Flirting With Danger

by Suzanne Enoch

  Aside from that, he didn’t want her to leave. For the last day or so, he’d sensed that she was being herself—Sam Jellicoe, imaginative, quick, humorous, surprisingly intelligent, and definitely mercurial in her moods and thoughts—and that he was in way over his head. He was used to being in control, of knowing where people stood. She made him insane—and he enjoyed the sensation as much as he hated it. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You explain to me what they are, and I’ll help you dry them off.”

  “And everything in my knapsack,” she insisted, stepping into the trail of drips he’d left going up the stairs.

  “You’re rather wet, yourself,” he pointed out, lust tugging at him again.

  “Yes, I seem to be,” she murmured, giving him a sly smile.

  He went hard. “I’m going to ruin another pair of your panties,” he whispered as they reached her room.

  “Call Dr. Troust first,” she said, putting her hands on his damp shirt to keep him away. “I don’t want these accusations resting on me.”

  “Fine. I suppose you have the number?”

  She gave it to him, and he called while she ducked into the bathroom. Dr. Troust was both surprised and flattered by the call and agreed to stop by first thing in the morning. On impulse, Richard asked him what he thought of his employee, Samantha.

  “Sam Martine?” the curator asked. “She’s wonderful. Smartest girl I’ve ever met. Catches things even I miss, and I have a doctorate in this stuff. Do you know her?”

  Evidently Irving Troust didn’t read the Post. “She’s a particular friend”—Richard looked up as Samantha strolled out of the bathroom, stark naked—“of mine. So I’ll see you at nine tomorrow? Thank you, Dr. Troust.” He hung up the phone before the man could reply. “Hello.”

  “He’s going to come by?” she asked.

  “Hm? Oh, yes. Sorry, my brain’s shut down,” he returned, pulling his wet shirt off over his head.

  Perhaps he couldn’t own her mind, but he could damned well possess her body. They inaugurated the shower, then the floor in the middle of the suite. Samantha straddled his hips, riding him and giving him a new appreciation for her fine muscle tone and control. When they were spent she draped herself on top of him, and they lay there for a long time, just listening to one another breathing. Richard could feel her heart beating against his chest.

  “Rick?”

  “Hm?”

  “Thank you.”

  Not smiling would simply have killed him. “You’re welcome. And thank you.”

  She cuffed his shoulder, her face still buried against his neck. “Not for that—though you’re pretty good in the sack for a rich guy.”

  “Pretty good?”

  He felt her deep, relaxed chuckle. “You’re already out of control. I didn’t want to make your ego even bigger.” She nibbled his ear. “It’s rather big already.”

  They were never leaving this room. “Then what were you thanking me for?”

  “For wanting me to stay. For asking me to stay. I don’t think anybody’s ever done that before.”

  More moved than he could say, Richard slipped his arms around her. “If I volunteer to answer one of your questions about my sordid past, may I ask you another about yours?”

  “What question?”

  “Two, actually. First, are you Sam Martine at the museum?”

  “Shit. Yes, I forgot. ‘Jellicoe’ is a pretty infamous name around museums and other places where people keep their valuables.” She placed a kiss on his chin. “Next question?”

  Apparently they’d relaxed the rules for personal questions. The significance of that, though, he’d contemplate later. “Right. Were you and your father close?”

  The muscles across her back stiffened, and she lifted her head to look down at him, auburn hair framing her face. “Not while I’m naked,” she said, lifting slowly off him. “So if you really want to know, we have to stop this and get dressed.”

  “You’re evil,” he said, but sat up beside her. “I really want to know.”

  She vanished into the bedroom while he threw on a towel and practically ran to his own room to grab some dry jeans and another T-shirt. Dammit, sometimes this house was too bloody big. He wanted to get back before she changed her mind.

