Billionaires Prefer Blondes

by Suzanne Enoch

  No, he had something else to trouble him now. As hard as he’d tried to be patient, to let her grow her business at her own pace and in her own way, he’d thought that the more successful she became, the less likely it would be that she slipped away from him and back into her old, exciting life. It had never occurred to him that she didn’t like her new business in any form.

  What else was there for a retired cat burglar, one still at the top of her game, to do? Sitting about and doing crossword puzzles wouldn’t suffice, and she wouldn’t be Samantha if she settled for that. Bodyguard? She didn’t like guns, and he didn’t want her away from him that much. Professional wrestler? Too much in the spotlight, and not enough intellectual challenge, though it did amuse him a little that he’d thought of it.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. The two of them needed to do some thinking. Neither of them would be happy if she stayed with a job she disliked, especially if it was just to ease his mind that she was keeping occupied, or allowing her to keep at least one hand in her old business. Neither did he want her clients quitting her because her father had managed to link her to a robbery. Leaving the security job should be up to her, not to her suspicious clientele.

  Clenching his jaw, Richard headed back to his meeting. The first task in all this would be to make sure that Samantha stayed free and alive past Tuesday. Which meant he couldn’t get involved with contacting Interpol or the police or anyone else.

  He stopped. Or did it? Turning on his heel, he went back into his office, closed the door, and sat behind his desk. Then with a deep breath he picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Tom Donner.”

  “Hello, Tom.”

  “Hey, Rick. I’m at Mike’s baseball game. Guess who just scored a double?”

  Richard smiled. Tom adored the domesticity of his life. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder whether he would ever sit on the bleachers and cheer on his own son or daughter. Tuesday, Rick. Focus. “I would say it was Mike,” he returned. “Tell him I said congratulations.”

  “I will.” Tom paused. “What’s up?”

  “You’re on retainer, right? So anything I tell you at any time or in any location is considered privileged, yes?”

  “Yes. Why, did Jellicoe get arrested again?”

  “Not yet.”

  “‘Not yet’? That doesn’t sound too promising. Hold on. Let me get over behind the snack bar so we can talk.”

  “Don’t miss Mike’s game.”

  “He’s not out on the field again yet. Hold on. Okay. What’s going on?”

  “Someone’s going to rob the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Tuesday.”

  “What? She told you? Call the damn cops, Rick.”

  “It’s an Interpol sting. Samantha’s assisting…a friend of hers in the setup. The problem is, she doesn’t have a deal of her own with the authorities.”

  “Then she should pull out.”

  “She can’t. It’s complicated. They threatened to kill both of us if she doesn’t cooperate.”

  “Interpol did? That’s insane.”

  “Not Interpol. The other thieves. I just want to know if we can take any steps to minimize her risk.”

  “I’m a corporate attorney, Rick.” Tom growled some very inventive profanity. “And what about your risk? She may have convinced the NYPD that she didn’t take the Hogarth, but if she gets picked up at the museum, that’s going to change. And you’re going to get pulled right into the middle of it, either for being an accessory or for being the total idiot who let it happen right under his nose.”

  Richard sat very quietly for a moment, reminding himself firstly that Tom had no idea that he’d been in on the Hodges robbery, and secondly that the attorney was looking out for him and that no one had actually called anyone else an idiot. “I repeat,” he said slowly, “is there anything we can do to minimize her risk?”

  “Lemme think. I went to school with a couple of guys in the State Department. I’ll see what I can find out. But it’s Sunday, so don’t expect a miracle.”

  “At this point, Tom, a miracle would be very welcome.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” And running through a few scenarios on his own.

  Samantha paid the driver and hopped out of the cab in front of the townhouse. Stoney had found her a top-of-the-line splitter, and he’d come up with three different lightweight wire strippers so she could choose the one she liked the best. She’d thanked him and left—and she hadn’t said a word about Rick’s surprise public appearance or his summoning of and meeting with Martin, or even about Locke trying to track her, probably to try to get his Picasso back.

