A Touch of Minx

by Suzanne Enoch

  Samantha actually smiled. “You’re a good-looking naked guy, so that excuses a lot. What were you doing?”

  “I was about to jump in the shower.”

  “That’s good, because otherwise this would be scary.”

  “Like you’ve ever been scared of anything,” he returned. Except for last night, but he wasn’t going to mention that this morning. He doubted that she would, either.

  For a second she looked at him. Then she flopped back onto the bed and lifted the covers over her head. “Thanks, Brit,” she murmured.

  “You’re welcome, Yank. Care to join me in the shower?”

  “I’m going back to sleep. Go away.”

  “Going away.” He slipped back out and shut the door the rest of the way, just in case someone else called him about something he didn’t want her to overhear.

  Chapter 19

  Saturday, 9:49 a.m

  Samantha looked out Rick’s office window as the Jaguar headed down the front drive of Solana Dorado. He’d been friendly and kept things as light as a feather, then slipped out of the house without a word. That sucked.

  Even when they fought, she always felt comfortable with him, and now they were both on eggshells. He’d told her to breathe, but he hadn’t said anything about forgetting what she suspected, and he hadn’t told her she was wrong.

  Of course neither of them had actually said the M word, but once the thought had crossed her mind, a lot of things over the past weeks suddenly made more sense. Panic welled up through her chest again, raw and cold, and she took a quick stride around the room to push it back down. This was crazy. There’d never been a husband in her daydreams of retiring in Milan with cabana boys waving palm fronds over her. She’d never even really been able to picture herself getting old. She’d wanted to, though, obviously, or she wouldn’t have retired at the top of her game.

  “Fuck,” she muttered, striding around the room again. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed. “Pick up the damn phone, Stoney!”

  After one ring the automated message about the moron who owned the phone not having a voice mail system set up came on, and she snapped it closed again. She and Stoney joked about him being her Yoda, her source of spiritual and moral advice, but it was true. She’d grown up with Martin and Stoney, and Stoney had been the one to buy her first bra, her first box of tampons—and whether his moral compass pointed a little less true than that of other people or not, she relied on him. And now he was missing.

  It was coming close to the point where she was debating asking Detective Castillo to try to track down Stoney’s car. Frank would be mad, Stoney would be really mad, and she was already pretty pissed at herself for letting this happen.

  In the meantime she supposed she could talk to Aubrey about what Rick was up to, but he was less crotchety and more Obi-Wan Kenobi–like than Stoney—he would only tell her to follow her feelings and do what she knew was right. Well, fuck that. She was a thief. Obviously she didn’t know what was right.

  So there she was again, waiting to see if someone else was going to make a move. She didn’t like working that way; it felt like standing on a freeway with her back turned and waiting for a truck to hit her from behind. After last night she already felt like she’d been run over and dragged.

  The phone on Rick’s desk buzzed. The house intercom. Samantha walked over and hit the speaker button. “Jellicoe.”

  “Miss Sam, this is Mourson down in security. I have a tractor, a flatbed, and about twelve guys at the front gate. They say they’re with Piskford Nurseries and they have an appointment.”

  Crash, boom. “Let them in, Louie. Have one of your guys meet them in the pool area to supervise.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  She probably should have checked for a start date on the contract Rick had signed on her behalf. Man, they moved fast. If she’d been trying to impress a very wealthy client with a couple of acres that might one day need to be re-landscaped, though, she would probably be on her most impressive behavior, too.

  After she grabbed her shoes from her closet, she headed down the outside stairs to the pool. Three days ago she’d been terrified about the idea of being responsible for creating a garden. Now, though, it seemed like a pretty good distraction.

  Her phone rang out the theme from S.W.A.T. as she reached the bottom step. Waving at the nursery team to go ahead and set up, she flipped it open. “Hi, Frank.”

  “Hey. I thought you should know, I ran your black Miata. There are three of them with license plates starting in 3J3, but only one of them belongs to Gabriel Toombs.”