  No woman had ever left him feeling like this—not even Patricia. For the first time he wondered whether his ex-wife had been…overwhelmed by Peter Wallis in the same way he’d felt when Samantha had literally exploded into his life. And he wondered what would have happened if he’d met Sam Jellicoe while he’d still been married to Patricia.

  She left the bedroom just as he came back into the sitting room. “Wow,” he said, slowing.

  Samantha had put on a soft, ankle-length sundress of dusky blue. In her bare feet and with her still-damp hair hanging in loose waves to her shoulders, she looked like a sultry incarnation of decadent sin.

  Sin tilted her head at him. “Can we at least catch the last part of Son of Godzilla?” she asked.

  “You mean you passed up the green monster for me?” he asked, pleased again.

  “You made me mad.”

  “I made you come. Repeatedly.”

  “Mm.” She chuckled. “If that’s the way you apologize, I guess I don’t mind the being mad bit so much.”

  She punched the remote, and the television flickered on. Sitting on the couch beside her, he took her hand, lifting it to look at her long, delicate fingers with their short, trimmed nails. No long, painted claws for Samantha; they’d get in her way. “You have artist’s hands.”

  “My mom played piano,” she said, sinking down to lean against his shoulder. “Or so my dad said. She threw us both out when I was four.”

  “Threw you out?”

  “Actually, I think she threw Martin out, and didn’t object when he decided to take me along with him.” She stopped as Godzilla came charging in to rescue his son. “As for being close, he taught me everything I know about stealing, so I could be his partner. He liked my long fingers, too. They’re good for picking pockets.” She flexed them.

  “You must have been devastated when he was arrested.”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t that surprised. As he got older, he got…less discriminating. I think his skills were fading a little, so he compensated by going after anything that wasn’t nailed down.” Samantha squeezed his fingers, then relaxed her grip again. “I’ve never said this to anyone. Not even Stoney.”

  “And I won’t say it to anyone else.”

  “I know that.” She settled deeper into the couch cushions. “The last year he worked, he and I kind of…we didn’t really work much together. We both used Stoney because we trusted him, but I didn’t want to go into a place with him. And I think that made him angry, like I thought I was better than he was. And I think he was a little jealous, because I could pull jobs that he couldn’t handle any longer, and I wouldn’t take jobs that he could handle.”

  “You’ve never tried to find your mother?”

  “She let us go. Why would I want to know someone like that?”

  Bitterness? It sounded like it, though it could simply be more of Samantha’s practicality. “You were only four, you said. Maybe your father didn’t tell you the whole story.”

  “Stoney’s never said anything different, either.” She curled into him, kissing his throat. “And now for you. What sordid detail would I like to know?”

  God. He could never let her know how …fulfilled he felt when she initiated contact. Or how dazed her touch left him. “I’m not giving you any clues,” he grumbled. “Oh, look. Godzilla stepped on someone.”

  “He did not. He almost never steps on anyone.” She chuckled. “I know. Have you ever done anything illegal? Before you met me, I mean.”

  He understood the reason for the question; she wanted to put them on a more even footing. Trust. She’d shown it in him, and now it was his turn. “Once. I’ve been on the shady side of legal a few times, but nothing that could be proven.”

&n
bsp; “Tell me.”

  “You could put me in jail for a very long time for this,” he muttered.

  “Nonsense. Donner would save you. Besides, ditto.”

  Richard sighed, pretending annoyance over uncertainty. That was his motto: Never let anyone think you’re unsure of anything, however you might feel. It had never been as difficult to live up to as it was with Sam. “I wasn’t quite…straight with you about my dealings with Peter and Patricia. Right after I found them together, before the divorce, I decided I wanted to get even. Peter and I were in roughly the same business, and I knew he’d risked quite a bit to acquire a computer company based in New York,” he said slowly.

  “As soon as I returned to the States, I cultivated the friendship of the head of the accounting firm that did his company’s books. Over five months I pretended we were best friends, bought him whatever nonsense I thought would gain me his trust, and then one evening he told me in confidence that Sir Peter Wallis, the company’s owner, was going to—‘lose his lunch’ I believe was his term, because the figures they were going to deliver to him that Friday were awful.”

