Which brought her back to the question of why the Hogarth, and why her. “Stoney,” she began, her muscles shivering a little, “before Martin got busted he asked me to partner with him for a couple of jobs.”
“I remember. You did the first one, then said you wanted to go solo.”
“Yes. Martin mistimed a security sweep and nearly got both of us caught. I told him I didn’t want to work with him anymore, that he needed to retire because he was getting sloppy and desperate.”
Stoney gave a low whistle. “I knew he was pissed off, but I didn’t know you said that to him. Jeez, Sam.”
“I was kind of freaked out at the time.”
While her friend was mulling over what she’d said, Rick had already figured out the implications. “You think your father put Veittsreig up to bringing you in for this job.”
“Or that he set up the Hogarth robbery to push Nicholas in that direction.”
“That’s thin, Sam.”
She nodded at Stoney. “I know, but I can’t discount it. I have to wonder if all this was just to prove to me that he’s still partner material, or if he’s setting me up for a fall because six months after I left he got busted.”
“If either of those is true, it looks as though he’s definitely trying to pull you back in.” Rick took a casual glance around the room, but with practically everybody watching him anyway, picking out one suspicious person wasn’t going to happen.
“Yep, me and Pacino,” she said dryly. “I need to know some details, and then we need a plan.” And then she would have to plan a robbery with less than twenty-eight hours to play with.
Rick took a deep breath. “And an escape route would be nice, too.”
Chapter 12
Friday, 7:44 p.m.
“This is stupid,” Sam muttered over her shoulder as she stepped out of the limousine. “I don’t want to be here.” She had a damned robbery to plan, and he wanted to socialize.
Rick disembarked after her. “It’s a nice gesture. And we’re already here.”
She let him take her hand as they walked up the sidewalk. “It’s not a gesture. He only asked us so everybody could stand around and stare at me—at us—and whisper.”
“I’m used to being whispered about.”
“Well, good for you. You didn’t get arrested earlier this week. What would they say about you, anyway? ‘Ooh, he’s even better-looking in person,’ or ‘Hey, Marge, do you really think he’s as rich as they say he is?’”
“‘Marge’?” he repeated, amusement in his voice.
“You go. Ben can take me home.”
“Yes, I’ll just pop out to a party while you decide who you’re going to steal diamonds from.”
Her heart jumped at the mention. Hearing it said out loud still freaked her out. She and Stoney had never had these conversations in the open. “I’m waiting for alternate suggestions that fulfill all of Veittsreig’s requirements and don’t have me forced to flee the country. Well?”
He slid his eyes at her. “I’m working on it.”
“So am I.”
“Then let’s go back home and work on it.”
“We already accepted the invitation.”
Obviously he didn’t understand. “Since when do you like ego-stroking parties, anyway? The jugglers probably canceled, and so he needs me here to provide the entertainment. That’s why he invited us. I have my own shit to deal with tonight, thank you very much.”
“Samantha,” he said, sending her up the steps first, “sometimes it’s not the motives that matter. Sometimes the gesture is the important thing. Would you rather have these people remember seeing you on the telly in handcuffs, or here being charming at Boyden Locke’s house? They’re your potential clients.”
Clients. And marks again. Shit. “So it’s okay if they whisper, as long as they see that I got invited to the ball.”
“Exactly, Cinderella. Whatever Locke might personally think of your guilt or innocence, the fact that he’s invited you to his house implies his support.” Rick ran his palm up her arm to her shoulder.
She knew he was right. That didn’t make the idea of being gawked at for an entire evening any more pleasant. “I’d like it better if I could be someone else,” she grumbled. “Maybe a blonde. You like blondes.”
“I like you.”
The only reason she’d gotten in the car with him was because she’d thought that whoever had hired Nicholas and Martin might be in attendance. The odds were minuscule, but being there would be the best chance she had to look around without doing a B and E. Whoever it was, they had to be loaded. Neither cat worked cheap. And as Rick had said, the people who could afford a new Hogarth and whatever else was on the menu were the same people who could afford her services.
