Flirting With Danger

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Give me a little bloody credit, Tom. She’s not the one who tried to kill me. And telling Castillo she came visiting won’t do anyone any good.”

  “It won’t do her any good, which anywhere but here would be the idea.” Tom hurled the water bottle he’d snagged against the opposite seat. “Dammit! And all supposition aside, how do you know she didn’t do it?”

  “She told me so.” Goading his attorney only seemed fair, considering how annoyed he was. This was his problem, and he would decide how it was handled.

  “Shit. Give me the phone, Addison. Fire me if you want, but you are not going to get killed on my watch.”

  “Very dramatic, but it’s not your watch. It’s mine. It’s always been mine. Now just calm down and listen, or I won’t bother telling you anything.”

  After he spat out a few more curses Tom sat back and folded his arms, his color and temper still high. “I’m listening.”

  “I was unconscious for at least five minutes after the bomb went off. Instead of leaving me there or finishing me off, she dragged me downstairs, risking discovery, before she got out. Last night when she dropped in through my skylight she reminded me of that fact, then recited the tale end of the conversation you and I had in my office, to prove that she could have taken me out then, as well. She confessed to having been after the tablet—unsuccessfully, by the way—and actually…asked for my assistance in making certain the police knew she hadn’t had anything to do with the explosives.”

  “And you said?”

  “I said no.” And that, he had realized in the middle of his cold shower, had bothered him. Not because the sight of her practically gave him a hard-on, but because he’d wanted to handle this himself, and she’d tried to give him the opportunity. But it hadn’t been on his bloody terms, so he’d turned her down. “After that, she warned me to be cautious and wished me good luck, since whoever had planted the bomb was at least as proficient as she was at breaking and entering, and she’d managed to get in again.”

  “And that’s all.”

  “Well, in a roundabout way she offered to help me find out who planted the bomb if I would help clear her of murder charges.” She’d also said a few other things, of course, but he intended to keep those to himself. He leaned down to pick up the water bottle as it rolled back to them and returned it to Donner. “In retrospect, I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have taken her up on it.”

  Tom continued to glare at him, but the more he considered it, the more he regretted letting her slip back into the night. Beneath her cool facade she’d been worried, and for some unknown reason he found he could sympathize. And he doubted she would have offered assistance if she couldn’t provide any. She didn’t seem to work that way.

  In a sense her world was very similar to his, though his opponents wore suits and for the most part swam through the shallows in broad daylight. If their circumstances had been reversed, he would have done exactly as she had—gone to the person with the most power to see whether he could influence the course of events. If Julia Poole or any of the other actresses and models he’d dated had found herself in this kind of trouble, she would have fluttered her eyelashes and thrown herself on his mercy, expecting him to clean things up. Not Miss Smith, however. She proposed a trade. Apparently she hated relinquishing control as much as he did.

  “You really are considering it, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a businessman, Tom. I trust my judgment in evaluating people and situations because I’ve been successful at it. Yes, I really am considering it.”

  “And if you hypothetically did decide to team up with Miss Smith, how would you hypothetically go about contacting her?”

  “So you can tell Castillo? I don’t think so, my dear fellow.”

  “Stop acting so British.”

  Richard lifted an eyebrow. “As you’ve repeatedly pointed out over the past few days, I am British.”

  “You’re my friend. If you’re jumping out of the airplane, I’m right behind you—but I’m carrying the spare parachute. You keep me in the loop, and it’ll stay between us. Unless it puts your life at risk.”

  “Life is a risk.” Tapping his fingers on the armrest, Richard spent a few moments gazing out the window. With jolting abruptness palm trees and beach gave way to buildings and traffic lights. “So how do we get hold of someone the police can’t find?”

  “I don’t know why the hell you feel the need to risk that thick, billion-dollar skull of yours.” Still shaking his head, Donner opened the water bottle, took a swallow, and scowled at it as if he wished it were bourbon.

