Flirting With Danger

by Suzanne Enoch

  After Addison shook Stoney’s hand, Sam followed suit, clutching her fence’s thick, agile fingers for a moment longer than she needed to. “Did you hear about Etienne?”

  “I heard. And until you called me, I thought you’d be the next corpse to wash up on the beach.” The emotion was buried deep in his voice, but she knew him well enough to hear it.

  “He called me right before the cops showed up at my house, and basically told me I was in some deep shit. Do you know who he was working for?” Mushy sentiment could wait for later.

  Stoney glanced at Addison. “I need a little bit of an explanation first, honey.”

  “Samantha and I have an agreement,” Addison put in. “She helps me figure out who tried to blow up my house and why, and I clear her of any breaking and entering—and murder—charges.”

  “She saved your life, you know.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I told her hanging around to drag you down the stairs couldn’t have been a good idea, and she’d probably get into more trouble for being nice; but Sam can’t even stand to squash a spider.”

  “Stoney, shut up,” she said brusquely. Great. Her deepest secrets exposed. “I’m guessing that Etienne’s client or the broker is the one who killed him. Do you have any idea who he was working for?”

  “Right. Okay. Somebody European. Etienne flew in from overseas. If he was working through a broker I’ll find out, but I don’t think he was. He hated sharing the finder’s fee.”

  Addison made a disgusted sound at Stoney’s choice of wording, but she barely spared him a glance. “And now for the Final Jeopardy question, Stoney. Who hired us?”

  “You don’t know?” Addison whispered, clasping her elbow.

  Taking a half step backward, Stoney cleared his throat. “I got the call through O’Hannon. As soon as this shit happened I phoned him, but he hung up on me. Now he’s not answering.”

  Sam glowered at her broker. Dammit. “You took a third-hand job? Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Because the money was great, and because you wouldn’t have taken it if I told you. I’ve known Sean O’Hannon for fifteen years.”

  “You’re right. I would never have worked for O’Hannon. Jesus. He’s scum, Stoney. Find out who he was brokering for.”

  The mountain nodded. “How do I get hold of you?”

  “Call me on my cell phone,” Addison said, writing the number on the back of his entrance ticket. “It’s not registered.”

  “That okay with you, Sam?”

  “It’s not okay, but it’s the safest way to do it. We need to figure this out, Stoney. The sooner the better.”

  Stoney looked at her for a moment. “Can I talk to you in private, Sam?”

  “No secrets,” Addison shot, his jaw clenching.

  “Let go,” she snapped, shrugging free of his grip on her elbow. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Samantha—”

  “Wait here.” Favoring him with a slow smile, she leaned closer. “Rick,” she purred.

  She and Stoney strolled a few yards down the path, walking among the fragrant roses. Addison sat on the vacated bench and looked mad enough to chew bricks, but he deserved at least a point or two for staying put.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Sam?” Stoney grunted, as soon as they were out of earshot.

  She didn’t have time to play dumb. “I assume you’re talking about the rich guy. It’s…necessary, at the moment.”

  He tilted his head at her. “Necessary to what? Your safety? Hon, two men are dead, both connected with that stone tablet and that house—and that guy.”

  “I know.”

  With a frown, Stoney took her hand again. “I don’t get it, but I trust you.”

  She squeezed his fingers. “Well, that’s nice to hear.”

  “This was bad from the start, and that’s my fault, but you know that sticking with him is asking for trouble.”

  “What do you know?” she returned. “Really?”

  “Something went to hell. O’Hannon was terrified when I called him, and I can’t think of a damned reason why Etienne would use something as sloppy as explosives without a reason.”

  “This whole thing bothers me. Keep some feelers out. That stone tablet went missing from the estate, so unless Etienne stashed it, somebody’s got it. If you hear of anybody offering or buying, let me know. You hear anything, let me know.”