  Why she hadn’t said anything, she didn’t know. Ever since she could remember, she’d been able to talk to Stoney about anything. He’d even been the one to go out and buy her first box of tampons, although she had gotten the feeling that that was pretty much where he drew the line.

  But when Rick had told her why he’d wanted to see Martin, and when he’d told her about Martin probably not having an escape route for her—it had been so far out of her comfort zone that she didn’t know how to take it. She’d always looked after herself. It shouldn’t have mattered that she would have to do the same on Tuesday. If Martin had drilled one lesson into her head, it had been that everyone always looked out for themselves first. Even Stoney worked that way to some degree, since she’d been the one taking the risks and he’d been the one selling the items she’d obtained, and both of them making a shitload of money doing it.

  Rick, though, operated differently. She’d seen him do business, and he could at a moment’s notice turn into a Great White shark, filleting every opponent within reach. But he also stuck his neck way, way out for her, and he’d done so on more than one occasion. It usually turned out well for both of them, or it had so far, but that seemed to be as much a matter of luck as anything else.

  A car pulled up behind her as she hefted her backpack and headed for the front steps. She didn’t look around, but she shifted her grip on the heavy pack. It would make quite a dent in somebody’s head, if that turned out to be necessary.

  “Sam.”

  Even with that one syllable she recognized the voice. Veittsreig. Of course he wouldn’t call to set up a meeting when he could just drive by and grab her. So much for leaving a note for Rick. Dammit.

  She turned around. “Are you lost?”

  He shook his head from the front passenger seat of the black Ford Explorer. “Get in.”

  “The cops are probably watching the house.”

  “So get in fast.”

  Putting on an annoyed expression, she complied. “That was pretty stupid, don’t you think?” she said, climbing into the middle seat as the two other men there shifted to give her room.

  “Maybe I want the cops to see you with us,” Nicholas returned. “Just to make sure you’re one hundred percent committed to the project.”

  “Oh, now it’s a project? I thought it was a robbery. I should have brought Popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners instead of glass cutters.”

  “You want me to search you for wires again, Sam?”

  “Nope. Who’re your friends? I recognize Bono, of course.”

  The guy sitting next to her with the long, greasy hair, hawk nose, and sunglasses frowned. “Bono. That’s good.” Nicholas snorted. “He’s Eric. The one by the window is Dolph. Our driver is Wulf.”

  “Who’s missing, besides Martin? You said it would be a seven-way split.”

  “That’s right. Two shares for me. I set this all up, after all.”

  “I guess I won’t know until Tuesday if you’re worth it or not.”

  Nicholas turned from the front seat to face her. “I’m not the one we’ll have to worry about.”

  Threats again. In her business they were as common as wire cutters. “If this is the big meeting, where’s Martin?”

  “We’re joining up with him. I decided I would save you the cab fare and having to lose all the polic
e following you.”

  “Thanks, as long as they’re not following you. You have shown up at my house four times now.”

  “Wulf?” Veittsreig asked.

  “No one’s following,” the driver returned in an accent heavier than Veittsreig’s.

  Despite Wulf’s apparent confidence, the Explorer looped up, down, and around Manhattan for the next half hour. Samantha applauded the caution, though the attention to detail didn’t bode well for her or Martin. When Interpol came down on these guys, they were going to have a pretty fair idea about who’d leaked the information. If what Rick had said about his conversation with Martin was true, and she had no reason to disbelieve him, she needed to come up with an escape plan. A good one.

  “Are you lost?” she finally asked. “If you’re not, I’d really like to get the battle plans before Tuesday. And the wiring schematics.”

  “Five minutes. And hand Bono your backpack.”

  Bono, aka Eric, said something in German about how not funny Veittsreig was. Samantha pretended not to understand, and instead with an annoyed breath dumped her backpack onto Eric’s lap.

