“Fifteen,” Samantha said, as a first-century Roman helmet went into the pile. “He’s pretty clever, for an idiot. A few of those files he removed and stopped doing entries for are for genuine pieces. He could claim it was just an oversight, and that he had no idea what was going on.” She glanced sideways at Richard. “He could even blame you for it.”
Castillo leaned his elbows on the work table. “Or maybe he had buyers lined up for those items and just hadn’t made the switch yet.”
“That works.” Richard passed him the plate of sandwiches Hans had sent up, cucumber in Sam’s honor. “Except that none of the fakes look like they have updated files.”
Sam gave a brief smile. “That’s because Partino’s anal.”
“This is kind of interesting,” the detective said, choosing a sandwich, “but it’s really out of my league and my jurisdiction. I can go after Partino for the attempted murder of Sam here, but we really need to call in the FBI if we’re talking about theft on this level.”
“No, no, no. We are not doing anything to Partino because of Sam,” Samantha said, shaking her head and pushing back from the table. “You arrested him because of the whole tablet and messing with the security tapes and grenade thing.”
“I’m a homicide detective,” Castillo returned. “Murder, attempted murder, that’s pretty much what I do. That leaves me with Prentiss and you. Prentiss can’t testify, and you can.”
Samantha looked at Richard. “No, I can’t,” she said unsteadily.
“We’ll talk about it,” Richard said.
“Why, so you can try to convince me? I can’t.” She rose and fled the library.
“Nice going, Frank,” Richard grumbled, standing. He sent another glare at Donner, just for good measure. “Keep an eye on Irving.”
He found her upstairs in the gallery, staring at the still-fire-blackened walls and floor. “It may not come down to your testifying, you know,” he said, keeping his distance until he could gauge her mood. “We can show his attorney what we’ve got, and maybe he’ll roll over on his accomplices.”
She snorted. “You sound like Sam Spade. ‘Cheese it, it’s the cops.’”
“What does that mean, anyway?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.” Still gazing at the mess, she put her hands on her hips. “Before I pull a job, I run through it in my head. Stop here, duck there, turn left, up the stairs.”
“That makes sense,” he offered, wishing she’d used the past tense.
“I can’t get inside Etienne’s head with this. I’ve tried, and it doesn’t make sense.”
“Run through it with me,” Richard suggested, moving closer. “I mean, I may not have your experience, but I know what’s logical.”
To his surprise, she nodded. “That might help. But not with Castillo and Harvard here—and certainly not my boss.”
“Tom’s going to rat you out to Irving if you call him that again, by the way.”
“Fine. Yale.”
“We’ll test your theory after dinner.”
“You know,” she said, coming up to him and slipping her arms around his waist, “you took me out to dinner at the Donners’, so I thought I might do the same thing.”
“You want to take me out to dinner.” He didn’t move, letting her control the level of intimacy between them.
“Yes.” She leaned up to kiss him lightly.
“Will it be like a date?”
She hesitated for the briefest of moments. “Sure. And I can almost guarantee that you’ll get lucky later, too.”
He wanted to mark this in his calendar. It was the first time Sam had made a step to push this little relationship of theirs further in more than just a physical sense. “Before or after we run through Etienne’s version of the robbery?”
Samantha chuckled, leaning forward against his chest and sliding her hands down his backside. When she straightened she had his wallet in one hand. He’d never even felt her lift it.
“Maybe both.” She pulled the leather open. “I thought so,” she said in a singsong voice, tossing the wallet back to him, intact as far as he could tell.
He caught it. “You thought what?”
“Most guys carry one condom,” she said, breezing past him for the stairs. “One. Not three. Man, you must think you’re pretty good in bed.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“We’ll make it a quick dinner, then, and you can prove it to me all over again.”
“Samantha?”
She stopped, turning to face him. “Mm-hm?”
“This isn’t the most romantic thing to say, but since you brought up the condom thing, the last two times we haven’t used…protection. Are you—”
“I’m clean, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Richard flushed. “No. I meant, are you protected?”
“Jeez, you’re so British,” she said, chuckling. “I take the pill.”
“Oh. Good. Yes, that’s what I meant.”
Samantha swept back up and kissed him hard on the lips. “Thanks for asking.”
“Just being a gentleman.”
“That reminds me. You have to wear shorts to dinner.”
With a mock scowl that felt fairly real he followed her back to the library. “Shorts? What kind of dress code is that?”
She grinned as she vanished into the room. “Mine.”
Twenty-four
Monday, 6:25 p.m.
Castillo called in three cops and a U-Haul to help cart off the fakes. After some discussion he agreed to question Partino and his attorney about the forgeries in the morning, and not to contact the FBI until after he’d called Donner with whatever information he could divulge. Samantha knew he wasn’t precisely following regulations, and to her great surprise she found herself liking him.
This little jaunt of hers was becoming stranger and stranger. First she’d found friendship with someone she would have previously dismissed as a mark, then at least a respectful understanding with a lawyer, and now a similar situation with a cop. What was next, a priest?
