Billionaires Prefer Blondes

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Fu…” she started, amending it to “…dge,” when a lady and what looked like her two young daughters exited the Old Navy store in front of her.

  The youngest girl reminded her of Tom Donner’s daughter, Olivia. Kids were interesting. She couldn’t remember ever really being one herself, despite her nearly photographic memory. Mostly she remembered picking pockets, researching with endless fascination the items Martin obtained and turned over to Stoney for “redistribution.”

  She’d loved growing up that way—no rules, no schools except when they’d settled in one place for a couple of months, picking up knowledge and languages on the fly. Even in retrospect the thrill of her first job, the first Rembrandt, the oldest Egyptian relics, that Roman fertility statue that had been so well endowed it hadn’t fit into her bag…She chuckled.

  What the hell was she doing, hanging out with Rick Addison? Not just hanging out with him, but living with him, sharing his life, falling in love with him? On the other hand, how could she not be doing what she was doing, now that she’d experienced it?

  “Sam Jellicoe.”

  As she heard the low voice, a hand touched the small of her back. She stiffened, tensing as she turned around.

  A tall, pale man about Rick’s age looked down at her, his hand now at about the level of her breasts. Pale hair, almost clear, stuck out from his head in a butch porcupine cut. His eyes were just as pale, barely blue enough to qualify as a color.

  “Nicholas Veittsreig,” she said, taking a slow step backward.

  “You remember me,” he returned, showing perfect teeth in a smile. The German in his accent was barely detectable; if she hadn’t known, she might not have noticed it. Well, she would have, but most other people probably wouldn’t.

  “I always remember hacks.” If he was in New York, it was either the biggest coincidence in the history of coincidences, or she’d just found some missing puzzle pieces.

  “Oh, Sam, you are so cruel, always thinking you’re better than the rest of us. You wound me.”

  “I am better than the rest of you.”

  “It didn’t look that way when you were wearing the handcuffs. Or when you were talking with your daddy yesterday.”

  Great. The good guys and the bad guys were following her. “Did you want something, or are you just high? Martin’s dead, remember?”

  “Your boyfriend looked very peaceful asleep on those blue silk sheets. I was hoping you would be home, too, but Martin warned you, I suppose. Do you still want to play the who-knows-what game?”

  Samantha just managed to keep from hitting him. He’d been in their freaking bedroom, with Rick there sleeping. “Addison does look good,” she agreed, keeping her voice soft and aloof, “but I didn’t know you swung that way, Nicholas. Gosh. You learn new things about people all the t—”

  “Enough shit, Sam. I’m here to do you a favor.”

  “What kind of a favor? Because I really don’t swing your way.”

  “You see? This is what I’m talking about. I know why you’re angry; the cops busted you for the job I pulled. So I figure I owe you one. Martin knows B and E, but you’re better at alarm systems. Why don’t you come along with us on our next job?”

  “I don’t think so, Fritzy.”

  “Ah, but I think I can convince you. I know your dad talked to you. Don’t you think everyone would feel safer if you were included now? I’ll even give you a percentage.” He looked her up and down. “Maybe afterwards we can become partners. Who knows? After all, with your boyfriend and your new job, you have access to the world’s most exclusive and wealthy places.”

  “You think I didn’t realize that when I hooked up with him?” she ventured, feeling out the path he was taking. “But cats work alone.”

  “Not the smart ones. If you’d been with us in Paris last year, you’d have an extra three million American in your retirement account.”

  Thinking fast, Samantha gave him the same assessing look he’d favored her with a minute ago. She’d been offered partnerships before, but never by anybody on Veittsreig’s par. If this had been a straight proposition with no other circumstances or strings attached, she would have told him flat out that she didn’t work with guns—much less with killers. This guy, though, had Rick’s painting, and if she said the wrong thing she could also be putting Martin and his cover in jeopardy.

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re hitting?”

  “Not until I know you’re in and we can trust that you won’t trade the information to the police in exchange for them dropping all charges.”

