Definitely option number three. He’d already suggested leaving early, anyway.
“Rick?” she said, edging up against his side.
“Mm-hm?” His gaze and his attention remained on the auction.
“I was just thinking about what you said earlier. Before intermission. You know, it was a pretty good idea.” She stretched, brushing her fingers along his thigh.
He glanced at her. “Beg pardon?”
“How direct do you want me to be, sweetie?” she breathed. “All these paintings, all this money—I’m getting a little hot and b—”
“No, you’re not,” he countered, a brief frown crossing his lean face. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing. I’m not up to anything, except trying to tell you that I want to be hot and sweaty and naked with you.”
He faced her. “Why do you want to leave right now, Samantha?”
Apparently she’d lost all of her mojo tonight, if Rick wanted an explanation for why she wanted to have sex with him. So was she supposed to be offended, then, or keep trying? “If you’re going to interrogate me, I’m not going to put out, bub.”
His expression eased a little. “Then you just lie there and watch, and I’ll go to work on myself while you decide whether you want to join in or not.”
Her mouth went dry. “Christ, Rick. Let’s get out of here.”
“Give me fifteen minutes, and we’ll have two Hogarths if you want to bring them home with us. They can watch.”
Okay. Option one had been telling Rick that Martin had reappeared. Crap. Rick hated that she stayed close to Stoney, and the fence had retired when she did. If he found out that an apparently escaped and not deceased felon who happened to be her dad was in the room and wanted the Hogarth, he’d go ballistic. He’d questioned her motives for being in New York as it was—and he was more than half right. Aside from that, she hated giving explanations when she didn’t know all the answers yet herself. She needed to talk to Martin. There was kind of a thieves’ honor code anyway, once they reached the level of skill that she and Martin had. When Rick began bidding, her father would acknowledge that the paintings were her grab, legit or not, and he’d back off. At least until she could talk to him.
That made sense. And since there was nothing else she could do at the moment short of setting off the alarms and yelling, “Fire!,” it would have to do. She sank back against Rick’s side, and he slung an arm around her bare shoulders.
“Are you back to putting out again now?”
“Hoo yeah. Just hurry this up.”
“Your wish is my command, my love.”
Damn, he was stubborn, but on the upside he was the smartest guy she’d ever met and sexy as hell, to boot. If she couldn’t talk him out of bidding, she would have to hope Martin would remember—and would abide by—the honor thing. But she needed to be certain, and she still needed to talk to him.
She dug into her purse for a scrap of paper and a pen as bidding began on the first Hogarth. Only for a second did she consider that her first—well, second—reaction to seeing her supposedly dead father was concern that he might make trouble for Rick and for her. She’d never claimed, though, to come from the Brady Bunch or the Cunninghams or whatever passed for a normal family these days.
“M,” she scratched out, while Rick’s attention was on the rising price of Hogarth number one, “Meet me at the Balto statue at tee-2/devil.” She had a great deal more she wanted to say, but time, space, and a well-honed paranoia made her keep it short and to the point. No names, no dates—even the “M” was pushing things a little. She had no doubt that he would remember the code for two a.m. Night was safer, though she badly wanted to see him in daylight.
The gavel pounded at the front of the room, making her jump. For a second she had no idea who’d won the painting, until the man seated behind them patted Rick on the shoulder. “Well done, Addison.”
“Thanks.”
As Rick faced her, Samantha leaned in to give him a soft kiss on the mouth. “You buy things better than anybody I know,” she breathed.
He chuckled against her mouth. “Five million is a bit low. The fight’ll be for the second one. What are you writing?”
“I thought of something I need to tell Stoney,” she lied smoothly.
“Did y—”
“Our next lot,” Ian Smythe announced right on cue, “is 32501A. I have an opening commission bid of…two million seven hundred thousand. Do we have eight anywhere?”