Richard reached around her to knock. As the door opened, a wall of light and noise swept over them with an almost physical energy. “Once more unto the breach,” he murmured, stepping through the entryway with her.
“My kingdom for a really big bottle of hooch,” Samantha countered, then walked forward with a warm, bright smile to greet their host. “Boyden, I thought the invitation to coffee was generous. This is lovely of you,” she said, taking both of Locke’s hands in hers.
“Not nearly as lovely as you are. You’re a lucky man, Addison.”
Richard shook Locke’s hand. “I’m well aware of that.”
He stood back a little and watched as Locke walked Samantha around, introducing her to some of the wealthiest and most influential citizens of Manhattan. She charmed all of them, even making a few delicate, self-deprecating jokes about her taste in art and bracelets. For a moment he wondered which one of them she would decide to rob—and what the hell he was going to do about that.
“Isn’t she something?” a female voice with a cultured British accent said from just behind him.
Mentally steeling himself, he turned and looked. “Hello, Patricia. I had a feeling you might be here tonight.”
Ruby red lips smiled, and she touched her artistic coil of blonde hair. “Is that why you came?”
“That’s why I almost didn’t. Who’s your date?”
“I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. With the exception of my first husband, my taste in men has been rather poor, I’m forced to admit.”
Hm. Nothing like a murder conviction for husband number two and another one for the next steady boyfriend to give a girl a reputation. Patricia certainly didn’t need to be reminded of that, however, and he had no intention of doing so in public, anyway. Instead he lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “You look very nice tonight.”
Blue eyes widened a little in surprise. “Thank you, Richard. So do you.”
As if scripted in a very bad movie, Matsuo Hoshido chose that moment to stroll up to them, an attractive, petite Japanese woman on his arm. “Ah, Richard,” he said, bowing. “This is the lovely Samantha, yes?”
Patricia Addison-Wallis cleared her throat, but before she could answer, Richard shook his head. “I’m afraid this is the lovely Patricia Wallis,” he said, shaking Hoshido’s hand. “Samantha is—” He stopped as a bare arm slipped around his sleeve, warm and familiar. “Right here,” he continued, looking over at her.
Samantha’s gaze was on Patricia. “Hello, Patty. I think Boyden’s looking for you.”
The muscles of Patricia’s jaw twitched. “Thank you. Excuse me.”
Not bothering to watch Patricia’s exit, Samantha offered her free hand to Hoshido, bowing as she did so. “You must be Mr. Hoshido. Rick has several times cursed your keen business sense.”
Hoshido chuckled as he shook her hand. “You are as charming as Richard described. Samantha, Richard, this is my wife Miazaki. I’m afraid her English is a bit—”
“Bonsowa-ru,” Samantha cut in, offering her hand to Mrs. Hoshido. “Good evening.”
“Bonsowa-ru. Do you…speak Japanese?”
“Hai. Wazuka.”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Hoshido exclaimed.
“I also speak English a little.”
Samantha grinned. “Then we should get along quite well.”
While the two women began chatting and giggling, Hoshido motioned for Richard to step aside with him. Squeezing Samantha’s hand, he did so.
“Your Samantha is quite remarkable,” Matsuo said, smiling fondly at his own wife.
“Yes, she is.”
The hotelier eyed him. “You didn’t know she spoke Japanese.”
Rick chuckled. “I had no idea.”
“She is also brave to come here when everyone knows of her arrest.”
Wonderful. “Yes, she is. Her father’s past is…less than pristine, and the police became a little overzealous. It was an unfortunate mistake.”
“But as you admitted this morning, you were indeed robbed of a very valuable painting.”
“Yes,” Richard conceded, working to keep his voice relaxed. “An unfortunate mistake on the part of the thief.”
