Flirting With Danger

by Suzanne Enoch

  “You said DeVore wouldn’t have a problem with killing someone,” he said, nodding at the couple who strolled past, both of them staring at him with undisguised curiosity, “but you didn’t think he would hurt you.”

  “I don’t. Assuming that he either didn’t know who he was after or that someone lied to him about it makes this much more complicated, though. If it wasn’t meant for me, then I would want to know if someone’s put a hit out on you. That makes more sense, anyway.”

  “And why is that?”

  Their pies arrived, and she inhaled the scent of hot vegetables, potatoes, and veal. Once they were alone again, she cut through the mashed potato crust and steam rose from the bowl. “I’m not worth the trouble, frankly,” she said.

  “Allow me to disagree.” His jaw was still clenched; his eyes had been fairly glinting with suppressed anger and tension most of the way back from Butterfly World.

  “Disagree all you want, but it’s true. Money-wise, it doesn’t make sense. Not even for the tablet. Ten percent is a good share of a grab, and I can’t imagine Etienne committing a theft and a murder for 150,000 dollars.”

  “So O’Hannon or someone paid him more than that.”

  “Why? There has to be a profit in it for everyone involved.” She scowled. “I’m not even sure Etienne would do any job for change like that. I only took it because I was bored. My cut—unless they didn’t pay because I was dead—would be ten percent, plus something to whoever capped Etienne. There has to be more money in it somewhere, if it involved killing.”

  “Unless this is personal.”

  “Against me?”

  He shrugged. “Done anything especially nefarious, lately?”

  “Not that I recall. How about you?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Are—were—you still on good terms with DeVore?”

  “We were okay. I hadn’t even seen him in almost a year.” Sam concentrated on her shepherd’s pie, savoring the tender, lightly spiced flavor and washing it down with the Guinness. No wonder Addison liked to eat here. “I’ve actually been…quiet, lately.”

  Gray eyes snapped up to hers. “How so?”

  Jesus, he never let anything go by without comment. “Crikey,” she said in an exaggeration of his soft British accent, trying to cover an uncomfortable surge of self-consciousness. She was so unused to talking about herself. “It’s nothing. The Norton Museum received an endowment last fall, and all kinds of works have been coming in. I’ve been helping with the cleaning and cataloging.”

  “Your legitimate job,” he said softly, a slow smile touching his mouth again.

  “Drop it, Brit.”

  “Fine. Eat your pie. And save room for a slice of Ultimate Chocolate Cake, Yank.”

  Bright light flashed in her eyes, and she jumped, instinctively throwing an arm in front of Rick. He moved nearly as fast, grabbing her and keeping her in her chair.

  “Easy,” he whispered, his gaze on a man standing a few feet away, a camera in his hands. “The press.”

  “Shit.”

  “Happy?” he said in a louder voice. “You’ve got your photo, so please leave my friend and me to finish our meal in peace.”

  The photographer grinned, a leer that made her want to kick in his teeth. “Does your ‘friend’ have a name, Mr. Addison?”

  Rick’s grip on her shoulder tightened. “If we don’t tell him, they’ll make a very large deal out of it,” he murmured in her ear, making the motion look like a caress.

  The camera flashed again. “No. Please,” she returned. “I hate…”

  “Samantha Jellicoe has a legitimate reason to be seen with me,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Trust me a little.”

  Every nerve screamed for her to run and hide, and at the same time she knew he was right. She blew out a shaky breath. “Sam Jellicoe,” she grated with what she hoped was a professional-looking smile.

  “That’s ‘o’ ‘e,’” Addison added helpfully.

  “And your relationship?”

  “I’m his artworks security cons—”

  “We’re dating,” Addison said over her explanation.

  “You sh—”

  “And I am consulting with her regarding security,” he continued smoothly. “Anything else?”

  “Address would be nice.”

  “If you’re trying to goad me into threatening you, you’re very nearly there. I’ll need your business card. Now.”

  Jovial Richard Addison was gone, replaced by the hard-assed businessman she’d heard about and read about online. Sam wasn’t the least bit surprised when the reporter lowered his camera and dug into a pocket for his card, which he handed over without further comment.

  “Thank you, Mr…. Madeiro,” Addison continued. “I’ll expect the Post to report this information in an accurate and respectful manner. Good evening.”

  “Good…evening.”

  As soon as the reporter’s back was turned, Sam jammed Addison in the ribs with her elbow. With a grunt he doubled over. “Don’t ever do that again,” she hissed, shoving her chair back and standing.

  Twisting, he grabbed her arm and yanked her back hard into her seat. “Leave the damned introductions to me,” he growled back, refusing to release his grip even when she pushed at him again.

  “What’s your damage?”

  “I wanted to keep your involvement in our little investigation quiet,” he retorted, bracing his free arm against his rib cage. “Whoever paid DeVore to set that explosive might not know any more than the thief who escaped was female. I date on occasion, Sam, and I don’t use personal security. Now you stand out as both security and an art expert.”

  She snapped her jaw closed. Fuck. Addison let her go, and she sat where she was, trying to get her breathing back to normal and searching for words she very seldom—never—used. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I screwed up.”

