Flirting With Danger

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Which would be true.” Donner watched Richard pace from the far side of the desk.

  “Except that they have a Walter ‘Stoney’ Barstone under surveillance.” Richard glanced at the fax Donner had brought with him. “And a house they began searching this afternoon. I would say that’s significant.”

  “It’s something. But since the house is owned by one Juanita Fuentes, who apparently died in 1997, I’d guess they aren’t quite sure what’s going on.”

  “I want to go there,” Richard said. “To that house.” Striding to the liquor cabinet for a brandy, he rubbed at his temple. Dr. Klemm had said he probably had a mild concussion, but by now he imagined the headache was more than equal parts frustration.

  “You can’t. We don’t officially know about it yet. And I can only push things so far, Rick, even with your name to throw around.”

  “I hate not knowing what’s going on. And whatever anyone else thinks, she didn’t act—”

  “Didn’t act like a killer? You said that before—but it’s not your job to decide that.” Clearing his throat, Donner uncrossed his long legs and stood. “I’m more concerned that the police want you to stay in Florida.” He flashed a grin at Richard’s frown. “I mean, I like having you here, even off-season, but keeping you in a place where things explode doesn’t make me all that comfortable.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Ha. You like being in the middle of shit.”

  Richard eyed him. “True or not, I do like resolutions. Go do something constructive, will you?”

  Tom made a truly awful bow. Americans.

  “Yes, your majesty. I’ll swing by the office and put in another call to Senator Branston. Maybe I can shake something out of her tree.”

  “Shake Barbara hard, or I will.”

  “No, you won’t, because you’re lying low and cooperating with the authorities in this matter. I’m the lawyer. I’m supposed to be nasty.”

  Donner left, closing the door behind him. Richard, though, continued to pace. He hated being handled, even by a friend like Tom. The police department’s sycophantic nonsense was simply insulting. And the FBI and he went back quite a ways and had never dealt well together.

  He supposed he might be considered a suspect by an exceptionally broad stretch of someone’s imagination, but in reality they probably wanted him to stay in Florida because his presence would keep the media interested and convince the department to continue paying the investigators their overtime. As long as it helped somebody track down Miss Smith, he would put up with being in the public eye—for now.

  He started to take another swallow of brandy, then stopped as the skylight in the middle of the ceiling rattled and opened. With a graceful flip that looked much easier than it had to be, a woman dropped into his office. The woman, he noted, reflexively taking a step back.

  “Thank you for getting rid of your company,” she said in a low voice. “I was getting a cramp up there.”

  “Miss Smith.”

  She nodded, keeping green eyes on him as she walked to the door and locked it. “Are you sure you’re Richard Addison? I thought he slept in a suit, but night before last you had on nothing but jogging sweats, and tonight”—she looked him slowly up and down—“a T-shirt and jeans, and no shoes.”

  The muscles across his abdomen tightened, and not—he noted with some interest—in fear. “The suit’s at the cleaners.” Her gloved hands were empty, as they had been the other night, and this time she didn’t even carry a paint gun or a pack. Again she was in black—black shoes and black tight-fitting pants and a black T-shirt that hugged her slim curves.

  She pursed her lips. “Satisfied I’m not carrying a concealed weapon?”

  “I have no idea where you’d keep one, if you were,” he returned, sliding his gaze along the length of her.

  “Thanks for noticing.”

  “In fact,” he continued, “you seem a bit underdressed compared to the other night. I do like the baseball cap, though. Very fashionable.”

  She flashed him a grin. “It keeps my long blond hair out of my face.”

  “Duly noted for my report to the police,” he said, his mind still pondering the intriguing thought of where she might carry a concealed weapon. “Unless you’re here to kill me, in which case I suppose I don’t really care what color your hair might be.”

  “If I were here to kill you,” she returned in a calm, soft voice, sending a glance beyond him at his desk, “you’d be dead.”

  “That confident, are you?” She wasn’t armed; he could rush her, grab her, and hold her for the police. Instead, Richard took a sip of brandy.

  “Mm-hm,” she answered. “Who was that you sent out to shake Senator Branston’s tree? Or Barbara’s, rather?”

  He found himself watching her mouth, the soft curve of her full lips. Concentrate, dammit. With a breath, Richard glanced toward the skylight again. The glass was thick, but not enough to stop a good listening device—or a bullet. So she had had the opportunity to kill him again and hadn’t taken it. Interesting.

  “That was my attorney. Tom Donner.”

  “Attorneys. My favorite people. Now why don’t you move over there by the cabinet for a minute?” she suggested, walking closer. She seemed coiled, ready to move in any direction, to react to whatever he might do. Richard found it oddly…tantalizing. Most people played more defensively where he was involved. Miss Smith, it seemed, considered herself his match.

  “This is my office, Miss Smith. Why don’t you ask me nicely? Considering that you’re unarmed.”

  The soft smile touched her mouth again, saying both that she had no doubt she could hold her own against him and that she was supremely enjoying their encounter. “Please move, Mr. Addison,” she cooed.