“This had better be good,” Richard said, joining her in the foyer. “I don’t normally do shorts under anything less than dire circumstances.”
“Those are nice,” she said, grinning as he approached. He’d worn them, loose and gray and tasteful. He’d also put on the black T-shirt that made her want to jump him and forget all about dinner. And she’d intended for the attire to put him off-balance. She’d tried to convince herself that this had been a clever test of how far he would bend at her request, but she’d never been much for self-deception. This was about whether she could be normal, leave her world behind for a night.
“If this is your idea of a joke, you’re going to be very sorry.”
Sam rolled her shoulders. Get back in the game. “Do you have a cheesy car?”
“By cheesy I’m going to assume that you mean cheap, in which case the answer is no.”
She gave an exaggerated sigh, enjoying the look of increasing trepidation on his face. “Okay, I guess we can take the Benz.”
“Which one?” he asked distinctly.
“The SLK. It’s a small target.”
“Crikey,” he muttered. “I’m driving, in case I need to make a fast getaway.”
If that was the strongest demand he made all evening, she’d be surprised. “Fair enough. Let’s go, then.”
When they reached downtown Palm Beach she finally told him where they were going. “Harold and Chuck’s,” he repeated. “I’ve heard of that, haven’t I?”
“The Fabulous Baker Boys used to play there. They have great seafood. And dancing.”
“Dancing. Do we like to dance?”
She nodded. “We do.”
“In shorts?”
“We have to look like tourists.”
He turned up Royal Poinciana Way and slid the Mercedes up against the curb with a precision she couldn’t help but admire—especially considering that he’d grown up in a country where they drove on th
e wrong side of the street. “Why do we have to look like tourists?” he asked, putting the retracted hard top back up.
“Because mostly tourists come here.”
Rick touched her cheek. “As you’ve pointed out before, I don’t blend very well,” he murmured, stroking a strand of hair behind her ear, “but I’ll try.”
He didn’t blend very well at all; but if he’d come wearing his rich guy shirt and slacks, they probably wouldn’t have made it through the door without some paparazzi snapping their photo. This way, any interested parties would at least have to look twice. Besides, he had nice legs.
“Sidewalk or garden room?” the hostess asked as they strolled inside. Rick, of course, had her hand, and as the hordes of tourist women inside turned to look at the dark-haired god with the deep gray eyes, Sam couldn’t help but feel a little smug.
“You’re the date,” she told him. “It’s your choice.”
“Garden room,” he decided.
She would have preferred the sidewalk seating, so she could keep her eyes on the street. That, however, would not do anything to forward her experiment in normalcy. She followed the hostess, allowing Rick to pull her chair out for her as they arrived at their seats.
“Okay, I’ll admit,” he said, sitting forward to be heard over the jazz music the live band played behind them, “most everybody is wearing shorts.”
“Told ya.”
“Now, my dear, since you asked me out, may I assume that you’ll be paying?”
“Yes, you may.” One night wouldn’t break her Retirement-in-Milan bank account. “Indulge yourself.”
His smile deepened, warming the gray of his eyes. Her heart did a weird little flip-flop in response, and she quickly grabbed her glass of water and gulped down a swallow.
“Anything to drink, folks?” the waitress asked, her name tag proclaiming her as Candy. Sure she was.
“Do you have a wine list?” Rick asked smoothly, lifting an eyebrow at Sam, obviously hoping to make her regret the “indulge yourself” crack.
“Basically we have colors. Red and white.”
Rick flashed his famous smile, and Candy nearly swallowed her gum. “What’s your best red wine, then?”
She named off a French Merlot, and Rick asked for a bottle. “Sure. I’ll be back in a minute to take your order.”
“Humph. She didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink,” Sam noted.
“Well, she probably assumes that you’re my date, and that I was ordering for both of us. Shall I snap and have her return?”
“Shut up, Brit. Merlot’s fine.”
With another chuckle, Rick opened the menu. “You’ve eaten here before, yes? What’s good here?”
“The side salads are nice. And the breadsticks.”
“Excuse me,” a breathy female voice came from beside her, and she lifted her head. A stunning blonde in a dress cut down to her belly button and up to her crotch hovered beside the table.
“Yes?” she asked, not certain whether to scream or laugh.
“Are you Richard Addison?” the woman breathed, ignoring Sam.
Rick blinked. “Oh, me. I thought you were talking to her. Yes, I am.”
“Could I have your autograph?”
“Certainly. Do you have a pen?” The woman held out a napkin and a pen, and Rick signed his name. “There you go.”
“How about your phone number?” The woman gave a low giggle, but pressed the napkin back into Rick’s hand.
Sam would have stood, but Rick kicked her under the table. “Ouch,” she grumbled, glaring at him.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t give out my phone number.”
“Are you sure?” Belly Button Girl licked her lips.