  “I doubt anything I said to the cops would convince them of anything,” she said truthfully, hoping that Gorstein and his people hadn’t tracked her down again in time to see this little meeting.

  “Even so, Martin went through a little initiation in Munich a couple of weeks ago—a very nice Canova sculpture worth about a million. Then he got bonus points for the Hogarth.”

  Samantha drew a slow breath. “So you want me to go through an initiation?” she asked. “Like I’ve never pulled a job before?”

  “I’d like to know for certain that you’re still pulling jobs, and that you’ll have as much to lose as the rest of us if the cops show up. You shut down Sean O’Hannon. Some people say you got him killed.”

  “O’Hannon’s stupidity in working with the wrong people got him killed,” she countered. The whole Rick-stolen-art fiasco that had brought them together—and one of the reasons she’d decided to retire. “You’re the one who approached me, Nicholas. What do you want?”

  He smiled, managing to look more frightening than charming. “I want a present. Something small and sparkly, and worth at least half a million. I’ll give you a break on the price since this is short notice. Otherwise you’d have to match your daddy.”

  “And when do you want this present?”

  “Today’s Friday. Saturday would be good. And I want to hear about the theft on the news. No going out and buying something just to fool me.”

  “Jeez. Paranoid much? How about I say no to the whole gig?”

  “Not an option, Sam. Remember, I know that Martin told you things. I don’t know what, but you’re in now. Or you’re dead. So prove that I can trust you, or I’ll shoot you right here.”

  Fuck. “What if I accidently hit the place you’re setting up for your big, invitation-only score?”

  “You won’t. Is it a deal?”

  “Some damned deal, Fritzy.” She pursed her lips, pasting a thoughtful expression on her face and trying to pretend that her brain wasn’t about to implode and that her heart was having palpitations. “Can you swear to me that if this goes down right I won’t have to leave Rick? He’s my all-access pass, after all. There has to be an upside for me.”

  “If it goes down right, no one will know what hit them. I’m giving you this opportunity out of professional courtesy, and out of respect for Martin. In, or dead?”

  Mentally crossing her fingers, she nodded. “It’ll be fun to work with Martin again. I’m in.”

  Veittsreig grinned again. “I knew you weren’t on the straight path. Give me a number where I can get hold of you.”

  She gave him her cell number. “I’m only supposed to be in New York for another week. If it’s going to be longer than that, let me know so I’ll have time to come up with an excuse.”

  “You’ll be back in cozy Palm Beach right on time.” He took her chin in his long fingers, tilting her face up. “Nobody else gets included, Sam. If I hear of anything, I will send photos of this little meeting to the police. And don’t mistake me—any double-cross and I’ll kill Martin, I’ll kill your rich boyfriend, and I’ll kill you. Are we clear?”

  Samantha let him hold her there. “We’re clear. But if you cut me out or try to leave me holding the bag on this, know that you can’t go anywhere that I can’t get to.”

  He let her go. “Good. We are in agreement. I’ll see you Saturday. If you pass, I’ll let you in on the details and let you know y
our percentage.”

  “As long as it’s not less than ten percent, I don’t think we’ll have a problem.”

  With a nod and a sly smile, Veittsreig headed down the street. Samantha blew out her breath. And she’d thought this morning with Rick had been the worst thing she would ever go through.

  Obviously, though, she was going to have to go another round with both him and Stoney. Because whatever she’d promised Veittsreig, she wasn’t going into this without letting them know what they might be facing.

  She walked on for another block, then made a show of checking her watch. Nicholas wasn’t much for bluffing, and she believed him when he’d said photos were being taken of their little meeting. That meant he’d had people watching. They probably still were watching.

  Okay, so she knew who Martin was working with, and who Interpol was after. But Nicholas had taken one piece of art from the house. Her new question was, who was he working for? And who the hell was she going to rob in order to buy her way onto the crew?