  Ben in the driver’s seat buzzed the intercom speaker. “Mr. Addison, more cameras coming up. Should I use the parking structure?”

  Ahead of them on the right stood the gleaming tower that housed the law firm of Donner, Rhodes and Critchenson on its top three floors. Ranged in front of the lobby’s brass-and-glass revolving doors, a dozen reporters and camera crews sprang to attention like a pride of lions scenting gazelle. Thinking fast, Richard returned the cell phone to Donner. “No, stop at the curb.”

  Chauffeur and attorney gave him the same look.

  “Yes, I’m certain,” Rick said, straightening his tie. “Tom, pretend you’re on the phone, then hand it to me as soon as I stop to talk to the vultures. Make certain they’ve got the microphones aimed in my direction, first.”

  “All right. You’re the boss.”

  Richard flashed him a grin. “Yes, I am.”

  Ben pulled over and sprang out of his seat, hurrying around to open the rearmost passenger door. Tom emerged first, mostly because Richard shoved him. God, he hated the press. Aside from their constant, annoying, biting-midge presence, two years ago they’d bloodied an already painful divorce and sent in hyenas to scavenge the remains. Well today they could work for him.

  “Mr. Addison—Rick—can you give us an update on your injuries?”

  “Was this a murder attempt or a robbery?”

  “What was taken from your home?”

  “Is your ex-wife considered a suspect?”

  Richard took the phone Tom practically hurled at him as they waded through the cacophony of shouts. “Just a moment,” he said, and lifted the phone to his ear. “Miss…Jones?” he began. “Yes, four o’clock is fine. I’ll have Tom prepare the paperwork. Thanks for the help—I can use it. I’ll see you then.” He clicked the phone closed and handed it back while the shouts increased in volume around him. “I’m not at liberty to discuss precisely what was removed from my home,” he continued in a louder voice, “though several antique Meissen porcelain pieces were broken in the explosion. They were personal favorites, and I do regret their loss.”

  He couldn’t say more without alerting Castillo and the FBI, but Miss Smith seemed exceptionally bright, and he would wager that she knew precisely which art objects he owned and where he housed them. Now he’d have to wait and see whether he was correct.

  “But can you confirm or deny that Patricia Addison-Wallis is—”

  “Excuse me, I have a meeting,” he interrupted, working to keep his jaw from clenching. Hearing the Addison and Wallis names strung together like that continued to leave him with the desire to punch someone. One of the few things the court had granted Patricia, though, was continued use of the name of which she’d availed herself for three years.

  The silence of the lobby opened around him with cool, air-conditioned fingers, blissful after the humidity that had come with the sunrise and the tight, barking overlay of voice-coached news personalities. He couldn’t help brushing off his sleeves and checking his collar for hidden microphones as he waited for Donner to catch up to him.

  “Jesus,” Tom said as he pushed past security and the rotating door. “I think I left an arm out there.”

  “What did you get from my blathering?” Richard asked, his voice echoing faintly as he continued toward the brass-plated elevator doors at the far end of the high-ceilinged lobby.

  “I got the Jones/Smith bit, which was
pretty obvious, and the four o’clock meeting. You lost me with the missing porcelain reference, though.”

  “Not ‘missing.’ Meissen. Meissen antique porcelain figures are quite the rage for some collectors. And the shop housing the largest collection in the world happens to be right here, on Worth Avenue.”

  “Ah. I hope your Miss Smith is smarter than I am, then.”

  Richard shrugged. “If not, I’ll be buying a Meissen at four o’clock today for no good reason.”

  “This piece then, Mr. Addison?” the very helpful store clerk suggested, managing to turn, point, and show off her cleavage all at the same time. “From your description, this may be more to your liking.”

  Richard glanced toward the door, as he had every minute for the past twelve. They’d played his little clue on the news at least a dozen times since this morning; if Miss Smith was anywhere near a television, she would have seen it. If she’d seen it, she would understand the message he’d sent. And she would appear, as he’d requested. He drew in a breath and returned his attention to the ornate, brightly-colored pair of wall sconces, circa 1870. “Nothing wall-mounted, please. I want something for a table display.”