  “Insider trading, right? You bought the company out from under him when the stock dropped.”

  “I did. And then I tore it to pieces and sold off the parts.”

  “Did it feel good?”

  “Not really. Peter lost his shirt, of course. On the downside, seventy perfectly blameless people lost their jobs because I wanted to let him and Patricia know that whatever a judge decided in court wasn’t enough for me.”

  “I almost feel sorry for him. Did you leave him anything?”

  “I’m sure he’s still making a living. God knows I could have taken everything if I wanted to. I suppose hurting him once was enough to get it out of my system.”

  “You made your point,” she commented.

  “Precisely. Anyway, if I’d left him a complete pauper, I’d be paying more alimony, so all’s well that ends well.”

  She nodded, then abruptly pushed away from him and sat up. “Okay, the movie’s over. Help me dry out my kit.”

  “But who won?”

  “Godzilla. He always wins.”

  Twenty-three

  Monday, 10:28 a.m.

  Dr. Irving Troust sat back, taking a swallow of iced tea and removing his glasses. “Mister Addison—Rick—I’m not quite sure how to tell you this. It is my belief that this painting is a forgery.”

  Richard blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Sam had been right. “I suspected that it might be, Dr. Troust. I wanted an expert to confirm that.”

  Troust looked from him to Samantha. “Who sold this…thing to you?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid. The painting was an original Picasso when I purchased it.” Richard approached the table and sat opposite the curator. “There are several other items I’d also like you to look at. And for the moment, I need to ask that you keep this information to yourself.”

  “I won’t be part of a fraud,” Irving said, sliding his glasses back on.

  “Don’t worry, Irving,” Samantha said, coming forward to sit beside Richard. “He’s not trying to pass them off to anyone. We would just like to know how much damage has been done.”

  “Of course.”

  Tom Donner arrived as Samantha was out selecting another item for review. “Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”

  Richard made the introductions and gave a short explanation of events. “Only the four of us know about this, so keep it quiet.”

  “The four of us?” Donner repeated. “That’s not quite true, is it? There’s at least one bad guy still out there.”

  “If our theory works out, I’ll have a pretty good trail leading to Partino. We might be able to persuade him to help us out.”

  “A pretty good circumstantial trail, you mean. Shit.”

  Samantha returned, a small Matisse carefully held in her hands. Richard frowned, quickly stifling the expression at her stern look. The Matisse was genuine as far as he knew—but that was probably her point. It made sense. If Troust called everything a fake, then they would have to find another expert, or another theory for the files Danté had taken away.

  While Irving began his examination of the Matisse, Samantha strolled to the window. Richard joined her, Tom following close behind. “It doesn’t mean anything yet,” she murmured.

  “It damned well does. Now we have to decide what we tell Castillo.”

  Tom was scowling. “We tell him everything. If you’re right, this has been going on for years.”

  “I want to know who owns the original of that Picasso right now,” Samantha said, her attention apparently on her employer.

  “Could you find out?”

  “You two are going to get yourselves arrested for obstruction,” Donner hissed. “Let the cops handle this; it’s their job.”

  “If I could get hold of Stoney, I might be able to at least get a lead on it,” Samantha returned, ignoring Tom’s protest. “As it is now, unless Partino gives us something, I’m stumped.” She faced Richard. “Of course, the idea that Danté might be facing a very long time in prison if the buck stops with him might convince him to give us another name.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on,” Rick admitted.

  “I need more tea,” Troust called, lifting the glass while keeping his gaze on the painting.

  “I’ll get it,” Samantha said. “It’s half my job at the museum, some days.”

  As soon as she left the room, Donner began growling again. “What the hell are you doing? This is not an episode of Moonlighting, Rick. I mean, I get that you’re having fun, and that you like spending time with Jellicoe. But—”

  “She’s Martine, today. Don’t forget.”