  “Toombs?” she repeated, deeply surprised. Wild Bill Toombs had been following her around? Why?

  “Yes, Toombs. So whatever you’re looking into, he seems to know about it.”

  “Gosh, Frank, you didn’t even come over for breakfast and tell me in person.”

  “I’m not joking around, Sam,” the detective said in a sharp voice. “You remember me mentioning that Toombs is a dangerous guy?”

  “I remember. I’m not a kid, Frank. But thank you for the heads up. I appreciate it. Really.”

  “It’s not going to change the way you’re doing anything though, is it?”

  “Probably not. But it changes the way I think about it.”

  “If I get called out for a homicide and it’s you, Sam, I’m gonna be really pissed off.”

  “You and me both. Thanks, Frank. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  She sat at one of the pool-side tables as the Piskford crew started hooking up hoses and a pump to drain the pool. To Frank, Toombs tailing her meant that Wild Bill somehow knew about her investigation. To her, it meant that Toombs had suspected something about her, probably before they’d ever met in person, and now he was trying to verify it. Since there were a limited number of things he could be suspicious about, talking to Stoney right now would have been very handy, damn it all.

  Since she couldn’t talk to Stoney, now she really did need to talk to Aubrey. She dialed his cell number.

  “A very good Saturday morning to you, Miss Samantha,” his low drawl came.

  “Hey, Aubrey. I take it I didn’t wake you up.”

  “I am on hole number seven of a very good golf game, my dear.”

  Hm. “Who’s out there with you?”

  “Dr. Randall Harkley, Wild Bill Toombs, and Alfonse Soroyan. Is something amiss?”

  Adrenaline jolted through her system, heating her up again. “Did Toombs hear you say my name?” she asked carefully.

  “He’s in the other cart with Alfonse. Why?”

  “Are you golfing nine or eighteen holes?” she asked, instead of answering him.

  “Eighteen. Which will take another two and a half hours including lunch,” he said, his voice sharper.

  He got it, then. “So I’m going…jogging.” She stood, going to the stairs that led up to the bedroom suite. “If you find yourself companionless, why don’t you give me a call?”

  “I don’t like to argue with a lady,” Aubrey returned, “but maybe you shouldn’t…go jogging alone. Is your gentleman there?”

  “What are you now, a personal trainer?” another male voice, Dr. Harkley’s no doubt, came a little more distantly.

  “I am a man of many talents,” Aubrey drawled.

  “Rick went out,” Samantha said as the other conversation stopped. “I can be there and back in an hour, Aubrey. Maybe less. Just call me if he leaves.”

  “Very well. Watch out for…dogs and sidewalk cracks and such.”

  “I’ll be careful. Thanks. I’ll call you when I get back home.”

  “Oh, you do that, my dear.”

  In the bedroom she headed for her closet, shedding her pink T-shirt in exchange for a white one. She snatched up a black Florida Marlins baseball cap and pulled on her white socks and athletic shoes.

  At the sight of herself in the mirror on the back of the dressing closet door, she stopped. Yeah, she was ready to go—Florida golf clothes, hat
ready to shade her eyes and cover her hair, her face a little flushed and her eyes wide and sharp. All systems at the ready. “Shit,” she muttered, and pulled out her phone again.

  “Hello, my love,” Rick’s cool voice came a moment later.

  In the background she could hear a voice paging somebody to a gate. “Are you at the airport?”

  “I took the helicopter to Miami and back,” he said.

  This would have been easier if he’d still been in Miami. “I’m about to do something that’s going to piss you off, but I’m telling you first so I get points for that, right?”

  “That depends,” he returned carefully. “What are you about to do?”

  “I just called Aubrey about something else, and he’s on hole seven of eighteen, golfing with our friend.”

  “Samantha, no.”

  “It’s the best opportunity I’m going to have. If we go missing during the party tonight, he’ll notice.”

  “And how do you know he’ll notice our absence?”

