Billionaires Prefer Blondes

by Suzanne Enoch

“Baywatch. I think I still have the stuffing somewhere.”

  “And the wig?”

  She sent him an amused glare. “If you prefer booby blondes, you should have stayed married to Patricia.”

  “I was just curious.”

  “Hm-hm.” To his surprise, she turned her back to settle against his chest. “So how was your meeting, dear? Any hostile takeovers or venture capital thingies?”

  Richard lowered his face to her hair, careful not to disturb the arrangement of her ’do. “I love you, Samantha Jellicoe,” he breathed, settling an arm around her waist.

  “I love you, too, Rick.”

  She still hesitated, but at least she could say it. And whenever she chose to do so, however rarely it happened, he felt like King Kong climbing the Empire State Building, swatting down all comers. “Hoshido wants to sell the Manhattan,” he said. “He can’t appear to want to sell it, though, or he’ll put himself in the weaker position.”

  “That whole Japanese honor thing,” she returned, nodding against his chest. “They’re hard to work with in my biz, too. My old biz, I mean.”

  The little tangle of worry touched him again, and he forced it away. “Most of the work today was about crafting an approach that both sides can live with. We haven’t even gotten close to price or conditions yet.”

  “Ah. You’re still at the dangerous ‘howdy’ stage of negotiations.”

  He chuckled, kissing her hair. “Exactly.”

  “Well, you’ll take him down, Brit. You always do.”

  “That’s my plan.” Unable to resist, he shifted his hand to glide it down her leg along the slit of her dress. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather do something else tonight?”

  “I’m planning on fitting in dinner, Sotheby’s, and copulation, thank you very much. And in that order, I might—”

  The intercom buzzed. With a sigh, Richard reached back to tap it. “Yes, Ben?”

  “We’re about to pull up, sir. Shall I stop, or go around?”

  Ben knew his business routine alarmingly well—Richard preferred a drive around the block to emerging before he was completely prepared for a meeting. Now the driver had grown accustomed to his and Samantha’s social routine, as well—he knew he needed to check whether the passengers in the rear seats were clothed or not. “Here is good, Ben.”

  They pulled to the curb. Samantha straightened as Ben trotted around to pull open the door. “Oh, great,” she grumbled, plowing into her purse for a mirror to check her hair and lipstick. Rick hadn’t smashed anything too badly, thankfully.

  “What?” Rick asked, from his expression clearly not seeing anything wrong with her. Her heart did one of those happy flip-flops. “You look great.”

  “Not me. The paparazzi.”

  He followed her jabbing finger toward the monolithic building beside them. “You had to expect it. This is a big night for Sotheby’s.”

  “I know, I know.” She took Ben’s waiting hand and stepped onto the curb. “But don’t you think it would be nice if we auction-going people could enjoy it in privacy for once?”

  “Snob,” he murmured with a grin. Rick followed her out of the limo and took her hand. Immediately the annoying flashes of mini-lightning began, and she pasted on the bland smile she’d been working on since her first terrifying public outing with Addison. Tomorrow everybody who read either the Post or the Enquirer would see her name and her photo and know exactly where she was, with whom she spent her time, and what she was doing. But hell, she and Rick had been on nationally syndicated TV last night, so what did it matter, anymore?

  “Are you all right?” Rick asked, leaning closer to her. More flashbulbs went off.

  Get it together, Sam, she ordered herself. Whatever she’d told him about being in his company at Sotheby’s, something could still go wrong. And as Martin Jellicoe used to say, if something could go to hell, it would. The key was to have a contingency plan. “I’m good. Just wondering how badly I’ll get flamed on your fan website for this.”

  He nodded, his gaze on the doorway in front of them. “If you’d quit going on the message board as ‘Sally from Springfield,’ you’d never know.”

  “Hey, somebody has to defend my honor, even if it’s just me.” She dug her fingers into his arm. “And I knew you were going there to read the messages.”

  “You’re the one who told me I had a fan website, my love.”

  Samantha had always thought of herself as the master of distraction and deception, but Rick had turned out to be a fair hand at it, as well. At least she’d stopped grinding her teeth about the press ranged outside Sotheby’s.

  Obviously they weren’t the only auction-attendees who’d decided to dine at Bid before the event, but she—and Rick, especially—definitely didn’t just blend into the crowd. Not even when the crowd consisted of the wealthy American upper crust. As they walked inside she recognized them mostly from the magazines Rick had in his office—CEO, Business-Week, and the like. A couple of actors, though most of those in New York tended to be working on Broadway at this time of the evening. Critics and producers, though, who apparently didn’t bother to show up to the theater when they didn’t have to, were all over the place. She doubted the critics would be bidding.

  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.”

  Chapter 3

  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.”