  “Of course, sir. This way, then. We’ve just purchased several lovely eighteenth-century pieces from an estate in Strasbourg.”

  With another glance toward the entrance, he followed. She was late. He wasn’t used to twiddling his thumbs, and he didn’t like it. When he set an appointment with someone, he expected them to arrive on time, or better yet, early. His time was valuable.

  The store clerk had certainly recognized this. The “by appointment only” script on the door hadn’t stopped either of them from engaging in business. It hadn’t stopped her from writing her personal phone number on the back of her business card, and it wouldn’t stop her from slipping the card into his bag if he should make a purchase.

  Tom stayed a few steps behind, ignoring the delicate porcelains and instead concentrating his attention on the clerks and other clients. Bodyguard seemed an odd job for an attorney of Donner’s reputation and prestige, but Richard had learned the value and rarity of true friendship. If dogging his heels this afternoon gave Tom some feeling of control, Richard had no problem with it—as long as the attorney didn’t interfere.

  “How much do these things run?” Donner asked, relaxing enough to eye a small vase.

  “Mostly in the middle five figures, I believe.”

  “You believe? You know the price of everything, Rick.”

  “I told you I don’t collect it.”

  “But—”

  “That’s why I chose Meissen, because Miss Smith would know I didn’t have any of it in the gallery.”

  “You have a lot of art and antiques, Rick. How’s she supposed to know that these are the one thing you don’t collect?”

  While the clerk eyed him hopefully, Richard pretended interest in a pastoral figurine featuring a girl with a goat. “That’s not the point, and they’re not the one thing I don’t collect. Some people, I believe, have a great interest in G.I. Joe action figures, for example. I don’t collect those, either.”

  “The older ones were better anyway, when they had real hair.”

  Rick froze, electricity shooting from the back of his scalp to his crotch. He turned his head to see the young woman perusing a pink candy tray decorated with a swan. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her. This afternoon she fit Worth Avenue to perfection, in a short cotton dress of blue and yellow which showed off long, tanned legs, yellow-heeled sandals, and over her arm a white purse that didn’t need the large “G” branding the flap to declare its origin.

  The attentive clerk hovering just behind her only added to the aura of wealthy Palm Beach resident. For a moment he wondered whether she was one of the idle wealthy, stealing for thrills, but quickly dismissed the idea. Her expression was too alive, her eyes too inquisitive to allow anyone to dump her into the herd of the isolated, insulated rich.

  “How do you do that?” he asked in an equally soft voice.

  “The Joes? Oh, you see them at your lower-range antique shops all the time, not that I shop at those places.” Still not looking at him, she moved on to the next piece.

  Richard kept pace with her on the opposite side of the display table. Straight auburn hair, not a one-tone red or brown, but a dusky bronze beneath the shop lights, parted across her shoulders. And he felt it again, the electric pull between them. He wondered whether she did. “I meant your ability simply to appear, actually.”

  Her lips curved upward. “I know what you meant. You summoned me, so what is it?” Her gaze lifted, went past his shoulder. “And keep him away from me.”

  “Tom, go look at something,” he instructed, feeling Donner crowding up behind him.

  “I am looking at something. Miss Smith, I presume.”

  “Tom Donner, attorney-at-law. I don’t like attorneys.”

  “And I don’t like murderers or thieves.”

  “Tom, back off,” Richard instructed, glancing at the expensive and delicate porcelain around them. “I asked her to meet us here.”

  “Yeah, and—”

  “Yes, you did,” she interrupted, her gaze returning to him, as if she’d evaluated Tom and dismissed him. “And why was that, again?”

  “I changed my mind,” he said, moving around the edge of the display to get closer to her.

  For the first time, she looked surprised. “Why?”

  “Do I need to explain my reasoning?”

