Flirting With Danger

by Suzanne Enoch

  He adjusted his perspective. “That would be storage. Extra chairs and table extensions for big parties. That kind of thing.”

  She flicked on a flashlight he hadn’t realized she carried. “There it is.” With her fingertip she brushed at a faint scratch in the paint, running in toward the sill. “He slipped in a flat crow and pushed the latch open.”

  “So it wasn’t just the outside cameras and sensors that were shut down.”

  “I don’t think anything outside was shut down,” she muttered, “or Etienne wouldn’t have bothered with sneaking. If I’m right, Partino probably shut down all the internal house sensors and alarms; that’s easier, especially when he might not have known exactly what kind of security you had around the door in the gallery. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s go back in.”

  “In?”

  “Through the door, unless you want to climb through the window,” she said, her teeth a faint upward-curved white in the darkness.

  “Let’s go in.”

  They went back in through the patio door and headed down the maze of hallways to the storage room. The door was locked, but Samantha had it open before he could produce the key.

  “The window latch is broken,” she said, moving through the sheeted stacks of extra furniture. “See?” Using the back end of the flashlight, she tapped on the latch. It looked locked, but at her light touch it slipped sideways.

  “DeVore broke it so he could make it look locked when he left through the same window.”

  “Yep.”

  “All right, I have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why was DeVore in the house if Danté was going to switch the tablets on his own?”

  “That, my dear, is the bazillion-dollar question,” she said, leaving the room again. “Okay, we’re Etienne. We know where the gallery is, because we have blueprints. We also know the safe room camera won’t be recording, the same way we knew it would be safe to break in through the window.”

  “So we go up the back stairs to the third floor,” he said, as they did so, “being careful to avoid that Addison guy’s crappy security until we’re safely in the gallery.”

  She continued forward. “We get to the door, and we can be a little sloppy with cutting the secondary lock because the evidence is going to get blown up in a couple of minutes, anyway.” The door hung off one hinge halfway into the room, but she went through the motions with her agile hands, then stepped inside.

  “Since we know the sensor alarms are off,” she continued, “we grab the tablet and slip out again, closing the door behind us.”

  “Why?”

  “My guess would be that he wanted everything to look normal from the gallery. If Prentiss, for example, had seen the door open he might have gone in, then run back the same way, without tripping the bomb.”

  Richard looked at her for a long moment. “So Prentiss was the target?”

  She squatted close to the wall as if setting the explosives. With a deep breath she straightened again. “You know, I don’t think so.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “This is the part I’m really not sure about.” She wiped her hands on the back of her shorts, her gaze steady on the hole low in the wall where the bomb had been. “Bear with me for a minute—this is going to sound really screwy.”

  “I have the feeling that screwy is the only thing that’ll make any sense. And what about the security guards? Danté couldn’t shut them down.”

  “They make fifteen-minute rounds. Etienne knew that, just like I did.”

  “So Partino and DeVore were working together.”

  “I don’t think so. I see several indications that Etienne knew Partino was going to be shutting off the internal alarms. What I don’t see is any sign that Partino knew Etienne was going to be here.”

  Digesting that theory, Richard lifted his head to look in the direction of the gallery entrance. “But we are sure it was Partino who turned off the camera feeds and the alarms, yes?”

  “Right, because he did it when he set the grenades and planted the fake tablet on me.” Abruptly she stepped forward. “Let’s be Partino for a minute.”

  She headed downstairs, not to the estate manager’s office, but to his small private room. “At after midnight, he would have spent the night here, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Going with the theory that he’s the one who’s been switching out the other art, I’m going to assume he had a fairly handy way of shutting off the alarms.” Her frown of concentration deepened. “Either that, or he owns Clark. We’re not talking a cut of a cut of one stolen Trojan tablet, now. We’re talking fifty million dollars in stuff going out the door on a fairly steady basis.”

  “That’s an interesting theory,” Richard said darkly.

  “But it’s not for tonight.” Opening Partino’s door as easily as she’d done the storage room, she stepped inside again. “He probably had the fake in here, since you and Donner both have access to his office.” She gazed around the room, a soft frown touching her face. “I meant to ask you before, why aren’t there any artworks or anything in here?”

  “I don’t know. I really didn’t supervise much of the private room decorating.”

  “Even the guest suites have some nice stuff in them. Here’s the guy in charge of collecting and cataloging everything, and he’s got a few prints and a faux-Victorian pitcher.”

  Nodding, Richard finished the tour of the room with her. “Nothing valuable can go missing in here, where he’d likely be the prime suspect.”