  “And you’re going to stay with the rich guy until you solve his little mystery?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, well I see the way he’s looking at you, Sam. It’s not your best interest he’s thinking of. He’s a guy who gets what he wants, damn the consequences.”

  She wasn’t entirely certain about that, but then she was daydreaming of having sex with Addison. “I’ll watch out for myself, Stoney. I always do. Just do what you can.”

  “All right. Shit.”

  He turned away, but she caught his arm. “And be careful, okay?” she whispered. “You’re the only family I’ve got.”

  Stoney flashed a quick, concerned grin. “Boy, do I feel sorry for you.”

  She watched him out of sight, then returned to Addison. “Shall we finish the tour of the garden?”

  “I don’t like secrets, Samantha.” His face was set, and he made no move to rise from the bench.

  “You have a life other than this,” she returned hotly. “Well, so do I. I’ve known Stoney my entire life. He’s worried about me, all right?” Blowing a strand of hair out of her face, she offered her hand.

  Slowly Richard reached up and grasped her fingers. “To my surprise,” he said, standing, “I find that I worry about you, too.”

  Twelve

  Saturday, 6:15 p.m.

  Patience might have been a virtue, but it wasn’t something Richard had a lot of experience with, or fondness for. He wanted answers. Samantha had given up on the car stereo, and Haydn echoed softly from the speakers as they headed north. She hadn’t objected when he put the car’s top up, which Richard attributed to her state of distraction rather than her tiring of the tourist charade.

  Her fingers drummed against the door handle. “If I start telling you everything I think you need to know,” she said into the relative silence, “it’s not just my freedom and safety that’ll be in your hands, Rick.”

  Rick. She’d let him in, a little. “You’re here to help me solve this.”

  “Well, really I’m here so you’ll help me—but I’m trying to keep my end of the bargain.”

  “So what do you want, my word that nothing you say will go beyond me? I can’t do that, Samantha. In the first place, I don’t like the idea that everything I’ve earned and collected is up for grabs. In the sec—”

  “No,” she interrupted, sitting straighter. “I’m not in this car with you because of a theft. I’m here because of a bomb.” Her lips twisted as she weighed her next words. “I’ll make you a deal. Use whatever information you want that has to do with Etienne DeVore. Anything else I tell you or that you might figure out, use it to protect your own things, but you can’t tell the police about it.”

  “No deals.”

  “Then stop the car and let me out.”

  “No.”

  She hit the button to unroll the window. “Fine. I’ll jump.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He rolled her window up again and locked the control.

  Glaring at him, she unfastened her seat belt and reached back to unlock her door. “I can’t make you a better deal. If you don’t like it, then we part company. Now.”

  The idea of killing someone to gain an object offended her; he had sensed that almost from their first meeting. He supposed that would have to be guarantee enough for now. The fact that he wanted sex with her figured into the decision as well, of course, as did the way he had a difficult time believing her flirtations were purely mercenary—any more than his were.

  “Fasten your bloody seat belt.”

  �
�Is that a yes?”

  “Yes. Subject to further discussion.”

  Samantha nodded, buckling in again. “This is complicated.”

  She had no idea. “I like complicated. Now, shall we stop at Rooney’s Pub for dinner, or shall I phone Hans and have him throw something Italian together for us?”

  “You do that a lot,” she commented.

  “Do what?”

  “Give choices so a person feels like they’re making the decisions, but the whole thing’s really under your control.”

  Richard smiled. “Irish, or Italian?”

  “Isn’t Rooney’s a little off the path for James ‘Diamonds up the Wazoo’ Bond?”

  “I’m not James Bond, ouch, and quit stalling.”

  “Irish, then.”

  And that made sense, too. A public place, where the personal discussions couldn’t get too personal. Best start before they reached the pub, then. “Speaking of Irish, tell me about this O’Hannon who hired Walter Bradstone to hire you.”

  “He’s scum.”

  “So you said. What else? And be blunt, if you can.”