  “Don’t break anything. It’s all new.”

  Eric lifted out the splitter. “GPS,” he grunted.

  “It’s an electronic splitter, you moron,” Samantha retorted. “It’s for shutting off parts of alarm systems.”

  “Why is it new? Don’t you own one already, Jellicoe?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s in Palm Beach. I came to New York on vacation. You guys started all this. I’m just trying to be prepared.”

  Eric’s next muttering in German confirmed that the rest of the stuff in her pack was legit. He shoved everything back in and returned it to her.

  “Thanks. Does this mean I passed? Do I get to be in the club?”

  “Yes. Go ahead to the warehouse, Wulf.”

  Gangs—or crews, rather—of thieves always rented warehouses. Since she generally worked alone, Samantha wasn’t entirely certain why, unless they’d all gone to see the same movies and didn’t want the other robbery crews making fun. To her a group of guys suddenly taking over or renting a warehouse and not bringing in a lot of stuff to store screamed suspicion, but she was a fellow lawbreaker, not an enforcer.

  They pulled up in front of a nondescript storage warehouse along the river and facing New Jersey. Dolph climbed out, keyed an entry code—which she immediately memorized—into the door pad, and then pushed up the corrugated metal door. The Explorer slipped under, and Dolph pulled the door down again.

  “So this is the top-secret headquarters,” Samantha said, getting out of the SUV. “It’s…spacious.”

  Martin rounded a stack of boxes and walked up to her. “Jellicoe and Jellicoe, back together again.”

  “Hi, Martin.”

  “So much for your short retirement, eh? I always said a true champ can’t retire at the top. It’s not in their blood. They have to keep fighting all the way down.”

  “And we know which side of that hill you’re on, eh, Martin?” Veittsreig chuckled, slapping her father on the back. “Let’s take a look at those blueprints, shall we?”

  “Before we get started,” Samantha said, dumping her backpack on another ubiquitous box and noting the UPS truck behind them, now black and with “SWAT” painted over the delivery company logo, “I have a question.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I assume you guys have been planning this for weeks. Why are you bringing me in three days before the job?”

  “First of all,” Nicholas said, tossing her a beer, “we didn’t know you would be in New York at such an opportune time, but since you are, we’d be foolish not to take advantage of that fact. Second, the request for the Stradivarius came in last week, and we couldn’t work out how to cover it along with everything else.”

  “You needed more manpower.”

  “Womanpower,” Dolph said, gazing at the chest area of her tank top.

  Great. Raging hormone guy.

  “And third, some hack, as you call us,” Nicholas continued, “wouldn’t be able to play catch-up and be ready in three days. I’m betting that you can be.”

  “That makes you smart,” Samantha said, favoring Veittsreig with a smile. “But are you any good at a B and E?”

  Nicholas rolled out the blueprints and wiring schematics. “Take a look and see.”

  Chapter 18

  Sunday, 10:47 p.m.

  Rick pulled open the front door just as she reached it. “You didn’t leave a note,” he said, taking her hand, key and all, and drawing her into the house.

  “I didn’t have a chance,” she said tiredly, dumping her backpack into the front closet and pulling on a sweatshirt hanging there. Wulf had dropped her off a few avenues away, and she’d taken a cab the last chilly mile home. “They did a drive-by and picked me up right outside here.” The sweatshirt said “Oxford” across the chest, and it smelled like Rick’s aftershave.

  Stoney came up behind Rick. “You shouldn’t leave your gear in there. If the cops bust in, that’s the first place they’ll look.”

  “I know that,” she grumbled. “Can I get a damn sandwich and an aspirin before you start playing good billionaire, bad fence? Or vice versa?”

  “Of course you can.” Rick took her shoulders and guided her toward the kitchen.

  “Good,” she returned. “And no bad news from anybody on my empty stomach, got it?”

  Rick’s hands tightened briefly, then relaxed again. “Got it.”