  What a bunch of shit she’d landed in. And the old, familiar adrenaline began pumping through her muscles. Yep, that was her—danger junkie. Whatever else happened, she’d just agreed both to a break-in that was big enough to have Interpol’s attention in advance, and to a dirty little deed all of her own. And if she got caught, she had no doubt that she’d end up in Gorstein’s little interrogation room on her way to prison with a “do not pass go” card. To think, a couple of days ago she’d figured that visiting New York as a semi-law-abiding citizen would be dull.

  The sight in the café made Samantha pause. Toward the back of the large, open room Rick sat at right angles to Stoney. Both men had their heads bent over a piece of paper, and were either playing combat tic-tac-toe or plotting somebody’s murder. Probably hers.

  “Hi, boys,” she said, cautiously approaching the table. Fighting with Rick wore her out, and that combined with her chat with Veittsreig had her right at the edge of civility. Everybody had better watch their crap, or else.

  Rick stood, as he always did when she entered a room. “Feeling calmer?” he asked quietly, pulling out the chair opposite Stoney for her.

  “Yes, and no. What are you two doing?” She nodded her chin toward the piece of paper.

  “It’s a twelve-step program to get you out of New York,” Stoney said.

  “That figures. You finally decide to like each other, and it’s only so you can screw me over.”

  “I still don’t like him,” Rick countered, reaching over and brushing his fingers across the back of her hand. “We merely found a mutual cause.”

  “Mm-hm.” Still half on an adrenaline high, at least she could be amused by their presumption. She glanced surreptitiously around the café. It was located in the lobby of Rick’s office building, so most of the people there worked for him, and they’d kept a respectful distance from his table. They were all watching him, sure, but she didn’t think anybody was close enough to overhear. And that was good, because nobody from Veittsreig’s crew could come any closer, either, without being very conspicuous.

  “The way we figure it,” Rick said, motioning a passing waitress for a round of Diet Cokes, “you haven’t been charged with anything.”

  “Not yet,” she noted.

  “And I don’t imagine you will be—until after this big score your father mentioned, anyway. Until that time, no one can stop any or all of us from leaving the country. Once we’re in England, it would be a small matter to fly to anywhere there’s no extradi—”

  Samantha tugged him over by the lapels and kissed him softly. “You’re okay, Brit.”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  She looked him in the eye for a long moment. “There’s something else you need to know, though.”

  The waitress appeared with their sodas, and she took a sip as Rick ordered a ham sandwich and Stoney asked for a salad. She didn’t have much of an appetite herself, but she ordered some nachos.

  Once the waitress left again, she gave a playful smile and sat back. “No serious looks,” she said, “and no conspiratorial whispering while I’m talking. Somebody might be watching.”

  “Somebody like who?” Rick murmured, echoing her smile as he took her fingers again. Businessman or not, he had the soul of a thief.

  “Stoney, did you ever do business with Nicholas Veittsreig?”

  “A couple of times. He usually dealt directly with clients. He liked—likes—big, showy jobs.”

  “Guess who Martin’s setting up with Interpol.”

  “Holy Moses.”

  “That’s an understatement,” she returned. “Keep smiling, Stoney.”

  “Would someone care to enlighten me?” Rick asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  Stoney was sucking on his soda, so it looked like she would have to take this one. “He usually works with a crew of four or five, usually European. Like Stoney said, they like big jobs. They’re the ones who hit the Louvre last year and came about thirty seconds from nabbing the Mona Lisa. They killed a security guard.”

  “And took about fifty million in other art,” he said, nodding. “Interpol contacted me to ask if I’d been offered any of it. I never heard a word, though.”

  “It’s all probably in some big Hong Kong businessman’s back room right now,” Samantha said cynically. “Anyway, the point is, Veittsreig’s crew is in New York. And they hooked up with Martin for some help with a B and E.”

  “Did you see Martin again?” Stoney asked. “How do you know all this?”

