Billionaires Prefer Blondes

by Suzanne Enoch

  Samantha steadied herself against the wall and began to carve a hand-sized circle through the middle of the tape. Other than a dull scratching noise, the cutter made no sound. As she closed the circle, he felt the glass inside give. Keeping it from moving took more effort than he’d expected, but he clenched his jaw and held steady. Rick Addison was not going to be arrested on someone’s fire escape.

  She glanced through the curtains again, then straightened. “Pull, slow and straight.”

  Stifling his annoyance at being put through thief kindergarten, Richard pulled. As soon as the glass came free, Samantha reached through the hole and grasped the dowel. With her other hand she lowered the window a fraction. The dowel came loose, and she turned her wrist and pulled it out through the opening.

  “Nice.”

  Flashing him her quicksilver grin, she set the stick aside and pulled a jar of peanut butter from her backpack. While Richard watched, deeply curious, she scooped out a fingerful and slung it inside onto the floor. She did it five more times, peppering the hallway floor with peanut butter. Only then did she push the window up.

  It seemed like they’d been on the landing forever, but when he checked his watch only three minutes had passed. When he stood to climb over the windowsill, though, she pulled him back. “Wait a minute.”

  On the tail of her whisper, a high-pitched jingling sounded inside. They stayed motionless, half shielded by the curtains, as a Pekingese trotted from a side room into the hallway. After a few cursory sniffs Puffy went to work on the peanut butter.

  “Hi, Puffy, sweet baby baby Puffy,” Samantha sang in a whisper.

  The dog cocked its head and whimpered.

  Rick stared at Samantha as she leaned her chin on the windowsill and continued to baby-talk the dog. Slowly she reached one gloved hand, the fingers covered in peanut butter, into the hall. “Such a good Puffy. Is that good peanut butter? Yum yum, little Puffy.”

  “Oh, my God,” Richard whispered. He couldn’t help himself.

  “Shut up,” she sang, sliding both arms and her chest into the house. “Puffy’s mama’s baby, and doggies can’t bark with peanut butter stuck to the roofs of their mouths.”

  Half a minute later she sat on the hallway floor with the Pekingese in her lap, licking peanut butter off her gloves. Bloody amazing.

  “Come in, daddy bear, and bring the jar,” she said, scratching the dog’s belly with her free hand. “And don’t talk.”

  Well, her way had worked so far. Silently he climbed through the window and held out the jar. Sam shook her head, standing gracefully with the dog cradled in her arms. Before he could protest one of the world’s wealthiest men being reduced to dog-sitter, she smeared peanut butter on his chin and handed over Puffy.

  Samantha watched for a moment as Rick realized his role in the break-in and reconciled himself to a dog licking his chin. If he hadn’t been along, she would have had to carry Puffy into the bedroom and rifle through the Hodgeses’ things with one hand.

  Motioning him to stay in the hallway and keep Puffy occupied, she slipped into the room from which the dog had emerged. Perry and Jean Hodges lay in their ruffle-edged king-sized bed, sleeping. They were both on one side of the bed, white-haired heads sharing the same pillow.

  Dammit, focus. Mentally kicking herself in the pants, she eased her way over to the credenza. Lingering over her marks’ sleeping positions, getting mushy when she considered that after forty-two years of marriage they still cuddled—this was Rick’s damn influence. And it was one of the reasons she couldn’t do this for a living any longer.

  As she passed the walk-in closet she stole a look inside. A safe crouched in the back beside the shoes. The Hodgeses had left Boyden’s party late, though, just before herself and Rick, and they’d looked tired. Hopefully too tired to lock up the gems Mrs. Hodges had been wearing, especially when they were all right in the same room. Otherwise she’d have to break the safe, and that would take more time than she wanted to spend.

  She reached the low chest. Bingo. A diamond necklace, together with matching bracelet and earrings, lay beside a man’s wallet and a pair of diamond-studded wedding bands. Another necklace lay close by; apparently it hadn’t passed muster for tonight. Even after the look she’d had of the stuff at the party, she wasn’t entirely certain of the value. It would be close, though.