  “It happens,” he grunted back. “We’ll have to be more careful with you now. That’s all.”

  “I didn’t pound you that hard.” Sam reached over and touched his rib cage. “Are you all right?”

  “I acquired some bruised ribs the other night when a very nice young lady tackled me and saved my life.”

  “Oh, God. I’m really sorry, Rick. I just—”

  “You didn’t like that I said something personal about you. I get it. The whole kissing-newlywed-hand-holding thing was just for show.”

  The fact that he was wrong didn’t make her feel the least bit better. It wasn’t like her to react so violently to a little subterfuge; hell, she lived by subterfuge. “Stoney was right,” she muttered, downing the rest of her drink. “I am going insane.”

  He made her sit with him through dessert, and considering that it was chocolate and heavenly, she didn’t object overly much. As they returned to the car, though, she put a hand on his arm. If someone was out to kill her, she didn’t want her equipment sitting around being useless ten miles from where she was staying. “Okay,” she ventured, “since this partnership thing seems to be going all right so far, can I take you up on your offer to move my car into Harvard’s parking garage?”

  “Certainly.” If he was surprised, he kept it to himself, facing half away from her as he keyed the remote to unlock the Mercedes. “Where to?”

  She gave him the directions, and fifteen minutes later they pulled up beside her nondescript blue Honda. “Okay, you want to lead me to the garage?” she asked, climbing out of the SLK.

  Under the streetlights he studied her face for a moment. “You’re not bolting anywhere?”

  She shook her head, wishing she had the guts either to grab him or flee into the night. “You’re still my safest bet.”

  With a slight scowl Rick waited while she started the Honda and eased back into the street. Under any other occasion the caution with which he drove, making sure they were never separated at a light or even by another car, would have been amusing, but she was still too busy mulling over whether anyone might want her dead to be anyt
hing but appreciative.

  The night attendant waved Addison through without blinking, and whatever Rick said to him, it got her into the parking garage without so much as a word. She picked a spot close to the exit but out of sight of the street, parked, and got out. “Is there room for my gear in your trunk?” she asked, leaning into the SLK’s window.

  “That depends. Do you tote ladders and grappling hooks?”

  “I keep those in my purse.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  He pushed a button and opened the trunk while she went around to the back of the Honda and did the same. Nothing had been disturbed, thank God, and she hefted her knapsack into Rick’s car as he emerged, following it with a duffel bag and a hard-sided case where she kept the most delicate equipment. Shoving his trunk closed, she leaned back on it. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. But I do have a question,” Addison said, as she climbed back into the SLK beside him and headed back to his estate.

  Feeling a little more relaxed now that she and her things had been reunited, Sam sank into the leather seat. “Shoot.”

  “Do you ever steal from the museum where you’re working?”

  So much for small talk. “Would you have divorced your wife if you hadn’t caught her with Sir What’s-His-Name?”

  “Peter Emerson Wallis,” he said in a stiffer voice. “In England we’d call this conversation tit for tat. Is that what we’re playing?”

  “Yes,” she decided, gauging his dislike for discussing his ex. “You answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

  “That’s a deal. And the answer is yes, probably.”

  That was unexpected. “Why?”

  “First you answer my question, love.”

  Sam drew a breath. The issue of how much he needed to know and how much she wanted to tell him was becoming more complicated with every second. “No, I don’t steal from the museum where I’m working. Your turn.”

  He shrugged. “I imagine it would have taken a little longer than three years, but…she didn’t like my lifestyle.”

  “Women throwing themselves at you and mentally undressing you every time you stepped out of doors?”

  “That, and my being occupied with business most of the time.” He turned onto the main highway. “Your turn. Why don’t you steal from your museum?”

  “I don’t steal from any museum.” She frowned into the darkness, seeing the faint reflection of her face in the window. “It’s just stupid. The things there are…where they should be. No one person gets to hold history.”

  “That’s not stupid. It’s interesting.”

  Her father had thought it was stupid. It was his persistence in hitting museums and galleries, though, that had finally gotten him caught, then convicted. Angering one collector was different than angering a country when you made off with a national treasure.

  She shook herself out of her reverie. “Were you friends with Sir Peter Wallis? Before, I mean?”

  “Yes. We went to Cambridge together. We even roomed together for a year.”

  “Good friends.”

  “For a time. He was extremely competitive, though, and it got a bit tiresome. Cars, business deals, women.”

  “He won, then.”

  Addison glanced at her. “Because he took Patricia from me, you mean? I suppose so. He…fooled me with his claims of friendship. And that actually made me more angry than his theft of my wife.”

  “You don’t get fooled often.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “If you were so mad, though, why did you let them keep one of your houses in London?”

  “You know a lot about me, don’t you?”

  She favored him with a short smile. “You’re all over the Internet.”

  “Smashing. I let them keep the house in London because it shortened the divorce proceedings, and because it seemed…fair, not that I was overjoyed to do it. I knew she hadn’t been happy in our marriage, and I didn’t do much to amend that situation.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was so I could have the final word.”