A dozen hands, fingers, catalogs, eyebrows, and chins went up. Obviously Rick and Martin weren’t the only ones after the Hogarth. As she spied one of the CEOs of Mobil Oil waggling his fingers, Samantha hoped for a moment that someone besides Rick would end up with the painting. Then Martin could do whatever he wanted with it—which didn’t answer the question of how the hell he was still alive, but it did mean he and Rick, and he and she, wouldn’t be in direct conflict.
“Ah, I can see we could just skip ahead a little,” Smythe said, to a murmur of laughter. “Let’s go with five million, then, shall we? Anyone care to join me here?”
The same dozen bidders answered, plus another four or five. “You’ve got about fifteen competitors,” Samantha murmured, surreptitiously looking around.
To her surprise, Rick lowered the catalog. “I’ll wait, then,” he returned in the same tone. “I hate to be just one of the crowd.”
“That’s one of the things I’m best at.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.” He took her hand, squeezing her fingers gently. “Who’s that sitting about two rows straight behind us? Smythe keeps glancing that way, but I have no intention of turning around.”
“Bill Crawford,” she answered without looking.
“Great. The Getty buyer.”
“Yep. Does he have more money to play with than you do?” she asked, as the bidding went up to seven million, with about a quarter of the bidders falling out.
“I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?” He grinned; not the soft, sexy one he had for her, but the dark, predatory one where he practically bared his fangs. Sam was glad she wasn’t Bill Crawford. Her Great White was about to glide into the feeding frenzy.
At nine million eight hundred thousand, only three others remained in the game, and Rick joined in again. Somebody behind them swore in response, the sound nearly buried beneath the excited murmurs and louder speculations of the onlookers. Samantha couldn’t be certain that the guy cursing had been Crawford, but she wouldn’t bet against her hunch, either.
She glanced in Martin’s direction. He wasn’t looking at the podium any longer, but rather half faced the audience, no doubt trying to assess who would walk off with the win and what that person would do with the painting. Most bidders, even the ones present, would probably have it shipped by Sotheby’s, which meant it would still be vulnerable in the depths of the building for a few hours after the auction. Or during it.
Rick wanted the paintings to go to his estate in England, as well. That could be a problem. They were up to ten million six now, just Rick against one phone bidder and Crawford. If he was frustrated at not being able to see either of his opponents face to face, he didn’t show it. In fact, for a guy who was probably going to spend something in the neighborhood of thirty million dollars in one night, he looked as cool as a proverbial cucumber. He might have been playing nickel slots in Vegas, for all the concern he showed. Oh, yeah, he’d come to play.
She pulled out her lipstick and mirror, glancing at Rick as she did so. If he didn’t want her to take a look behind her, he would let her know. Instead, though, he glanced over at her, his eyes dancing. “How does Crawford look?” he breathed.
Taking a peek, she touched her lip with her pinky and then lowered the mirror again. “I’d give him another quarter million, and then he’s going to either barf or pass out. You’ve got him.”
“Don’t you know it, sweetheart.”
Even as she chuckled, she added an addendum to her note—“Hands off M
ike.” “Mike” was short for Michelangelo, their code for artwork in general. Paintings specifically were Vince—for Van Gogh—but Rick had just purchased a Rodin, too, after all. The thieves’ code said Martin should pass on Addison’s take just because she had the closer connection, but her dad had never exactly played by the rules when he could avoid it. And Martin was definitely out hunting.
Whether Rick ended up with the second Hogarth or not, she wanted to be able to talk to Martin without either of them risking arrest. She had a big basketful of questions for him—and for herself, when she had a few minutes to think in private. Hell, her father was alive. And that was huge. Huge, and very worrying. Forcibly she pushed those thoughts away to be stewed over later.
“Ten million eight. Do I hear ten million nine?”
Samantha shifted a little, for a moment wishing she was one of those girls whose only concern in life was not messing up a fresh manicure. It would be boring as hell, but safe except for the worry over hangnails.