  She shot him her quicksilver grin. “Smart ass. He’s based in London. Never leaves, in fact, because he’s afraid to fly, afraid of water, and afraid of small spaces.” Samantha shifted, curling one leg underneath her so she half faced him. “I don’t like working with him because he’s always squeezing or undercutting his procurer.”

  “How so?”

  “He’ll tell you he has a buyer for an item at fifty or a hundred thousand below market, but it’s an easy job, yadda yadda yadda. So you take it, then find out his buyer’s willing to go fifty or a hundred above market.”

  “Which would go straight to him, with no percentage to his procurer.”

  “Yes.”

  Keeping his gaze on the darkening highway, Richard gripped the wheel a little harder. “If he had an especially good deal going, but there was likely to be a lot of publicity from it, would he set somebody up to take the blame—especially somebody he didn’t work with a lot, or somebody who maybe spoke her mind and told him he was scum?”

  When she didn’t answer, he looked over at her. Her mouth set into a grim line, she stared at him, green eyes going hazel in the dusk. “You think that bomb wasn’t for you.”

  “Would he do that, Samantha?” he pressed.

  “Jesus.” She ran her hand through her hair, yanking out the rubber band so that soft, disheveled waves of auburn fell to her shoulders. “He might. That would explain some things. Dammit. God fucking dammit!”

  Cursing under his own breath, Richard pulled the SLK to the side of the highway before she could start punching things. With the car still rolling she jumped out, striding forward and back with hands stiff and fisted at her sides. He joined her outside but leaned his backside against the car and let her fume.

  The idea that she might have been the target had occurred to him the evening she had jumped through his skylight. He had had no motive then, only a feeling about it. Since then he’d discovered a warning from a now-dead thief of exceptional skill, a job arranged through someone Samantha didn’t trust, and a missing stone tablet—but not much else. And the police had even less.

  “Why would he set you up?” he asked.

  “Money. He doesn’t respond to much else, and he doesn’t care about anything else.”

  He watched her pace past him and back again. “Tell me what you think of this scenario,” he said, glancing at his watch. It would be dark soon, and if she was a target, he didn’t want her exposed on the side of the road like this. “O’Hannon sent DeVore in to steal the tablet, and sent you in as a convenient scapegoat. Whoops, you were killed by your own bomb, which you set as a distraction to help you get off the estate. And then because he’s scum, O’Hannon kills DeVore so he doesn’t have to split the profits.”

  “It might work, except for two things. One, O’Hannon’s a coward, and I’m not sure he would have the guts to kill any…”

  She trailed off as a black BMW approached along the highway, changing into the closer, outside lane and slowing as it drew even with them. Richard took a step toward the passenger door and the Glock he’d shoved back into the glove box after Samantha’s protest. In the middle of the other traffic the car didn’t stop, though, and accelerated as it passed them. Great. Good Samaritans, cops, and assassins, beware.

  Samantha kept her gaze on the BMW, too. “And two, if I’d been killed, the police would expect that I would have had the tablet on me. The tablet’s missing, so somebody else would have to be involved. And if that person was Etienne, who took the tablet from him? O’Hannon wouldn’t be here himself. He would have had to hire someone, and all this would definitely be cutting into his profits.”

  “Maybe O’Hannon was hoping we’d all figure the stone had been destroyed in the explosion, along with you.”

  “Maybe. I just can’t figure why he’d want Etienne dead, if he even hired him in the first place. Guys who kill their procurers don’t last long in this business.” As she reasoned it out, she calmed down, her hands slowly relaxing and her striding slowing to pacing. “I need to think it through,” she muttered, coming to a stop in front of him.

  “Let’s think over a plate of shepherd’s pie,” he said, pulling the passenger door open for her. “Come on.”