“So you truly think you will recover the painting?”
“I know I will.”
“Ah. A very bold statement.”
“I’m a very bold chap.” And he would not allow anyone to steal from him and get away with it.
“I have a suggestion.”
“And what might that be?” Richard asked.
“We should go to dinner tomorrow night. No attorneys, no wives. Just us. Perhaps we will be able to come to an agreement more quickly without everyone else there to interfere.”
“That is a splendid idea, Matsuo. Shall we say Daniel’s on Sixty-fifth tomorrow at seven o’clock?”
“I will be there.”
They returned to the ladies as another mob of the wealthy elite surrounded them. From looking at Samantha, anyone would think she’d not only been born into the club, but that she was their honorary princess. So much for any of them asking her to juggle; whether she knew how to do that or not, she was clearly a master magician.
With a slight smile he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Maria, see if you can get reservations for two at Daniel’s tomorrow night at seven. The chef’s sky box, if possible.”
“Right away, Mr. Addison.”
That was one hurdle jumped. At the moment, though, he was more concerned with Samantha’s probable business dealings tonight.
Over the next two hours, Samantha compiled a list of a half dozen possible Hogarth buyers, and twice that many potential victims for her pending cat burglary. As for who Veittsreig’s boss might be, two of these guys she knew to be in the business of obtaining “relocated” items, but one of them specialized in Egyptian antiquities, and the other tended to like modern art over British masters. That left four, none of whom she was certain about.
In a great many ways, working the crowd like that was more difficult than climbing through somebody’s second-story window and making off with a box of diamonds. Face-to-face work, sizing up a mark, scouting a location before she pulled a job—she’d done it before, on countless occasions, but not when it mattered what they thought of her. In the old days she’d been in disguise, literal or figurative, and who she’d pretended to be had depended on what she was looking to get. Tonight, she’d come in as Sam Jellicoe, significant other to Rick Addison. And she would leave the same way, and she’d be that same person tomorrow.
“Aren’t you just the belle of the ball,” Patricia’s cool voice came from the foot of the stairs.
Samantha had seen the way Rick had greeted the Ex. Whatever her personal feelings toward Patricia, she would take her cue from him. After all, he’d been the injured party. She hadn’t known him back then, except as a face on the cover of a magazine, and as a legend among cat burglars—the man who’d to that point been robbery-proof.
“Hi, Patty,” she said.
“I am going to tell you one last time that I hate being called Patty,” the Ex murmured, gliding closer, blonde hair perfectly coiffed, and her black and gold Donna Karan dress definitely not off the rack.
“I’m waiting for you to call a truce before I lay down my weapons,” Samantha returned. “Rick said you’re here by yourself tonight.”
“What of it? Do you think I couldn’t have found a date if I’d wan—”
“That’s cool,” Samantha interrupted. “The new Patricia. Walks in how she wants, and walks out how she wants. No men required.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Sam took a step closer, willing to risk having a glass of wine thrown in her face. “Just so you know, Boyden Locke has been looking at you all night. He went through a sticky divorce about seven years ago, and he didn’t have a date tonight, either. Not even for his own party.”
“He’s a little old for me, don’t you think?”
“He’s forty-eight. I’m not trying to fix you up. I’m just stating a few facts.”
Patricia looked at her for a long moment. “I’m not calling a truce,” she said, “but I suppose this is a beginning—as long as you’re not trying to rally me.”
“That means kid you, right?”
“Americans,” the Ex muttered. “Yes.”
“Then no, I’m not rallying you.” Locke definitely wasn’t her type—pompous and flamboyant—but he was rich, which made him Patty’s type.
Across the room Rick broke away from the Trump and Locke power triangle and headed in her direction. Rich as Croesus, long-tailed, old-fashioned tuxedo, black hair that caressed his collar, and those blue, blue eyes—no wonder most of the women in the room were watching him. She watched him, too, but not for those reasons. Yes, he was handsome, but he was also damn sexy, and probably the smartest person she’d ever met, and funny as hell, and he liked to barbecue.