“Getting impatient?” Rick murmured at her. “Or bored?”
“Just anticipating the victory celebration,” she whispered back, brushing her thigh against his.
“So am I. Let’s test your theory about Crawford, shall we?” He lifted the catalog again. “Eleven million,” he said in a carrying voice.
The audience muttered admiringly. Yes, her fella would spend an extra half million just to get a little more fuck time with her.
“We have eleven million from Mr. Addison.”
She lifted her mirror again. “Crawford just shook his head. Wuss.”
“Shut up,” Rick murmured. “Don’t rile the potential competition.”
“Mr. Crawford,” Smythe said, “I can take fifty thousand, if you don’t wish to go by hundreds. No? Very well, then. Our phone bidder, Jenny?”
“Eleven million two,” came from the short woman holding the phone.
Smythe gestured from her to Rick. “We have eleven m—”
“Twelve million,” Rick interrupted, gazing at Jenny rather than the auctioneer.
The poor thing looked rattled as she repeated the amount into the handset. Samantha couldn’t blame her. Rick could be pretty formidable, even toward the messenger. After a moment her expression eased into relief, and she shook her head. Game over.
“No further bids? Then”—The gavel slammed down—“sold to Mr. Addison for twelve million dollars. Congratulations again, sir.”
The room burst into applause. Samantha joined in—until Rick stood, pulled her to her feet, and smacked a kiss on her mouth in classic Victory Day style. Little as she liked both being confined and public displays, she swept her arms around his shoulders and hung on as he bent her farther backward.
“Was that the victory celebration?” she asked, as he sat her upright and she could breathe again.
“Hardly,” he replied, taking her hand in his as he kissed her again. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”
Not until she’d made sure all of his purchases were safe. “What about our art?” she asked, resisting his pull.
“I’ll have it shipped to England.”
Every fiber told her what a bad idea that was. “Can’t we bring them to the townhouse? You suggested it, anyway.”
He lowered his eyebrows. “Not the Rodin. It weighs half a ton.”
“The Hogarths, though?” she pursued, wishing for a moment that her past would stop biting her in the ass. “Come on, Rick. I used to steal paintings that were set aside for shipping. Leaving ’em here makes me jumpy.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Okay,” he said after a moment. “I’ll go have a word with Talmadge.”
“Thanks.” Ron Talmadge was Sotheby’s director of sales, though she wondered how he’d managed to keep his job for the last nine years when she’d personally taken about eighty million dollars’ worth of paintings from the premises. For a second she wondered whether Rick had any idea that her visits here had netted her nearly fifteen million bucks. Of course, netted wasn’t exactly the right word; thieves had a lot of people to pay off if they wanted to keep out of jail. Staying in the shadows could be damn expensive. Still, she was a member of the millionaire club, even if he’d surpassed that level.
As soon as Rick walked to the side of the room and signaled Talmadge, Samantha folded her note deep into her palm and headed toward the restroom. As she passed her father she took a shaky breath and slipped the note into his pocket.
Her fingers brushed the wool of his coat and she shivered, speeding up her retreat. Jesus, she’d touched him, and he hadn’t vanished into smoke. He was real. Martin Jellicoe was actually alive. And she’d just made an appointment to see him in four hours. Life was very strange.
Chapter 4
Tuesday, 10:53 p.m.
Deep satisfaction ran through Richard as he waited near the Sotheby’s entrance for Samantha. He had the Rodin, a classic painting, and one never-before-seen Hogarth, which left the rest of the evening with nothing to do but indulge his passion, his obsession, for Samantha Jellicoe.
She appeared a moment later, all mesmerizing green eyes, silky auburn hair, and very fine red dress. Whatever had been eating at her during the auction she seemed to have resolved, because her smile on seeing him could melt granite. It made his knees weak, and at the same time made him want to do great deeds worthy of someone as unique and exceptional as she was.
