Rick looked at her. “That is—”
“It’s fine,” she said firmly.
He drew a breath and slowly exhaled. “Okay.”
“Is everybody happy now?” the detective asked.
“What about Boyden Locke?” Samantha pursued. He’d been nearly as instrumental as Martin in getting her tangled into this mess.
“At this moment, the DA has declined to prosecute.”
Stunned, Samantha sat there gaping at him. “What?”
Gorstein frowned. “He’s a well-respected citizen with some good connections.”
“You have photographs of him with Nicholas Veittsreig!”
“Contextless photographs. That makes it your word against his. And you won’t step up to the plate—for reasons I can understand, of course.”
“Bloody hell,” Rick swore.
“Look at it from the prosecutor’s point of view. The two guys who owned the two missing paintings are both in the bad guys’ warehouse, with the missing paintings. One guy shows up in photos with Veittsreig, and the other guy has a girlfriend whose dad worked with Veittsreig. It’s kind of a toss-up.”
Samantha gave a disbelieving snort. “Why am I trying so hard to be a good guy?” she asked. “Do you know how much money I could have made today?”
Gorstein cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I think I have a phone call.” He stood, walking to the door and holding it open. “Beat it, Ms. J. And after what I just heard, we’re even.”
She stood up and walked past him, not waiting for Rick and Ripton. “You remember that, too, the next time you need my help for something. Since we’re even, it’ll cost you a case of soda. Adios, Sam.”
He grimaced. “Goodbye, Sam.”
Rick caught up to her in the corridor. “His name’s Sam?” he asked, jerking a thumb back in Gorstein’s direction.
“Yes.” She eyed him.
He swallowed whatever it was he’d been about to say. “That’s a stupid name for a bloke.”
Samantha slipped an arm around his waist, leaning into him. “Take me home, sweetheart.”
“By way of the hospital, I think.”
“I’m fine.”
“Maybe so, but I may have sprained my toe.”
She laughed as he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You are so lame.”
“That’s why I’m going to the hospital.”
“Great. Now we’re Abbott and Costello.”
Phil Ripton gave them a ride to the emergency room, and then waited while Rick got five stitches in his forehead and they cleaned and bandaged her cheek. The attorney must have been on a good retainer, the cynical part of her acknowledged, though she supposed he might have gone out of his way just because Rick was a good guy.
Considering what Boyden Locke had just gotten away with, though, it was probably Rick’s money that got him the ride. Money definitely talked louder than behavior. Shit. She knew Rick bent the rules sometimes. As far as she could tell, everybody with money did, at one time or another. But what Locke had done—it hadn’t been just about money. He’d tried to obtain priceless artworks from a public museum. And he’d gotten off because he knew the right people.
“You okay?” Rick asked, as he helped her into the back seat of Ripton’s Mercedes and then went around the other side to join her. She did kind of like that—Phil Ripton, attorney to the obscenely wealthy and chauffeur to same.
“I’m okay. I got shot again.”
“It was a graze. Again.”
“You’re just jealous because you’ve only been roughed up a couple of times.” She patted his thigh. “Someone will shoot you eventually. I’m sure of it.”
“Mm-hm. Probably you.”
“Probably.”
Chapter 24
Wednesday, 12:31 a.m.
“I hope you have your key,” Samantha said, hopping up to sit on the cast-ironwork railing that bordered their front steps, “because I am way too tired to pick the lock.”
Richard sent a last wave at Phil Ripton as the attorney drove away. That was someone else he now owed a hefty favor. He dug into his pocket, wincing as the material scraped his raw knuckles. “I have it.”
“Hurray, you,” she said, yawning.
He unlocked the door. As he turned the knob, it jerked out of his hand. For half a heartbeat surprise stopped him. Not again. Then he shoved the door with his shoulder and charged in.
In the dark he grabbed a handful of material as it stumbled away from him. Snarling, he raised his fist.
Samantha grabbed his arm. “Whoa, cowboy,” she said, her voice rich with amusement.
“Sir! Rick! It’s me!”
Shaking himself, Richard set Stillwell loose. “Apologies,” he said gruffly, flipping on the light.
“It’s been a long day,” Samantha added, closing and locking the door behind them.
“I saw you, on television. Both of you. I left several messages on your cellular, Rick.”
“My cellular’s out of commission,” Richard returned. And currently in FBI custody, to see if they could somehow recover the digital images of Boyden Locke’s confession. That would be another job for Ripton: to ensure that the image was the only thing they looked for on his phone.
“I thought perhaps you might have turned it off. But I—”
“If you don’t mind, John,” he cut in, “perhaps we could do this in the morning.” He wanted a shower, and then he wanted Samantha.
“Of course, Rick.” Stillwell backed up the stairs as Richard ascended them behind him. Downstairs he heard Samantha set the alarm and then head down the hall toward the kitchen.
“I’m making a PBJ,” she called. “You want one?”
He’d passed starving several hours ago. “Yes, please.” He looked back up at his assistant again. “Was there something else?”
“Yes, actually.” John stumbled on the top step and kept backing. “You probably remember that I was trying to set up a phone conference between you and Matsuo Hoshido.”