  Silently she palmed the jewelry. The wedding rings would put her over the top, value-wise, and she picked them up, looking at them in the dim glow of streetlights through the closed curtains. Samantha drew a slow breath, then set the rings down again. Fuck it. Nicholas wanted evidence that she was one of the bad guys more than he wanted the jewelry.

  When she turned around, Rick stood in the doorway, watching her. In his arms, Puffy had his head happily buried in the jar of peanut butter. Slowly Rick smiled at her.

  Great. She could only guess what he would read into her sparing the wedding rings, but she’d save her speculation for later. “Move,” she mouthed, returning to the doorway.

  Once they were back in the hallway she pocketed the diamonds and took Puffy back. Rick slipped out the open window to the landing, while she set down the dog and the peanut butter jar and followed him. From outside she closed the window again—no sense risking the dog climbing out after them and falling two stories.

  She pulled on her backpack again and followed Rick to the lower landing and then down the rope to the alley. After he untied the rope from the trash bin, she carefully pulled it over the landing where she’d thrown it and back to the ground. Just as she finished recoiling it and stuffing it into her backpack, Rick pushed her backward against the brick wall. Before she could react, he closed his mouth over hers in a hard, hot kiss.

  “What was that for?” she asked, straightening her baseball cap and pretending she hadn’t nearly had an orgasm right there. An adrenaline high and Rick. Whoo momma.

  “Because I love you,” he whispered back. “So we return the equipment to D…your friend and then sneak back into the hotel?”

  “That’s the plan.” She brushed his sleeve as he turned up the alley toward the street. “And I will make this right.”

  Rick took her hand. “And I’ll be supplying all my offices with Mrs. Hodges’ Famous Cookies for the next year. Let’s go. I want to wash the Puffy saliva off my face.”

  She grinned. “You are going to get so lucky when we get back to the hotel.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Chapter 14

  Saturday, 7:42 p.m.

  Samantha had placed Mrs. Hodges’s diamonds in a velvet bag, taking as much care with them as she would for any piece she’d been contracted to steal.

  As the day wore on, she set both the bag and her cell phone in the center of the downstairs coffee table, leaving her free to pace. No one had set a time for the phone call or the meeting, but if the job was as close to happening as Veittsreig had implied, he would have to be contacting her soon. She had a damned present for him, and she’d spent enough time watching television today to be assured that the Hodges break-in had made the news. Several times. She was now known as the “Peanut Butter Bandit.”

  At least they hadn’t said anything about more than one person being involved, and at least she had an alibi—taking that hotel room in the Manhattan had been a brilliant idea on Rick’s part. Plus, it had the added benefit of making sense, considering that he was the guy trying to buy the place.

  Thank God Rick hadn’t canceled his dinner with Matsuo Hoshido. As the hours ticked along with no call from Veittsreig, he’d wanted to; he hadn’t made any secret of that fact. They had to look like business as usual, though, and whether it was the good guys or the bad guys or both watching the house, the Addison-Jellicoe team couldn’t afford to do anything suspicious. And besides, Nicholas was less likely to call with Rick around, anyway.

  Restless, she flipped the television channel to watch another round of the news. At least the spring weather looked like it would hold for the next five
days. She actually preferred doing B and E’s in the rain or wind, but not when she was working with strangers in what was probably a setup—if not from them, then from Interpol.

  Wilder appeared at the open sitting room door. “Vilseau is making spaghetti, as you requested, Miss Sam. Might I get you a nice cold Diet Coke?”

  Rick had had all of his houses stock her beverage of choice, with a supply to be kept cold at all times. “That would be great, Wilder. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  As the butler left the room, something on the television caught her attention, and she turned around to see one of the channel’s ubiquitous gorgeous reporters, this one Bill Nemoski, speaking from some residential location. “…third break-in within a week and the second in twenty-four hours, in what the police are frankly hoping is not the beginning of a rash of upscale residential burglaries.”