  She hesitated. Telling Rick about who’d been trailing her could be pretty unwise, but he needed to understand that she wasn’t trying to be a hard ass about this. “He owns a black Miata. Frank just called and told me.”

  “He…Sam, you do not go near that house. Do you hear me?”

  “He’s occupied now, Rick. Viscanti needs his answer in four days. I’m going. I’ll call you as soon as I get back in the car.”

  “Shit. Sam—”

  She hit the end button, switched it to vibrate, and pocketed it again. “Not good, not good,” she muttered at her reflection, and reached for her tools backpack, the one Rick hadn’t destroyed, and then scooted downstairs for the garage.

  Her phone vibrated. She checked the caller ID as she grabbed the SLK keys off their hook, just to make sure it wasn’t Aubrey warning her off already. Nope. It was Rick, and so she stuffed it back in her pocket and slid behind the wheel of the banana yellow Mercedes.

  Normally she favored a more nondescript car—and one that wasn’t hers to start with—but the SLK fit Toombs’s neighborhood pretty well. And this was a good-guy B and E, so no lawbreaking other than what was strictly necessary.

  Her phone rang four more times as she drove to Wild Bill’s house and parked the car half a block away. All the calls were from Rick, and she could practically see the smoke rising up from the display. If they hadn’t explored the depths of unpleasantness yet, they probably would when she got home. She would have turned off the phone, because it was damned distracting, but she couldn’t risk missing a call from Aubrey.

  Before she climbed out of the car she went through her black backpack—lock picks, wire and glass cutters, duct tape, copper wire, a can of aerosol hair spray, and her very nice black leather gloves, along with a couple of paper clips and rubber bands. All a girl needed for a day or evening out on the sly. She had more sophisticated equipment stashed around Solano Dorado, but she’d kept a pretty close eye on Wild Bill’s security arrangements when she and Aubrey had gone on the house tour, and she didn’t think she’d need any of it.

  She rubber-banded her hair and stuffed it up under the Marlins baseball hat, then reached into the tiny backseat area for the spare pair of Rick’s golfing gloves she’d snagged and pulled them on before she got out. Echoing the beep of the car lock engaging, tires screeched down the street behind her. She flinched, automatically ducking her shoulders as she glanced over.

  A green Jaguar shot up parallel to the curb right behind the SLK and stopped about an inch short of her bumper. Dammit.

  Rick shoved open the door and then slammed it shut behind him. “Get back in that car,” he ordered, in the don’t-fuck-with-me voice he used during business negotiations.

  “No. You get back in that car before you jack everything up.”

  “I’ll throw you in there if I have to.”

  “You know, my second instinct was right. I shouldn’t have called you. I could have…done my shopping and been back at the house without you ever knowing it.”

  “I’m not debating with you, and I’m not arguing. Get back in the fucking car, Samantha.”

  She lifted her chin, hefting the backpack in her right hand in case she needed to swing it at him. With the tools inside, it might just drop him. On the other hand, he was bigger than she was, and he fought dirty. “I am not Lucy Ricardo, and you’re Rick—not Ricky. I don’t have to’splain things to you, and I don’t need your permission to do my job. Back off. Back the hell off.”

  For a long moment he glared at her, his muscles held so tightly that he actually shook. Then he turned on his heel and yanked open the Jaguar door again. Before she could even resume breathing, he popped the trunk and went around to the back of the car. Then he pulled out a tan baseball cap and grabbed a pair of matching gloves, part of his regular golf attire.

  “Let’s go, then,” he snapped, shutting the trunk again.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m being Ethel, apparently. Move.”

  Samantha put her hand on his chest, stopping him. “Just a minute. The same rules apply. You do what I say in there.”

  “I haven’t forgotten my side of the agreement.”

  He was still being angry and British, but she couldn’t fault him for either one of those. Instead she wrapped her fingers into his light blue polo shirt and leaned up to kiss him. His rigid mouth softened, and he pursued her a little when she backed off.

