was, but because Toombs thought he could poach another man’s woman and didn’t hesitate to do so in front of said man.
He paid for lunch over Aubrey Pendleton’s well-choreographed protests. As they went their separate ways in the parking lot, he cupped Samantha’s elbow. “Aubrey, would you mind taking the Bentley back to the office?” he asked coolly.
Pendleton looked at Samantha. “Which gentleman will you give the honor of escorting you, Miss Samantha?” he drawled.
If Pendleton wanted a fight, Richard would have been happy to accommodate him. On the other hand, he had to give the bloke credit for looking out for Samantha’s well-being. He could respect a gentleman, even when the fellow stood against him.
“It’s okay, Aubrey,” Samantha said, moving around to the passenger door of the Barracuda as Richard pulled it open for her. “I’ll see you back at the office in a little while.”
Inclining his head, the walker slid behind the wheel of the Bentley and drove off. Smart fellow. “Shall we?” Rick gestured her to climb into the car, and then closed the door behind her.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she grumbled, pulling on her seat belt as he sat down behind the wheel.
“Do what?” he asked, starting the car. “Open the door for you?”
“I know you can’t help that, Galahad,” she retorted. “No, I mean I wish you wouldn’t act like you’re my dad and you caught me breaking curfew or something. Because I’m pretty sure I never had a curfew.”
“I have no desire to be Martin Jellicoe,” he muttered as they roared into the street. Her father was, as far as he could determine, the very last person he ever wanted back in her life. “You didn’t need to lie to me about whom you were dining with.”
She folded her arms across her pert tits. “And when did you decide to lunch with the Picaults, Lord Hypocritical?”
“After I stalked out of Tom’s office and you said you were celebrating Boss’s Day. I thought perhaps I could lend a hand.”
Samantha lowered her arms again. “Back the bus up there, Brit. You did what?”
Richard blew out his breath. Bloody hell. “We’re talking about lunch.”
“You’re talking about lunch. I’m talking about why you stalked out of Donner’s office,” she insisted. “What were you arguing about? Me, right? I thought I’d been pretty normal and humdrum lately.”
“You are never humdrum,” he retorted, seeking about for an excuse to argue with Tom that didn’t include the questioning of his wisdom in purchasing her an engagement ring. “And it was business. I think he feels a little threatened now that I’ve hired John Stillwell to help represent my interests.”
“Well, Donner’s stupid, then. He knows how loyal you are to your friends, and that you have way more than enough business to keep ten Donners busy—even though the idea of more than one of him really scares me.”
“Multiple Toms?” Richard went along with the meandering tale, even though it had nothing to do with Samantha and her insistence on putting herself in potential danger for a paycheck. It explained the argument with Tom, and that was what he needed.
She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Yipes. That’ll give me nightmares. What were you mad about, though? You’re the one who stalked out, you said.”
Sometimes Samantha’s overlarge share of intelligence and perceptiveness could be a pain in the arse. “His assumptions, I suppose. Now about Toombs. Next time you decide to go to lunch with a possibly dangerous man, will you please tell me first?”
“I had Aubrey with me.”
“And what would Aubrey do if push came to shove, anecdote him to death?”
“Fine. I’ll try to remember to tell you first,” she conceded with obvious reluctance. “As long as the same goes for you.”
“Deal.”
As they drove along, he could feel her gaze still on him. He tried to ignore it, but ignoring Samantha was like ignoring sunlight.
“What?” he finally demanded.
“You need to go slap Donner on the butt or whatever you guys do to solve arguments.”
“I’ll manage my own friendships, thank you very much. And you don’t even like Tom. You should be pleased that we’ve had a difference of opinion.”
“I thought so, too,” she returned slowly, “but I’m not. Except for Stoney, I never really had friends until I met you. I like having you as a friend. Friends are cool, and important. And I would guess that best friends, people who tell you things nobody else would, are pretty rare.”
As they stopped for a red light, Rick leaned over and kissed her. “Tom is a very good friend,” he murmured. “You are my best friend. And a very unusual and fascinating woman, Samantha Elizabeth Jellicoe.”
She kissed him back, smiling. “And don’t you forget it. Besides, I’m working for Olivia, and if you and Tom are fighting, I’ll never get in to see her.”
“Are you so certa
in that’s a bad thing? You’ve been worried about your reputation. I would assume, then, that you don’t want it spread about that you’re helping a ten-year-old find Anatomy Man.”
“Clark the Anatomy Man.”
Richard lifted an eyebrow. “He has a name?”
“Apparently Livia’s teacher, Miss Barlow, thinks he looks like Clark Kent.”
“I find myself fascinated.”
“If I find him, I’ll bring him by and introduce you. You superheroes should all know each other, anyway.”
“Speaking of which,” he said, unable to help his abrupt smile, “I had John Stillwell track down an item for me during his Los Angeles trip.”
“A bottle of Botox?”
“It’s behind your seat. Another anniversary present, I suppose.”
“Okay,” she said slowly, and undid her seat belt to lean around behind her seat. “Oh…my…God.” She giggled. Actually giggled, as she freed the clear-plastic fronted box.
“He roars, and walks with the remote control.”
Samantha settled the two feet of boxed Godzilla onto her lap, refastening her seat belt. “He roars?”
“There are some mini frightened Tokyo residents taped to the inside of the box. And the background forms into a skyscraper he can knock over.”
“You got me a Godzilla, you handsome devil, you.” She stretched over and kissed him soundly on the cheek. “Thank you!”
“My pleasure.” He laughed as she pulled the monster out of the box and made him roar while they drove back to Worth Avenue. He probably could have forgone the hundred-thousand-dollar nursery gift certificate and just gotten the toy, and she would have been as happy. Happier, because Godzilla could travel, and the garden couldn’t.
Chapter 8
Monday, 9:49 p.m.
“I’ll be back in a moment, Ben,” Rick said, opening the door of the stretch Mercedes S600 as soon as it came to a stop at the curb. Calling first probably would have been a good idea, but he still wasn’t certain what he would say, and direct confrontation yielded much more interesting and telling results, anyway.
A Touch of Minx Page 9