  Just when Samantha was congratulating herself on getting a handful of answers out of him for the price of just one question, he slowed and turned into his drive between the two bored policemen. This time they barely glanced at the two of them before opening the gate.

  “They’re getting complacent,” she commented, stretching as they crossed through the palm grove and stopped in front of the house. “Your crappy security just lost about half its effectiveness.”

  They climbed out of the car, and Rick caught her arm as they reached the front door. “You owe me an answer,” he murmured, turning her to face him.

  She managed a smirk. “I thought I got that one by you. All right, what’s the question?”

  Addison gazed at her for a moment. Reaching out, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, then leaned in and kissed her. Soft and warm and lingering, it sent heat down to her toes and everywhere in between. His tongue glided along her teeth, and without even thinking she opened her mouth to him. She went wet. Just when she thought she would melt into him, he backed off an inch or two.

  “What’s your answer, Samantha?” he whispered against her mouth.

  Thirteen

  Saturday, 9:21 p.m.

  Mouths locked in an embrace, Rick gave way as Sam towed him up the front steps. As she dug into his pants pocket for the front door key, her fingers brushed his straining cock through the denim, making him jump. Jesus. With a grin she pulled his face down again, kissing him hot and openmouthed while she fumbled the key into the lock and turned the doorknob.

  They stumbled into the foyer. Rick closed the door and pressed Samantha back against the heavy English oak, cupping her face as he kissed her. Their tongues teased and met in a swirl of heat and mutual lust—need—that had him near to reeling. God, when she made a decision, she didn’t hold back.

  He wanted her right there on the marble floor, on the couch in the nearest sitting room, on the staircase. Only the knowledge that several security guards wandered the estate at all hours kept him from sprawling onto the floor with her. As he ran his hands down her spine, pulling her against his hips, he dimly recalled that he hadn’t felt this way in a long time. Sex was fun; it wasn’t an all-consuming need for possession. Until tonight. Until Samantha Jellicoe.

  “Rick,” she moaned, yanking the open shirt down his arms, throwing it over the fake Ming vase, then pulling the black T-shirt from his jeans.

  “Upstairs,” he said, using every ounce of hard-won willpower to push away from her again. Before she could argue he grabbed her hand and towed her toward the stairs.

  If she’d said no, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. He’d been hard and aching for her since they’d climbed into the car that morning. Separating the woman from the job had been driving him insane. It made no sense that he could want her and disapprove of what she did, all at the same time. That was why he kept looking for loopholes. She liked working in museums, and she didn’t steal from them. There was no reason she couldn’t give up one part of her life and continue with another when she so obviously enjoyed it.

  At the top of the stairs the need to taste her again overwhelmed him. Stopping at the landing, he pulled her against him, savoring her mouth, the soft warm skin of her throat. Holding her against the wall with the weight of his body, he reached between them and undid her jeans, slipping his hand in under her panties to cup her. She was wet for him already.

  “Naughty,” Samantha breathed.

  She moaned, pressing herself harder against him as he slipped a finger up inside her. Everything she’d learned in her life, from her own experience and from listening to the stories of others in her profession, told her that what she was doing was a very bad idea. Clients or victims—you couldn’t trust either one of them. Nothing she’d done since the night of the explosion, though, made any sense at all.

  A shadow moved at the far end of the hall, and she tensed. Fun was good, but not in front
of witnesses. “Rick,” she muttered unevenly, tearing her mouth from his and shoving at him, “stop.”

  He seemed to sense that she meant it, because he withdrew his hand from her jeans, turning as one of the security guards emerged from a connecting hallway and came toward them. From his carefully bland expression the guard had seen precisely where his employer’s hands had been, but with a nod he kept walking toward the west wing.

  “Shit,” Addison said, his breathing harsh. “Come on.”

  “This isn’t a good idea,” she protested with her last remaining breath of sanity. She did not belong in his bed, however much she was coming to enjoy his company and his attention—and his very naughty hands. He made her lose her concentration. She couldn’t be soft; her life, and perhaps his, depended on it.

  “It is a very good idea,” he returned, kissing her again, hot and aggressive. “I want to be inside you, Samantha.”

  “This is a business deal,” she protested, even as she allowed him to draw her forward again, toward the east wing of the house, where she’d never been.

  “No, it’s not.” He turned, gazing hard at her. “Scared?” he asked, his tone taunting her to admit to it.

  Sam met his mouth with hers again. “Never.”

  When he pulled her through a door, shutting and locking it behind them, she knew instinctively that they’d entered his private domain. Dimly lit by a lamp in the corner, a massive sitting room of royal blue and oak sprawled before them. She would wager that no security guards or anything resembling a camera were allowed in here—ever.

  “Nice, Your Dukeness,” she muttered, then couldn’t breathe as he slid his hands up under her shirt to cup her breasts.

  “Very nice,” he agreed, closing his teeth gently over her earlobe.

  The hell with restraint. She could back off again later. Sam pulled his shirt off over his head, noting the wrapping around his ribs and the bandage high on his shoulder. They’d both been marked by what had happened, and if this gorgeous, sexy man wanted her, she was not going to argue. Tomorrow could wait until tomorrow. Tonight she was going to get lucky.