Hell. The hotel. It had been a long day. “I’ll give Matsuo a call tomorrow to apologize for putting him off. The—”
“That’s the thing, Rick. He had the news on, as well. The attempted theft at the Metropolitan Museum, and then you at that storage warehouse with the FBI. He…pardon me, but he said you have balls. He’ll be calling the Building Commission in the morning and telling them to stop stalling you.”
Rick stopped. “That is outstanding, John. Well done.”
Stillwell smiled. “Thank you, sir. Rick. The same to you.”
It seemed a rather straightforward example of what he was always telling Samantha—that strength gravitated toward strength. He’d helped engineer the recovery of his own stolen property, and once again he became a force not to be trifled with. “We’ll go over the details in the morning.”
“Of course, Rick. Good night.”
Richard opened the master bedroom door, then stopped as he realized that John still wasn’t moving. “What is it?”
Stillwell glanced in the direction of the stairs. “I, um, I want this job, Rick.”
“You have it, John.”
“Yes, but I think it’s only fair…I mean, I want to be completely honest with you.”
Richard stifled a yawn. “Unbelt, Stillwell.”
“All right. I…overheard you and Miss Sam and that Stoney fellow the other night.”
“I thought you might have.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wanted to talk to you first. Going to the authorities behind your back and without my knowing all the facts, it’s not the way I work.”
And thank God for that. “I appreciate your candor. And I’ll be up front with you. My household is unusual. If you remain in my employ, you will hear and see some things that are, how shall I say, out of the ordinary. And there will be things I won’t tell you about them, whether you ask me or not.”
Stillwell cleared his
throat. “Will these…things have a similar outcome to what happened at the museum today?”
“More than likely.”
“If that’s the case, Rick, then I foresee no difficulties with our relationship.” He gave a small smile. “Though I can’t promise not to ask questions on occasion.”
“Then welcome to the team.” Richard offered his hand. Without hesitation, Stillwell shook it. “And in light of this, I have another task for you.”
“Anything.”
Rick stifled a smile. Youthful enthusiasm. “I would like a list of businesses owned by Boyden Locke. Mr. Locke is not to know about it.”
“I’ll look into it tomorrow.”
“There will be more, later. For now, I’m going to bed.”
“Yes, sir. Good night.”
Finally Stillwell backed into his own room and closed the door. The lad did seem very honest, which could turn out to be a bit bothersome. Still, given that Samantha tended to break into the house at fairly regular intervals, he’d rather have honesty and a few questions than someone who might attempt blackmail.
Rick turned back to his own room—and stopped as he spotted Samantha standing at the top of the stairs, a napkin-wrapped sandwich in either hand and a bottle of water tucked under one arm, her gaze on him. Even after the day they’d just had, she still moved like a shadow.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi. Are you going to destroy Boyden Locke?”
“Yes.”
“Cool.” She handed him a sandwich, then slipped through the door in front of him.
Cool. That would probably be all she said about it. She had her way of doing things, and he had his. They made a bloody good team.
He closed and locked their door, and bit into his sandwich. Marmalade. She hated marmalade, so she’d obviously made two different sandwiches. “You are a goddess,” he said.
She sat on the bed and pulled off her shoes. “That’s me, Larcenius, goddess of thievery.”
“I meant for the sandwich. Do you want the shower first?”
“We can share.”
“Samantha, you could have gotten away from the museum with everything on the list today, couldn’t you?”
Samantha eyed him. “Yes,” she finally answered. “With a few extra days to plan, I probably could have doubled the take. If I were still a thief. And if I’d ever hit museums.”
He didn’t doubt any of what she said. Single-handedly she’d taken out three thieves, one of them her own father. And that had been with the FBI, Interpol, and NYPD all over the premises and expecting trouble. If she’d been concentrating on pulling a job rather than preventing one from occurring, nobody would have been able to stop her. “You do frighten me sometimes.”
She flashed her quicksilver grin. “Good.” Pulling off her top, she flopped backward on the bed. “Can I ask you something?”
He sat beside her. “Mm-hm.”
“Did you mean to shoot Veittsreig in the ear, or did you miss?”
For a moment he considered what he wanted to tell her. “Did you ever see the movie The Princess Bride?”
“Yes. I always wanted to be the Dread Pirate Roberts.”
Rick snorted. “Remember the fight at the end? Or the non-fight, I should say. Prince Humperdinck wants a fight to the death, but Westley wants a fight to the pain. He describes how badly he wants Humperdinck to suffer for what he’s done to Buttercup. If I’d had more time, I would have taken off more than Veittsreig’s ear, my love. And yes, I would have killed him. Eventually.”
Samantha sat up beside him. Tangling her fingers into his hair, she leaned in and kissed him. “And I thought I was the only movie geek around here,” she murmured, kissing him again, so thoroughly he could taste the strawberry jam from her own sandwich on her soft mouth.
“I’m trying to fit in,” he returned, sinking backward with her in his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me that you don’t like doing security consultations?”
She stiffened a little, then relaxed again as he shifted his attention to removing her bra. “I don’t hate it. Not all of it. I mean…Ah, that feels good.”