  Because he wanted to see what she meant to do next, he moved where she indicated. Stepping forward, she brushed gloved fingers through folders and papers on his desk. “I don’t have any concealed weapons, either,” he said after a moment, covering a flicker of annoyance when she invaded the top drawer of his desk.

  “Of course you do,” she said. “I just want to make sure they’re not anywhere too easy to whip out.” Her glance took in his faded jeans.

  After a moment she backed away, giving him an all clear gesture. He returned to his desk, sinking back against the near edge. If she’d checked the cabinet behind him she would have found a .44, but she undoubtedly thought she could get out before he could get to anything he had closed away. “All right, let’s say I accept that you’re not here to kill me,” he said. “Why are you here then, Miss Smith?”

  For the first time she hesitated, a furrow appearing between her delicate, curved brows. “To ask for your help.”

  And he’d thought nothing else could surprise him this evening. “Beg pardon?”

  “I think you know that I didn’t try to kill you the other night. I did try to take your Trojan stone tablet, and I won’t apologize for that. But thievery has a statute of limitations. Murder doesn’t.” She cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  “Then turn yourself in and tell the police.”

  She snorted. “No fucking way. I may have missed the tablet, but not all the statutes have run out on me.”

  Richard folded his arms across his chest. She hadn’t taken the tablet. Curiouser and curiouser—and it didn’t suit him to let her know that someone else had made off with it. “So you’ve stolen other things. From people other than me, I presume?”

  As she glanced toward the skylight, her smooth, devil-may-care countenance shifted a little. It was an act, he realized. Fearless as she seemed to be, she would have to be desperate to drop in on him here tonight. If he hadn’t been so accustomed to reading people, looking for weaknesses, he never would have seen it. She was good at what she did, obviously, but that moment of vulnerability caught his attention—and his interest.

  “I saved your life,” she finally said, her unaffected mask dropping into place again, “so you owe me a favor
. Tell them—the police, the FBI, the news—that I didn’t kill that guard, and that I didn’t try to kill you. I’ll deal with the rest on my own.”

  “I see.” Richard wasn’t certain whether he was more intrigued by her or annoyed that she expected him to make her error go away. “You want me to fix things so you can walk away from this, without repercussions, owing to the fact that while you’ve been bad elsewhere, you were unsuccessful here.”

  “I’m bad everywhere,” she returned, with a slight smile that momentarily made him wonder how far she would go in her quest to see herself cleared of any wrongdoing. “Accuse me of attempted theft. But clear me of murder.”

  “No.” He wanted answers, but his way. And not through some sort of compromise, intriguing though she made it sound.

  She met his gaze straight on for a moment, then nodded. “I had to try. You might consider, though, that if I didn’t set that bomb, someone else did. Someone who’s better at getting into places than I am. And I’m good. Very good.”

  “I’d wager you are.” He watched her for another moment, wondering what she’d be like with all of that coiled energy released. She definitely knew how to push his buttons, and he wanted to push a few of hers. “I’ll admit you may have something I’m interested in acquiring,” he said slowly, “but it’s not your theories or your request for aid.”

  Returning to her position beneath the skylight, she yanked her arm down. The end of a length of rope tumbled into the room. “Oh, Mr. Addison. I never give something for nothing.”

  He found that he wasn’t quite ready for her to leave. “Perhaps we could negotiate.”

  She released the rope, approaching him with a walk that looked half Catwoman and all sexy. “I already suggested that, and you turned me down. But be careful. Somebody wants you dead. And you have no idea how close somebody like me can get, without you ever knowing,” she murmured, lifting her face to his.

  Jesus. She practically gave off sparks. He could feel the hairs on his arms lifting. “I would know,” he returned in the same low tone, taking a slow step closer, daring her to make the next move. If she did, he was going to touch her. He wanted to touch her, badly. The heat coming off her body was almost palpable.

  She held where she was, her lips a breath away from his, then with another fleeting grin slid away to grab the rope again. “So you weren’t surprised tonight, were you?” With a fluid coordination of arms and legs, she swarmed up through the skylight. “Watch your back, Addison. If you’re not going to help me, I’m not going to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  She vanished, then ducked her head back into the room. “I know things the cops would never have a clue how to find out. Good night, Addison.” Miss Smith blew him a kiss. “Sleep tight.”

  Richard stepped forward to look up, but she had already disappeared. “I was surprised,” he conceded, taking another swallow of brandy. “And now I need a cold shower.”

  Samantha gave Addison credit for one thing. He didn’t sound the alarm while she slipped out of his very nice house, over the side wall, and away from his very nice grounds.

  It had been a stupid idea. She’d only been in hiding for two days, and already she was taking foolish chances. Of course he had no reason to believe her, much less to want to help her—even if she had a damned good idea who had done the bombing. Not that she had any intention of ratting out Etienne to anyone—but she could damned well turn their attention away from her. Now, though, she’d given him a better look at her, informed him and thereby the police that she was still in the area, and proven that she could get through even their beefed-up security with enough ease that she could have carried an explosive with her on either occasion.