  “I will if she calls me ‘Harvard’ again. But you said you found twenty-seven files. That’s what, fifty million dollars’ worth of stolen artworks and antiques?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s serious shit. People have already been killed because of this, and we know they can get into this house. Your house, Rick.”

  “I know that, Tom. And that is why it’s my call.” He took a breath, forcing his hands to unclench. “I do not like giving up control.”

  “I’ll play this however you want, my friend. But you’re taking unnecessary risks, and if you’re doing it to impress your girlfriend, I don’t think you’ll ever catch up to her on the adrenaline rush count.”

  He hated when Tom was right. “Let’s just see what happens today,” he countered. “If Troust says that Matisse is a fake, then the research Samantha and I did is either wrong, or we can’t use Irving to prove anything.”

  “It’s real?”

  “Samantha thinks so, and the file was here—and up-to-date.”

  “Speaking of Jell—Martine—I told Kate who she is.”

  Oh, boy. “And?”

  “And Kate likes her anyway. She’s worried you’ll get hurt, but she likes Sam.”

  “Tell her not to worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Richard glanced over at the occupied curator. “Why does she think I’ll get hurt?”

  “She said that Sam’s probably not used to staying in one place for long. Actually, she said Sam’s probably more restless than you are.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you, but she doesn’t see much of a future for you and a habitual cat burglar. One of you would have to change, and she knows you won’t, and she doesn’t think Jellicoe can.”

  “Well, don’t tell her I said she made a lot of assumptions based on one short evening, and that people do change.”

  “Jeez. I feel like I’m in high school. You and Kate can just have lunch and compare notes, because I don’t want to be in the middle of—”

  Samantha strolled back in, a tray balanced in her capable hands. “Shut up,” Richard muttered.

  “Raspberry iced tea for Irving, water for Tom, a soda for me, and
Hans insisted that I bring Mr. Addison a nice chilled root beer.” She handed them over, then leaned against Rick’s arm as she popped the tab of her Diet Coke and took a drink. “Anything yet?” she whispered.

  “Not so far,” Richard answered, careful not to move. Sometimes he felt like a hunter trying to lure a deer into a trap. Don’t move, or she’ll remember you’re there and run away.

  “I still think we need to call Castillo,” Tom put in.

  “Wait and see what Irving says,” Samantha insisted. “And I’ve been thinking. If Irving gets the Matisse right, you should hire him—or someone—to examine every antique and piece of art you own. Not because they might be fakes, but to confirm to everybody that ninety-seven percent of your collection remains untouched.”

  “And publicize the whole fiasco?”

  “If Partino goes to trial, it’s going to come out, anyway,” Tom put in.

  Richard frowned into his root beer. “I hate the press.”

  “Like they’re my favorite people,” she countered. “Just use ’em. Otherwise, like you said, your entire collection is going to end up devalued.” She sipped at her soda. “Because whether the public finds out or not, the art community will. There’s no bigger bunch of gossips on the planet. Trust me on that.”

  Five minutes later, Dr. Troust looked up again, saw his fresh iced tea, and gulped half of it down. “Well, Rick, I may be missing something, but this one looks authentic to me. I’ve seen photos of it, and Matisse’s style is well documented.” He frowned, wiping his glasses on his tie. “What did you find, Sam?”

  She smiled. “I didn’t find anything, Irving. I was hoping you wouldn’t, either.”

  “Ah, a test. And I passed.”

  “With flying colors, as they say, Dr. Troust. Ready for another?”

  “This is rather exciting. Of course.”

  Richard looked over Samantha’s head at Tom. “Now we can call Castillo.”

  By the end of the afternoon, the library was cluttered with worthless works of art. As the stacks grew larger and larger, Richard wanted to put a fist through one of them. Samantha probably would have joined him, and even Donner began to look annoyed, but Castillo showed up and told them every single fake and forgery was evidence.