  Close as they were to Palm Beach, traffic on the highway was fairly heavy. No one else slowed to take a look at them, though, and they merged back onto the road without any trouble. Richard was more concerned over Samantha Jellicoe than the traffic. Unsavory as he considered her line of work, if someone was trying to kill her because of it—or for any reason—he intended to do something to prevent it. He wasn’t even certain when he’d made that decision, or when he’d become her bodyguard—just that he had.

  Fifteen minutes later he pulled onto Clematis Street and turned into the parking lot at Rooney’s. The pub looked crowded, as it generally was, with the sound of Irish music drifting out over the street. Despite the lack of privacy he liked it; pieces of authentic-feeling Britain weren’t that easy to find in Florida.

  “Ah, Mr. Addison,” the hostess greeted him with a broad smile. “Two tonight?”

  “Thank you, Annie. In the back, if you can.”

  “Of course we can.”

  He motioned Samantha to follow Annie toward the rear of the pub. When he was in town they always held a table in reserve away from the crowded bar, solely in deference to his preference for quiet and privacy. Samantha took the seat facing the front door, which didn’t surprise him, and he shifted his own chair around the side of the table so they were at right angles, and he could see the billiards room entry over her shoulder. James Bond or not, he was beginning to feel like a bloody secret agent.

  He ordered a pint of Guinness for each of them, then scooted closer to Samantha as the waitress left. “This is unusual for you, I take it?” he murmured. “The bomb, not the pub.”

  “I just can’t believe Etienne would…” She swallowed. “But I don’t think he knew I’d be there. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so pissed off when he called.”

  “I can’t believe O’Hannon would be willing simply to use your death as a convenience.”

  “That’s still supposition. I would guess there’s more going on than convenience.”

  “Then tell me what it might be.”

  Samantha paused in her study of the room to look at him. A slight smile touched her lips. “You sound angry.”

  “I am angry.” He took the hand she rested on the table and curled his fingers around her palm.

  She jumped a little, but didn’t pull her hand away. “This changes everything, you know,” she said. “If you’re not in danger, you have no reason to help me out.” Samantha took a breath. “In fact, it would be stupid of you to stay involved with this.”

  “I’m still missing a Trojan stone tablet,” he said in a low voice. “And once you slept under my roof, you fell under my protection, too.”


  “Being the feudal lord again, are you? The Earl of Palm Beach?”

  His lips curved. “Like you said, no one deserves to die over an object. And I’m going to make bloody certain it doesn’t happen to you.”

  “That’s pretty arrogant, your lordship.” Even so, her fingers tightened around his. “And I appreciate it.”

  “You saved my life, Samantha. Turnabout is fair play.”

  A waitress came up with two pints, and Sam occupied herself taking a long drink. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. When the police had arrested her father in the middle of an “easy” grab of a miniature Grecian frieze, she’d been devastated. A thousand scenarios, a thousand different plans to break him out or escape the country or commit another crime to make it look like her father was innocent, nothing had even come close to fruition. Even making stupid, useless plans had felt better than blind panic at the idea that she was alone.

  Eventually she’d gotten used to the idea of not being able to see him, of not being able to attend the trial, and of not being able to visit him in prison. When he’d died just over two years ago, she’d been relieved. After that she didn’t have to plan every move with a thought toward what she would do if he suddenly appeared on her doorstep, and she didn’t have to feel guilty about being free while he was locked in a small room for the rest of his life.

  Every job she did had a certain risk built into it. But no one had gone out of their way to try to kill her before, and certainly no one had tried to use her as a convenient scapegoat corpse. Rick’s scenario was a stretch, but it made a degree of sense that nothing else had so far.

  Addison ordered two shepherd’s pies while she downed her pint and requested another. Even after a night’s sleep and stitches she felt battered and bruised, inside and out. Learning from Stoney about O’Hannon’s involvement made a few more puzzle pieces fit, and angry as Addison’s theory left her, she’d go with it for the moment, too. She needed to sound some of her own theories out, and she wanted to do it with the man sitting beside her and sipping his own pint with much more reserve than she showed.