He took her hand as she reached him. Even after five months, he needed to touch her as frequently as possible, to assure himself that she hadn’t vanished into the night. “I called Ben,” he said, drawing her up close to him. “He’s waiting out front.”
“And the Hogarths?”
“Wrapped and ready to join us.”
She nodded. “Good.”
They reached the doorway, and Richard held the door open as Samantha and a handful of Sotheby’s employees, two toting paintings and the rest providing security, exited to the sidewalk. Ben already had the limousine doors open, and they stowed the Hogarths behind the driver’s seat. Putting them in the trunk seemed…insulting.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Richard said, accepting another round of congratulations and ignoring the swarming paparazzi as he helped Samantha into the back seat. She could do it herself without any trouble, but as she liked to point out, he enjoyed playing the knight in shining armor. It ran in his blood, apparently.
“Satisfied?” Samantha asked, as Ben closed their door and hurried around to the driver’s seat.
“I got what I wanted. Mostly.” Reaching over to cup her cheek in one hand, he leaned in to kiss her, slow and deep. She was more intoxicating than champagne.
She kissed him back, reaching behind her with one hand to hit the button raising the privacy panel between the passengers and the driver. “So a fortune in art isn’t enough for you?”
Slowly he slipped one of the red spaghetti straps down her shoulder, kissing her skin as he did so. “Not when you’re here.”
“Smooth,” she breathed, the edges of her voice a bit unsteady. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until we get back to the townhouse?”
“I can’t,” he replied, sliding a hand up her thigh beneath the silky red skirts. Reaching back to the console on his door panel, he pushed the intercom button. “Ben, take the long way,” he said.
“Yes, s—”
He flipped it off again.
“Great. Now Ben knows what we’re doing.”
“You think he didn’t know before?” With a tug, Richard lowered the front of her gown to her waist. She hadn’t worn a bra, so he didn’t have to waste any time with that. He lowered his head, tasting her soft breasts, feeling her nipples bud beneath his tongue. She gave a shivery gasp that nearly had him splitting the zipper of his trousers.
“What if some photographer’s following us with an infrared camera or something?” she squeaked, arching against him.
“There is a point where you’re taking paranoia too far, Sam,” h
e said, nudging her onto her back along the leather seat.
“Would this be the point?” she asked, sliding a hand down to gently cup his crotch, her green gaze holding his with an innocence that could still fool him on occasion. “Mm, somebody’s happy.”
“That is precisely the point, my love.” He pushed her skirts up, bunching the dress at her waist. “Christ,” he murmured, looking down at her. “Red thongs.”
She grinned breathlessly. “I thought you’d like those. I’m trying a new style.”
“I like them better off.” While she lifted her hips, he slid the thongs down her thighs and her knees and off over her red high-heeled shoes. No hose for Samantha, unless it was a dress requirement. And thank God for that. “Are you going to tell me what was bothering you in the auction room?” he asked, tossing the underwear over his shoulder in the direction of the Hogarths.
“Nothing. It was just…weird, being on the legit side of things. Now, are you just going to kneel there, or are you going to do something?”
“Oh, I’ll do something.” Straightening, he unzipped his trousers, shoved them and his boxers down to his thighs, and moved in over her. As she wrapped her ankles around his hips, he slowly pushed inside her. Tight and hot and his. “How’s this?” he grunted, elbows on either side of her face.
She shuddered, and he felt it to his roots. Wordlessly Samantha pulled his face down to kiss him openmouthed. Tangling her hands in his hair, she kept him against her as he pumped his hips into her, hard and fast. Finesse and taking his shoes off could wait until they were out of the damn car.
He felt her come, felt her thighs and her body tighten convulsively around him. It didn’t make sense, that that sensation could make him feel more powerful than closing a multimillion-dollar business merger, but it did. He slowed, drawing the sensation out for both of them even though every muscle wanted to hurry and thrust and claim the territory for himself. It was already his, reluctant as she was to admit it aloud, and loath as he was to force her to do so.
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