  And what had she gotten out of their little encounter? Sam pursed her lips. She’d already known he was good-looking, but based on their little exchange, his temperature ran to hot and very sexy. It was fortunate that flirting had been part of her plan tonight, because she wasn’t sure she could have stopped herself from doing it. It could have been pheromones or something, but in retrospect perhaps a partnership with a man she found that attractive wouldn’t have been the best of ideas.

  She hiked the rest of the humid mile to where she’d left her car and tossed her gear into the trunk. As she climbed behind the wheel, though, she paused again. He hadn’t sounded the alarm. So he did believe at least part of her story. It was something, she supposed, but not nearly the level of assistance she’d wanted.

  Blowing out her breath to try to rid herself of the last of the adrenaline-driven arousal he’d sparked, she started the Honda. Time for another plan. Sometime in the next day or two she would have to boost another car, and she hated doing that. Her father had once accused her of being squeamish, but he would have been more accurate to call her a snob. Any slob could boost a car. She craved the thrill of going somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be, and of touching…time.

  Ancient texts, paintings by the old Masters, vases of the Ming Dynasty, Roman coins, Trojan stone tablets—they fascinated her, and she’d been criticized for that, too, for learning everything she could about an object before she liberated it. Her father had seen them only as money, and himself as the banker, transferring funds from one account to another and taking a cut for his trouble.

  Damn. Since Etienne had been less than forthcoming, she’d meant to ask Addison whether the stone tablet had gone missing or been destroyed, not that he was likely to tell her in either case. It made a difference, though; in one case the bomb had been a distraction, and in the other it had been a murder weapon. One most likely meant to kill him. Yummy, desirable Richard Addison. The only billionaire she knew who went about barefoot and wore snug-fitting jeans and had a nice ass.

  Sam shook herself. “Stop it,” she muttered, turning up the radio. If nothing else, her level of distraction after one conversation told her she’d done the right thing in getting out of there. So what if he gave the police her description? They’d never find her. Now she just needed to wait a few days for the official net to get tired of watching for her and develop a few weak spots. One was all she needed.

  She worried about Stoney, but he’d survived working with her less-cautious father, and he could take care of himself. As for her, Milan would be nice this time of year, too crowded with tourists for anyone to notice her. What she would do later, when she wanted to return to the U.S. and couldn’t because she would still be wanted for murder and attempted murder, she didn’t want to think about.

  Deciding she hadn’t damned Etienne nearly enough, she did it a few more times. Of course he’d only been concerned with himself; she was the same way. But he’d been sloppy, and now she’d been stuck with cleaning up his mess.

  For tonight, she headed back inland toward Clewiston, where her father had one of his safe houses, now hers. It was a crappy little place, but definitely nondescript. No one would think a self-respecting cat burglar would go within a mile of it.

  The wounds in her shoulder and leg smarted. She needed to wipe them down again with alcohol and touch up the super glue where at least one of the cuts had begun to pull open. Tomorrow she would worry about tomorrow. And tonight she would wonder why it continued to bother her that someone might be trying to kill Richard Addison, the one witness to her involvement in any of this.

  Five

  Friday, 8:27 a.m.

  “Did Danté give you the damage report?” Richard asked, sitting back against the soft leather cushions of his limousine.

  Donner climbed in behind him. “Yeah, for the items he had confirmation on. He’s still fighting with insurance over the values of most of the damaged stuff. The appraiser had to go throw up once.”

  The car rolled down the long, winding drive and through the open gates, still manned by uniformed police. “This is the third day now. How much longer are they going to be here?”

  “Until they catch your bomber, would be my guess. It’s a little difficult for me to complain to the police that they’re protecting
you too well. Which reminds me, Castillo called this morning to protest that your exiting, and I quote, ‘the secured area of your home today, leaves you vulnerable to a second targeting by an assassin,’ unquote.”

  “So I’m warned. Don’t sue him if I get killed.” Richard rolled his shoulders. “And I’m just going to your offices to work for a few hours.” He glanced at Donner. “By the way, are you charging me for the drive to my house and then riding back with me? I told you I’d prefer to drive myself.”

  Tom grinned. “I’m on retainer, so I pretty much charge you for everything.”

  “In that case, I neglected to tell you something about last night.” Donner only looked at him, so Richard drew a breath. He could keep it to himself; he actually preferred to do that. On the other hand, if something happened to him, he wanted the murder solved. “I had a visitor. She dropped in to see me after you left.”

  “She who? You’re going to have to narrow it down a little before I can guess, Britain’s Hottest Bachelor.”

  “I told you never to mention that to me again.”

  The attorney snorted. “Sorry. Who dropped in?”

  “Miss Smith.”

  Tom opened his mouth, but no sound came out. “You—she—why the hell didn’t you say anything, Rick? Dammit!” He grabbed the cell phone clipped to his belt. “This—” and he jabbed a finger in Rick’s direction while he punched numbers with the other hand “—this is why you need private security.”

  “Hang up.”

  “No. You and your damned stiff British upper lip. She was in your house? Where? Did she threaten—”

  “I’m not being stoic. And I’m not happy.” Richard yanked the phone out of his attorney’s hand and snapped it closed. “I paid for this phone, for your house, and to put Chris into Yale,” he growled. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  Donner’s face reddened. “You—”