  “Okay?” she asked, taking his cap and setting it low over his eyes. He was still pretty recognizable, so she would have to make sure that he didn’t get seen at all.

  Rick pulled on his gloves. “Okay.”

  Well, this was going to be interesting. Going in during the day would have been easier if she’d been alone, and if she hadn’t been photographed in Rick’s company enough that somebody on the street might actually just recognize them together. At least they were dressed fairly normally, though it would have been better if they’d been right on the golf course instead of a block away from it. Any delays were bad news.

  “Come on.”

  They walked hand in hand along the street until they drew even with Toombs’s property. As soon as traffic cleared she set her toes into the block fence and swarmed over it. Rick followed a moment later. “No outside sensors?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Just motion-activated lights. That doesn’t much matter during the day.”

  He was probably still angry, but at least he had the experience to know that everything had its place and that this was not the time to snipe or argue. Instead he stood silently at the corner of the house and kept watch while she hoisted up the nearest bathroom window in what would have been the servants’ quarters nearly a century earlier.

  Climbing into the small guest bathroom was easy, and it took her only a minute to creep down the short corridor and open the back door for him. On her own she probably could have been upstairs and in the room by now, locked or not, but since she had a second pair of eyes—and somebody to help lift the armor—she wasn’t going to leave him standing outside in the open.

  As soon as he stepped inside she closed and locked the door again. No sense in leaving any trail to follow. “Today,” she whispered against his ear, “is one of the days the two housekeepers come in to clean. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  He nodded.

  “Let’s get a move on. This way.”

  They went up the stairs, Rick two paces behind her. She stopped three steps from the top and sank down onto her hands and knees, creeping up to look down the long hallway in front of them. With the housekeepers there the door and window alarms were off, but she didn’t want to stumble across anyone. And just because she knew of two employees didn’t mean there weren’t five or six others around. Rick had over a dozen just at Solano Dorado.

  The hallway stood empty except for the glass-encased kimonos and Kabuki costumes. There were plenty of places to hide, but hopefully she and Rick were the only ones being stealt
hy today.

  “These are nice,” Rick breathed.

  “Stop sightseeing.” She’d known he would like the displays, though; if they decided on a costume exhibit for the Rawley Park gallery, she would recommend a similar method of presentation.

  “Apologies.”

  A door opened halfway down the hallway. Moving fast, Samantha shoved Rick between two of the displays while she ducked behind one on the opposite side of the wide hall. A maid emerged, vacuum cleaner and dust cloths with her. She closed the door behind her, moved one room closer to where they hid, and went through that door.

  With a half grin, her heart beating hard and fast in her chest, Samantha moved back to the middle of the hallway and padded forward toward the two turret rooms at the far end. So far the B and E had been simple, and it wouldn’t have been that much more challenging at night, except for the additional task of circumventing the perimeter alarms. Maybe Mr. Samurai relied on his reputation to keep people out of the house. She couldn’t come up with any other good reason why this house had never been hit.

  Then again, from what Frank had said, maybe it had been hit, and Toombs had taken care of the intruder or intruders himself. Well, Toombs was out playing golf, and the only pointy swords she wanted to see were the ones belonging to Minamoto Yoritomo.

  As they reached the turret rooms, she grabbed Rick’s arm. “If that door opens,” she said, indicating the one from which vacuuming sounds currently emanated, “get into the room behind us as fast as you can.”

  “And you?” he whispered.

  “If I can’t get this door in time, I’ll be right behind you. Watch my back.”

  “Always.” Rick positioned himself between her and the hallway—her knight in shining armor even when they were being the semi-bad guys. Just in case their luck was still holding, she tried the door latch. Locked.

  Samantha freed a paper clip from her pocket and stuck the end into the lower of the two locks. Generally only one of a pair of locks ever got used, but these both seemed to be engaged. She could open a lock within ten or fifteen seconds. After twenty-five, though, she’d shifted only one of the cylinders into place.