“You mean what?” He glanced up at her, then went back to licking and nibbling at her breasts.
“Is this your version of…oh…of a truth serum or something?”
“Don’t change the subject, Jellicoe.”
She arched her back as he slid a hand down the front of her jeans. “Fine. It’s my fault.” Samantha twisted to unfasten his trousers. As he half closed his eyes, she reached in to wrap her fingers around his cock. “My previous…Christ, Rick…life was based on excitement.”
“And you’re not excited now?” He shifted aside her panties and slipped a finger up inside her.
“Sex now. Talk later,” she rasped, shoving his trousers down to his thighs.
The power of speech was beginning to leave him, but he made a last effort as he pulled off her jeans and panties and tossed them on the floor. “We will talk later. Promise?”
“Promise. Come on, Rick. I want you inside me.”
Hooking one of her legs over his shoulder, he drew her up against him, pushing deep inside her. Samantha lolled back on the bed, gasping as he filled her. He moved slowly, savoring the sensation of her tight heat encasing him.
Heaving against her, he shifted her legs down around his hips again, putting her flat on her back. Samantha arched her neck, throwing her arms around his shoulders and moaning in time with his thrusts.
Five months together. Five months, and he still went hard whenever she kissed him. Five months, and he still couldn’t get enough of her. “Sam,” he grunted, “come for me. I can feel you. Come for me.”
With a shudder, she did come, clinging hard to him. Lowering his head against her shoulder, he quickened his motions, their bodies melding into one. Finally he came, holding himself hard inside her.
Samantha rested her arms around his shoulders, her fingers playing with the ends of his hair and kissing the line of his jaw. “Most people don’t get excited by their jobs, do they?” she said, making it more of a statement than a question.
“Most people have to work. You don’t.”
“Yes, I do. And security consultation is…fine. It’s as close as I can get without breaking the law.”
He rolled them, leaving him underneath, and her lying limply across his body. “I don’t want you to have to settle. You’re not a good…settler.”
“That shows how much you know.” Almost visibly gathering herself, she leaned down and kissed his mouth. “I really need a shower now. And so do you. Come on. We should be clean heroes. Setting a good example and everything.”
“This hero is sleeping in tomorrow.”
Samantha sat up, putting her hands on his chest as she looked down at him. Her wild auburn hair framed her face and shadowed her green eyes. “I love you,” she said.
Richard smiled. “I love you.”
He only hoped that that would be enough to keep her with him. It had worked for Westley and Buttercup, but then Buttercup hadn’t been a former thief with a very great need for challenges.
“Shit.”
Samantha nearly choked on her Diet Coke. Grabbing up the television remote, she turned up the sound.
“Rick!”
A few seconds later Rick emerged from his office and strode into the sitting room. “What’s wr—”
“Look,” she said, pointing at the television.
He sat beside her, emitting a rumbling sound that might have been either cursing or laughter. “You look very deadly,” he said after a moment.
There on the news, large as life, she ran through a gallery in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Seconds later, in increasingly shaky and smoke-filled footage, she yanked a woman out of the way and hit a remote to send one of the fire doors crashing down. “Damn tourists,” she muttered, glaring at the “amateur video” disclaimer across the bottom of the screen.
At least she’d been wearing the wig. The news team could only
speculate about the mystery woman, and of course comment about the involvement of billionaire Rick Addison and his live-in companion, Samantha Jellicoe, in the recovery of the two stolen paintings and the diamonds. Hopefully no one would equate “museum mystery woman” with her.
“The FBI’s going to know that’s me, especially when they can’t track down the chick with blonde hair. And why am I always ‘his live-in companion’?”
He lifted an eyebrow, then winced and touched the bandage that covered his stitches. “You’re complaining about your billing?”
“No. It’s just…Oh, what the hell do I care? I’m on damn television. Again.” She tossed down the remote. “They can get pictures of me in the middle of a non-robbery, but they can’t retrieve the video you took that implicated Locke.”
“At least they’re saying that the mysterious blonde woman aided in the capture of the thieves. They know you weren’t part of the robbery attempt.”
“I don’t want them to be saying anything at all.” Yesterday she’d thought Ripton pretty much had the white hats convinced that she wasn’t good witness material. Now the news had footage of a blonde woman otherwise matching her description inside the museum.
Rick reached over for the phone. “I’ll call Phil to give him a heads-up.”
As he touched the thing, it rang. Samantha jumped, then had to laugh at herself. “Man, I need a vacation,” she muttered.
He answered it. “Hello.” His expression closed down, then became downright dour. “It’s for you,” he said, handing it over.
“Who?” she mouthed.
Rick crossed his forefingers over one another. Great. The Ex.
“Hey, Patricia,” she said, scowling at him.
“I am going to assume,” Rick’s ex-wife said in her prim, tightly wound British accent, “that you meant to call me to say that you were wrong about Boyden Locke, and that you apologize for attempting to set me up with him.”
“Okay.” It sounded reasonable enough. “I meant to call you once I found out about Locke, and I’m sorry I tried to fix the two of you up.” She paused. “Although Locke hasn’t been implicated in anything yet, so I suppose that still puts him a notch or two above Peter and Daniel.”
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