“If I might make a comment,” Rick continued, granting her a warm smile, though Sam noted that his eyes remained cool and untouched, “I’m a bit occupied right now, enjoying the company of a very lovely young lady with whom I enjoy spending my every spare moment.” He straightened further, lowering his voice to a bare murmur. “So I thank you for your interest, but I am never in a million years going to give you my phone number. Good evening.”
Her face turning scarlet under its inch of makeup, the woman turned away, departing with a sway of her perfect hips. “You’re so cool,” Sam breathed.
“You could at least pretend to be jealous,” he said, pulling her hand across the table to kiss her knuckle.
She had been jealous, but no way was she going to tell him that. Not until she could figure out for herself what the hell it meant. At least she hadn’t panicked and tried to belt a near-naked woman for sneaking up behind her. “She’s not your type.”
“And what precisely is my ‘type’?” he asked.
“The kind who could have handed you a comeback instead of just stomping away.”
With an uncharacteristic snort he sipped his own glass of water. “You’re probably right. So what should I order?”
“Not in the mood for a side salad?” She grinned at his pained expression. A little annoyance served him right for being so gorgeous. “Okay, okay. The Alaska King Crab Claws are great. I’m getting the Macadamia Nut Encrusted Mahi.”
He trusted her enough to order the crab, and she had to admit that the fish with the Merlot was much better than the beer she had been about to order. They’d retracted the garden room canopy roof, and moon and starlight shown down on the dance floor. She hadn’t realized it would be so…romantic inside the garden room, with the jazz band playing and the couples beginning to swirl about the floor.
Finally, he set his fork and claw-cracker down on his plate. “You were right. That was great.”
Sam realized she was drifting, and she lifted up her napkin. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Do you want to dance, my dear?”
“I—”
He stood, holding his hand down to her. Well, she’d suggested it first. Sighing, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
“I have a confession to make,” he said in a low voice, sliding both hands around her waist.
“What?”
“That woman could have been naked, and I still wouldn’t have been able to keep my eyes off you.”
They swayed together, touching at arms, chest, hips, and thighs. “She practically was naked.”
“Was she? I supposed that proves my point, then.”
He’d thought Samantha meant to take him to some hole-in-the-wall restaurant in a demilitarized zone. Chuck and Harold’s, however, was nice, lively, and even romantic with its open-air dance floor. He generally preferred more exclusive restaurants, because people there were less likely to approach him for autographs or investment advice, but he liked it here well enough that he would join her again.
It did feel a little silly to be slow dancing in shorts, and he didn’t object when after twenty minutes or so she suggested they return to the estate to go over the gallery again. Their bill, somewhere around a hundred dollars, waited for them at the table, but Samantha wouldn’t let him pay. Instead she pulled a healthy roll of cash out of her purse and put it on the table. He didn’t want to know where she’d gotten the money.
“You’re my date, remember?” she said, taking his arm as they went back to the SLK.
“Do you want to drive?”
“Really? I’d love to.”
She put the roof back down and shifted the car into drive, then shoved it into park again.
“What is it?” he asked, noting the frown on her face.
“I just want you to know that I don’t like you for this,” she said, tapping the steering wheel.
“No?”
“No. I like you for…this.” She reached over and tapped his head, drawing a strand of his hair through her fingers, and then put a hand over his chest. “And this. And because you wore shorts to a restaurant when I asked you to. Are we clear?”
He smiled at her. “We’re clear.”
“Good. Hang on.”
As soon as they got back h
e threw on a pair of jeans and sneakers and met her in the gallery. She was standing at the opposite end of the hall from where she’d been the first time he saw her, her eyes closed and her hands loose at her sides. He watched her, knowing that in her mind she would be climbing down the back wall, slipping across the corner of the garden and the lawn.
“Are we in the house yet?” he asked after a moment.
Samantha jumped. “No. We’re right outside.” With a slight frown she turned her back, heading toward the stairs at the rear of the house. “Come on.”
“How did we get in?” he asked, following her to the ground floor.
She slipped out through the back patio door, ending up in the deep shadows beneath a stand of cypress trees at the west side of the house. “The problem with this,” she said, gauging the distance from the nearest camera, “is that I’m speculating based on something that might not be correct. So I’m either all right, or all wrong.”
“It’s worth a try,” he offered, realizing for perhaps the first time what she meant when she said his security was crap. A rugby squad could have held a scrum where they were and not been noticed. “And I happen to think you have very good instincts.”
“Hm. Flattery will get you whatever you want,” she said with a quick grin, most of her attention still clearly on their surroundings.
A low energy ran up his spine, like the night they’d broken into Danté’s. She’d mentioned the rush she got from being somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. He understood what she meant, though his focus remained on the petite figure beside him. “Shall we?”
“Okay. Here’s my theory: Etienne came from this direction because it’s the most protected route from where we found the footprint to the house.”
“Why bother being sneaky if he’s got Danté shutting down all the outside video?” Richard asked.
“I have a theory, but let’s wait a minute.” She slid her hand along the rough plaster wall, slipping farther into the shadows. “What’s in here?” she asked, tapping on a window.
Flirting With Danger Page 28