  Samantha sat down as they went to footage recorded earlier. “The week’s third break-in apparently took place sometime between ten a.m. and noon today, when Mr. Locke’s housekeeper was out shopping for groceries.” A chill ran through her as on the screen Boyden Locke’s townhouse, not all that different from Rick’s, sat on its quiet street—quiet, that is, except for the flashing lights of police cars and the curious herds of neighbors. Neither had been present at the party last night.

  “Missing is the Picasso that Boyden Locke purchased at auction last year, for a price reported to be somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen million dollars. Police are currently pursuing several leads, but haven’t yet named a suspect. As you’ll recall, Rick Addison’s live-in girlfriend, Samantha Jellicoe, was briefly detained by police after the Addison robbery, but when I spoke with detectives they would neither confirm nor deny that she is still a person of interest.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sam hissed. Rick and Stoney’s half-assed twelve-step escape plan was starting to look good. Now, instead of an isolated burglary, the Hodge job was one of three. And she had personal connections to the other two.

  The house phone on the end table rang, and she jumped about a foot. It wasn’t the cell; it wasn’t Veittsreig—and she needed to calm the hell down. “Hello?” she said, picking up the cordless receiver.

  “So I’m watching the New York news on satellite,” the low Texas drawl of Tom Donner came, “and what should I see but something about an art theft crime spree and Samantha Jellicoe?”

  “Well, if it isn’t Yale,” she exclaimed, wishing she had one of those self-defense police whistles to blow into the phone, “the world-renowned gossip and Boy Scout! Shouldn’t you be taking your nap after that milk-and-cookies dinner?”

  “Make jokes while you can, jailbait. Where’s Rick?”

  “Gosh, you mean he didn’t tell you he was having dinner with Matsuo Hoshido about the hotel? Hm. Maybe you’re not all that vital to his business, after all.”

  “He told me. I forgot in the excitement of seeing you associated with criminal activity again. You would think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you?”

  The front bell rang, and she heard Wilder answer the door, then the unmistakable Staten Island accent of Detective Gorstein. Her mouth went dry.

  “Come on, Jellicoe, cat burglar got your to—”

  “Donner,” she interrupted in a hard whisper, “the cops are at the front door. I’m going to leave the phone off the hook. If it gets bad, call Phil Ripton. If it gets really bad, call Rick.”

  “Be cool, Jellicoe,” his voice returned, abruptly all business.

  She dove for the velvet bag and stuffed it under one of the couch pillows just as Gorstein appeared at the door, Wilder hovering around him angrily. Taking a breath, Samantha nonchalantly set the phone upside down in its cradle and stood.

  Given how deeply this mess surrounded her now, nobody was going to put her in cuffs again. “Detective,” she said smoothly, “I hope you brought your friend, Mr. Warrant.”

  “I asked him to wait while I inquired whether you were available, Miss Sam.”

  “It’s okay, Wilder.”

  “Technically this is still a crime scene,” Gorstein said, shoving a toothpick between his teeth and crinkling a small paper bag he held in his other hand. “Do I need a warrant to talk to you, though?”

  “I guess that depends on what you’re here to talk to me about.”

  “It’s a curious thing, Ms. J. We had another break-in today.”

  “Two, according to the news. Wow. I guess that’s more job security for you. Way to go.” As she spoke, she swore she could hear Donner on the phone yelling at her not to mouth off, but she knew guys like Gorstein; they were sharks, sniffing the water for any sign of weakness or blood. Therefore, she wouldn’t show any.

  “I’d really prefer to be in parking enforcement,” he said sarcastically.

  “I’m sure Rick could arrange that for you. So do you want something, or are you just going door-to-door being ominous?”

  “How about you tell me where you were at ten o’clock this morning?”

  “I was checking out of the Manhattan Hotel with Rick Addison, which I think the guy you have tailing me would know.”

  “Yeah, that’s a little curious,” he said, not bothering to deny that he had people watching her. “Why’d you stay at a hotel last night?”

  She snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Thanks to you, anybody who watches the news knows we’re in New York. And everybody wants an interview with me or with Rick. So we skipped out for a night.”

  “Addison’s buying the Manhattan, I hear.”