  “Nicholas stopped me on the street a few minutes ago.” Rick started forward, and she dug her fingers into his palm. “We’re planning a tea party or something, remember?”

  “Yes. I remember.” He eased back again. “Go on.”

  “Okay. He told me that he knew Martin had talked to me. As far as he’s concerned, that makes me either a partner, or a liability. Because of my reputation, he offered me a place on the crew for their next job.”

  “And you turned him down,” Rick said, very quietly, all trace of humor gone from his eyes.

  “He, ah, kind of made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  Lunch arrived, and she decided that delivering bad news in public definitely had an upside—Rick, for certain, wouldn’t blow up at her when the potential for paparazzi or press existed. She would have to remember that.

  “What kind of offer?” Stoney asked, his own voice hard. He obviously wasn’t happy, either.

  “Like I said, he made it pretty clear that with what I knew, I would be involved or I would be dead. And he threatened Martin, too. So I said I would go along with them, for a fair percentage.”

  “Samantha, we are going to the police with this.” Rick’s grip on her fingers was hard enough to bruise. From the look on his face, though, he might have been discussing cricket.

  “No, we’re not. Interpol’s already involved, and I don’t have a deal with them. And it gets worse.”

  “Christ. How does it get worse?”

  “Even with my rep, Veittsreig’s not convinced I’m still working for the Dark Side. He wants a gift that’ll prove I’m in.”

  “What kind of g—”

  “I’m trying to tell you the story here,” she said, a little sharply. Dammit, it was hard enough to lay all this out without Rick interrupting every sentence with a question. “He wants a diamond something worth half a mil. And he wants it to be a robbery, not a purchase. If the job doesn’t end up on the news, I get a bullet. If I pull it off, then I’m in for the big score because I’ll be in up to my eyeballs.”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “What’s the big score?” Stoney asked.

  Rick’s attention turned to Stoney. “So now you’re the fence again? Is this what you meant when you said you would support her in anything?”

  “It’s a legit question, Addison. We need to know the whole equation before we decide what to do. So back off.”

  “Happy, happy,” Samantha muttered, her teeth clenched. “An
d I don’t know what the job is. It’s going to happen sometime in the next week. I gave him my cell number, and he said he’d call me for a meet on Saturday, when I’m supposed to give him his present. If he’s happy, then he’ll give me the details.”

  “You are not going to pull a job. It’s one thing keeping you safe when you haven’t done anything. When—”

  “First of all,” Samantha interrupted, “I never asked you to keep me safe. That was never a part of this…whatever it is. Thanks for getting me out of jail, but I could have gotten out on my own. So stop pretending your knight-in-shining-armor act isn’t as much for your own benefit as for mine.”

  “I never said it wasn’t.”

  That stopped her well-planned outburst of righteous anger. “Second,” she said with a sniff, “I don’t have much of a choice. I said yes to buy myself some time.”

  “Time for what, if I might ask? Do you have a mark in mind for the jewelry heist?”

  “Stop trying to act like Steve McQueen.” She looked past him. “Stoney, can you find out what the job is?”

  The ex-fence rolled his shoulders. “Maybe. I’ll check with Merrado. Most people think I’m still in the business, so they might talk.”

  “Okay.” She frowned, covering the expression by stuffing a cheese-covered chip into her mouth. “It would have been nice if Martin had given us a little more information. Or if he’d at least mentioned how we could get back in touch with him.”

  For a minute the three of them sat there in silence, eating—or pretending to, anyway. Rick fumed; she was somewhat surprised that he hadn’t walked away. Apparently he meant it when he said he loved her. It still bothered her a little that she couldn’t figure out his angle, though more and more she’d begun to believe that he didn’t have one. It was Martin who’d always said that everything and everyone had an angle, a goal that would benefit themselves.

  Her father had certainly proven that to be true where he himself was concerned. The damn Hogarth had been a sideshow, just something Nicholas probably contracted for knowing he’d be in New York. Martin had provided the angle, so now she was in for the big score.