“I’d like to state for the record,” he drawled in that hot British accent of his, “that seeing the two of you together still frightens the devil out of me.”
“And so it should,” Samantha returned.
Patricia cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said. “I need to see a man about a…man.”
Rick watched her walk into the other room. “Was that a joke?” he muttered. “From Patricia?”
“Weird, huh?”
He drew an arm around her waist. “Are you ready to go?”
“Hell, yes.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit one of the speed dial buttons. “Ben? We’re ready.”
“What were you and Trump talking about?” she asked, as they headed through the thinning crowd for the front door.
“That red tie he always wears. I told him he could wear a plaid neckcloth and he’d still frighten the piss out of people.”
“And?”
“And I believe he’s considering expanding his tie rack.” He pulled open the door for her. “What were you and Patricia chatting about?”
“That cute mole on your bottom.”
“Mm-hm. Seriously.”
She snorted. “I just told her that Boyden seemed to like her, and that he didn’t have a date tonight.”
“You’re fixing up my ex-wife.”
“I gave her some information. That’s it, fella.”
Ben pulled open the limousine door for them at the curb, and she slid in, Rick behind her. “Home, sir?” the driver asked.
“Yes.”
Rick probably wanted to interrogate her about what she meant to do to satisfy Veittsreig’s demand for diamonds, but after an evening of charming people and looking for secrets, mostly she just wanted to be close to him and not say much of anything for the next few minutes. Samantha sank back along his side, and he put a comfortable arm around her, kissing her hair. Good. He got it. He always did, though.
“You impressed Hoshido, you know,” he finally murmured into her hair.
“I lived in Japan for a couple of months. His wife’s pretty funny, which means he probably is, too.”
“He is, when he’s not being a hard-assed hotel owner trying to wrangle a hundred million dollars out of my pocket.”
“Oh, come on,” she mused, chuckling, �
�I probably shaved ten million off that price all by myself tonight.”
“You probably did. You know, you think you know somebody, and then after five months you find out she speaks Japanese.”
Sam leaned forward and slipped off her heels. Curling and flexing her toes to try to get the blood flowing again, she patted him on the knee. “Your Japanese is probably better than mine, Brit, so don’t pretend you’re jealous.”
“How do you know I speak Japanese?”
“Nearly photographic memory, remember?” she returned, tapping her skull. “Newsweek, May 17, 2001. ‘Business acumen not withstanding, Addison’s greatest asset in dealing with the increasingly Japanese ranks of California multinational corporate heads may very well be his grasp of the language—literally.’” She cleared her throat. “Shall I continue?”
For a moment he sat in silence. “You are bloody amazing, Samantha Elizabeth Jellicoe.”
“Thanks. I told you I read up on you before I went back to drop in on you that second time.” That had been the night, five months ago, when she’d realized just how much trouble Richard Addison was going to be for her. And had she ever been right about that.
Wilder opened the front door for them as they topped the townhouse steps. Carrying her shoes, Samantha scooted past him and up the stairs. She wanted to call Stoney—he knew more buyers than she did, and he might have something that could corroborate her initial suspicions. Of course, it was more than likely that her suspicions were nothing more than that, just a wish that the bad guy would be present and easily accessible.
The bed was already turned down—the day maids at work—and she pulled off her dress and sat. And felt something stiff beneath her thigh. Frowning, she stood up and ran a hand over the silk fitted sheet. Something in the shape of a small rectangle was beneath the sheet, against the mattress.
“What are you doing?” Rick asked, coming into the room and closing the door behind him.
She knelt down and pulled up the sheet. “I don’t know.”
It was an envelope. One that, if she’d been keeping secrets from Rick, she would have been much more cautious about discovering. She pulled it free and tucked the sheet under again.
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