  “He’s working on it. Why, you want a room discount?”

  “Where’d you go after you checked out?” he pursued, rather than following her off on her tangent.

  He was good. Every bit of her rebelled against telling a cop anything, even if it might be to her own benefit. Still, since it looked like she would be jumping into the middle of this mess, the more innocent the cops thought she was, the better. “I came here. I think I’m coming down with a cold,” she said succinctly, coughing for effect.

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Just your guys and the billionaire and the household staff.” She blew out her breath. “Like I said before, Gorstein, my dad was the thief. Not me.”

  “Assuming that people can verify your whereabouts today, I have another question for you.”

  She made a show of checking her watch. “Make it fast. Wheel’s on.”

  “Do you buy the vowels, or steal them?” Pushing away from the doorframe, he walked into the room.

  Samantha backed up another step, refusing to glance in the direction of the diamonds. Fuck. Four hundred thousand or so in stolen gems resting five feet from the cop assigned to high-end burglaries. “I didn’t say anything about you coming into the room. You just stop right there, Gorstein.”

  He stopped. “Here,” he said, putting the paper bag on the arm of the couch and backing away again.

  “You really think I’m going to take possession of a bag without knowing what’s in it? Give me some credit.”

  “Christ,” he muttered, approaching again. With exaggerated caution he picked up the bag, stuck his hand in, and pulled out a can of Diet Coke. Shoving the empty bag into his pocket, he set the soda down on the couch’s arm again. “It’s a soda.”

  “I can see that.”

  “You didn’t get one before, at the station. So I’m bringing you one now. It’s a fucking peace offering, okay?”

  Samantha snorted. She couldn’t help it. “You handcuffed me, you fingerprinted me, and you put me in a little room with bars on the window.”

  “Hence the peace offering.”

  “Why the peace offering?” she asked, wondering whether Donner was crying or laughing as he listened from his quaint Palm Beach house with his quaint, perfect family, none of whom had ever been handcuffed.

  “Your, ah, Addison called me yesterday morning. We’d already pretty much ruled you out by then, but he pretty…forcefully suggested that you might have
a few ideas if I’d back off. And I called your cop in Palm Beach. He vouches for you.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, for the moment putting aside the thought that last night she’d proven Frank Castillo a liar. “Rick said that?”

  “Well, he used more profanity, and said something about me spending the rest of my career in court.”

  Her hero. She wished she’d overheard that conversation. “Is it cold?”

  “What?”

  “The soda. Is it cold?”

  “Probably not. I bought it about an hour ago. I was on my way here, but I had to stop back by Locke’s for an update.”

  “So what do you want to know?”

  “Can I sit down now?”

  “No. Maybe if you’d brought me a six-pack.”

  He leaned sideways against the bookcase while she turned off the television and sank onto the coffee table so she could face him. Wilder reappeared, looking apologetic and carrying her chilled drink, but she waved him off. While she and Gorstein sized each other up, she reached over and picked up the house phone.

  “Yale?”

  “For crying out loud, Jellicoe, is that your idea of—”

  “Talk to you later. ’Bye.”

  “Who was that?” Gorstein asked as she hung up.

  “Jiminy Cricket. Go ahead, Gorstein. I have better things to do than stare at you all night.” She had another phone call to take, for one thing, and she for damned sure didn’t want Veittsreig calling while the cop was there. Of course, if somebody from the crew was watching the house, the shit had already hit the fan. With both the good guys and the bad guys keeping an eye on her, she was a little surprised that they hadn’t tripped over on another by now. Of course, the bad guys knew the good guys were there, so she supposed that gave them an advantage.

  “Mrs. Hodges lost a ton of diamond jewelry, and Boyden Locke lost a Picasso today.”

  “I got all that from the news.”

  “You did a security consultation for Locke a few days ago. And you were at his house last night.”

  Uh-oh. “Is this an interrogation again? If it is, I’m going to call Jiminy back.” Much as she hated to admit it, she knew Donner’s number. She didn’t know Phil Ripton’s, something she meant to remedy as soon as Gorstein left.