  “Yes, I think you do.”

  His clerk, probably sensing the drifting of his interest, approached again, and Miss Smith wandered off with her own keeper to the next display. Cursing under his breath and wishing she could be obtained as simply as a Meissen porcelain, Richard pointed at the nearest item, a cream pot on a small pedestal. “I’d like this one, if you’d box it up for me.” Want, acquire, possess. That was how he did business.

  “Of course, Mr. Addison.”

  “I thought the goat and the shepherdess looked better on you.”

  Richard pretended to ignore Miss Smith’s soft commentary. “Tom, see to it.”

  “Like h—”

  “I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll tell you everything we discuss,” he lied. “Give me five bloody minutes to talk to her, will you?”

  “After looking at her,” Donner murmured, “I can see why you’re interested, but make sure you’re thinking with the right body part.”

  “You are not my keeper.” Richard stepped closer to her as she ran a finger over one of the more recent pieces. “You made a good point last night,” he said in a low voice, wondering if she’d managed to stuff any of the smaller figurines into her Gucci bag. Want, acquire, possess. They weren’t that different, and the idea made him hard. He brushed her arm with the back of his hand. “About your not being the one who tried to blow me up,” he continued quietly, “and about your point of view probably being more helpful than a detective’s.”

  She seemed to think about that for a moment. “So you’ll make sure I don’t get accused of murder.”

  “I’ll do my utmost.”

  “And you’ll make phone calls and whatever else necessary to get me out of this shit?”

  “Whatever else necessary,” he agreed.

  “And you won’t turn me in for theft.”

  “You didn’t actually steal anything from me.” He studied her face as her lips twitched. “Did you?”

  “Not if you haven’t noticed.”

  Her rather macabre sense of humor again, even if he wasn’t particularly amused. They were asking a lot of one another, and since she’d attended his meeting, he supposed the next step belonged to him. “You need to trust me,” he offered, “and I need to be able to trust you. When this is over, nothing additional will be missing from my home. Is that clear, Miss Smith?”

  For the first time that afternoon, she looked him full in the face, her green eyes telling him just how much this visit had cost her already as she a
ssessed both him and his words. “Samantha,” she said in a near whisper. “Sam. You get my last name after I decide I can trust you.”

  Richard offered his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Samantha.”

  With a deep breath she reached out and shook his hand. Heat speared down his spine at the contact. Whatever this partnership was going to be, it wasn’t simple.

  Six

  Friday, 4:33 p.m.

  “I am not climbing into that car with you.” As they stood outside the Meissen shop’s front door, Samantha realized that she’d been wrong to think she’d find Addison less attractive in daylight and with witnesses.

  “It’s a limousine,” Addison corrected, “and I’m not trying to kidnap you.”

  “I’d prefer to meet you back at your estate after dark.” That made more sense as far as she was concerned. She’d have her own way in and out, and a little control over how deeply she became involved in this. “I know the way in.”

  “You’re not breaking into my house again. And I can’t quite see you walking past the police posted at the front gate.”

  “I’d like to see that,” Donner countered.

  She smirked at him, not having to feign irritation as they continued to argue on Worth Avenue. Strong as the instinct to get out of the open pulled at her, she wasn’t about to compromise her standards. And considering that the male heat coming off of Addison was making her mouth dry, she definitely needed to keep a little distance—and perspective. Obviously she wasn’t the only hunter in the mix any longer. “All my worldly possessions are about two blocks from here. I’m not leaving them behind.”

  Addison started to say something, then closed his mouth again. “All your possessions?” he repeated after a moment, and she sensed that she’d surprised him. Probably the idea of someone even being able to tally all their possessions, much less tote them about, stumped him.

  “I’m afraid so.” It wasn’t quite true, since she had the storage unit rented outside of Miami, a safe house here and there, and a nice-sized bank account in Switzerland, but that wasn’t any of his business. Everything she needed to exist from day to day was in the trunk of the Honda.