  Partway to the kitchen she turned around to see Stoney walking behind them. “And what are you doing here? Talk about the cops being suspicious.”

  “Addison called me when you didn’t show. I came up the fire escape and climbed in through the window.”

  Despite her tiredness, she snorted. “You did a B and E?”

  “Just an E,” Rick said. “I opened the window for him.”

  She slid an arm around Rick’s waist. “You’re my guys.”

  Rick sat her down at the small kitchen table and then went over to the pantry. He pulled out a plate and a couple of slices of bread, set them on the counter, and headed for the refrigerator.

  “Where’s Vilseau?”

  “Under the circumstances, I thought Wilder and Vilseau might be safer elsewhere,” he returned. “I gave them the next few days off. Ben, as well.”

  “But they sleep here.”

  He grinned. “Allow me to clarify. I paid for them to take the next couple of days off. Generously.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Peanut butter, or turkey?”

  “Turkey. Soft on the mayo, extra mustard.”

  Rick lifted an eyebrow at her. “Do I look like a cook?”

  “You do until Vilseau comes back. Because anything beyond microwave pizza is your territory, sweetheart.”

  With a grin he began slathering mustard on one of the slices of bread. “Wonderful. So now I have to negotiate a multimillion-dollar deal and cook? Do you want tomatoes?”

  “Hell, yes, my darlin’.”

  “Ahem. Innocent bystander trying not to barf over here.” Stoney waved a hand at them from the doorway. “What’s the gig?”

  “Food first. Do you want Rick to make you a sandwich?”

  “Hey,” Rick protested.

  “No, thanks. I ate at Delroy’s.” Stoney made a face. “The man makes great pastries, but he can destroy a steak like nobody’s business.”

  “What happened to the hotel?”

  “I tried to leave, but Delroy got one of those hurt, puppy-dog looks on his face. So I’m still sleeping on the damn lumpy couch and eating lumpy whatever that was he piled next to the steak.”

  “You’re such a softy.” Her sense of humor beginning to return and her headache beginning to fade a little, Samantha went over to the counter to tear off a piece of lettuce for her sandwich.

  “Remind me again that you two are criminal masterminds and I’m a real estate magnate worth billions, will you?” Rick leaned
sideways and kissed her.

  As Samantha had requested, Richard did his damnedest to keep the mood light until she’d at least eaten. Her evening was going to get worse than even she realized—she wasn’t the only one with bad news.

  She went over to the refrigerator and poured herself some lemonade, then scrounged around until she found a bottle of aspirin. “Stoney, I found the tortilla chips,” she said, shaking the bag over her shoulder.

  “Hey, quit rattling them around,” Barstone grunted, coming forward with surprising speed for so large a gentleman.

  “You’ll break off the corners.” He took the bag and retreated to the table. “Get me some of that lemonade, would you, honey?”

  “Sure. Rick?”

  “I’m fine.”

  They made a bloody odd family, Rick reflected, but a family seemed to be exactly what they’d become. He didn’t know if he’d ever like Walter Barstone, but over the past two days he’d gained a much larger measure of respect for the man. Walter genuinely cared for Samantha, clearly, though his influence over her left a great deal to be desired. Compared to Martin Jellicoe, however, the man was a saint.

  “You okay?” Samantha murmured, nudging him in the back with her elbow as she crossed to the table.

  He shook himself. “I was just thinking about how dinky you look in my old college jersey.”

  “‘Dinky’?”

  “Oh. Cute.” Yanks.

  “Mm-hm.”

  Stacking her substantial sandwich together, he pulled a knife from the case and sliced the monstrosity in half. “Dinner is served, my lady,” he said grandly, carrying the plate to the table and taking the chair beside her.

  She wolfed down half the sandwich, then snatched a handful of tortilla chips from Walter. “Veittsreig’s got three Germans with him, plus Martin and me.”

  “Do you know any of them?” Walter asked, grabbing a corner of the chip bag and carefully sliding it back into his possession.