  “According to this theory, anyway. Okay. We’ve switched off the alarms and gotten hold of the fake tablet to put in place of the real one. We’ve told…whoever our broker is which day and time we’re going to have possession of the item, and whoever our buyer or broker was also told Etienne, or whoever hired him.”

  “How do we know he did that?”

  “Because from the way Etienne came into the house, he knew the alarms would be off.”

  “Right. Go on.”

  “The tablet’s expected by the broker and the buyer, and it’s going to London in a week, so whether Partino knows you’re back from Stuttgart or not, he’s got to go and make the exchange. Etienne probably has no idea you’re back, but he wouldn’t care. Danté starts up, has the security radio on either because he’s paranoid or because that way Clark can warn him if somebody’s on to him. Maybe he overhears the security calls like you did, that Prentiss has found an intruder. He panics and goes back to his room, switching all the alarms back on so nobody will be thinking it was an inside job.”

  “And then everything blows up, the tablet goes missing, and he’s stuck with the fake.”

  “Yeah. With one additional point.” Samantha stopped back upstairs where she’d originally entered the gallery. “If I hadn’t broken in, and if you hadn’t been here, he would have been the one to trip the wire.”

  Richard looked at her. The way she put the pieces together, it made sense. “Danté was the target.”

  “With a lot of if’s, probably’s, and maybe’s thrown in.”

  “How about a why?” he countered. “Why would someone hire DeVore to take the tablet and kill Partino, if Partino was going to take the tablet anyway? I mean from what you said, whoever dictated the timing of this told both of them—which would say to me that it was the same person.”

  “That, I’m not sure about. And there’s also the question of who wanted me in here at the same time all this other shit was going on.”

  Someone had not just sent her in to steal something. They’d intentionally thrown her into the middle of some private little battle and not given her any idea what she was getting into. Richard swallowed. Samantha Jellicoe had been extremely lucky. And though he’d never met Sean O’Hannon, if the broker had known about any of this, Richard was glad he was dead. “Would O’Hannon have done all of this?” he asked. “Hired all three of you for the same job?”

  Sama
ntha shook her head. “He didn’t have enough imagination to coordinate three different break-ins at the same time, in the same place, with no one knowing about anyone else. Besides, somebody killed him, too.”

  “Why you in the first place? You didn’t know anything about the general sucking away of my valuables.”

  “My guess is that I was supposed to be the scapegoat. Whether I got killed or caught, I’d get blamed for the mess. Probably they hoped Partino and the fake would be found in the rubble. Everyone would assume it was the original, of course, and that he’d taken it back from me right before I messed something up and we were all killed.”

  “I admire your sangfroid, talking about your own death so calmly.”

  Stepping up to him, she kissed his cheek. “That’s only because I’m not dead. Believe me, I’m pissed off.” She cursed, kicking a charred piece of wood sideways. “And with Etienne and O’Hannon dead, I have no way of knowing who hired them. Stoney might be able to find out, but he could be anywhere right now. We can’t ask Partino, since in a few hours Castillo’s turning him and all your fakes over to the FBI.”

  “And they’ll solve this,” he pointed out.

  “Yeah. And most of the fucking clues still kinda point in my direction. Which means that our partnership gets dissolved, and I get the hell out of here.”

  His throat tightening, he caught her hand. Jesus Christ. What had he done? He’d known about Castillo’s plan and the FBI—why hadn’t he made the connection that she would still be a suspect? The answer was obvious—he couldn’t conceive of her leaving, under any circumstances, and he was used to being the one in command of all aspects of a situation. Dammit. He wasn’t letting her go.

  “You might have said something about that before we called Castillo in,” he said, using every bit of his years of hard-earned self-control to sound calm.

  She squeezed his fingers. “Rick, three people are dead. I think that weighs heavier than my personal comfort.” The look she gave him said a great deal more than her words, but he wasn’t certain yet how to translate it—other than to realize that she didn’t want to go.

  How could he fix it, then, so that she could stay? Obviously, finding whoever had arranged all this would take the heat off her, but as she’d said, all of the clues had been removed from their grasp. He narrowed his eyes. Or maybe they hadn’t been. “That green dress you wore to Tom’s? Go put it on.”

  “What? Considering how little time I—”

  “And heels. There’re some in the closet if you didn’t bring any.” She continued to look stubborn, and he leaned down and kissed her. “Trust me. I’ll meet you in the foyer.”

  Samantha had no idea what he might be thinking, but once she’d realized how much time and effort someone had gone to in order to orchestrate this long-term robbery of his estate, she’d known she would have to leave. The FBI and Interpol didn’t have anything concrete enough to arrest her yet, but this would probably do it. Then they could take their time digging for more. And as her father used to say, digging always turned up worms.

  The decision to go shouldn’t even have been a difficult one. At most she had another twenty-four hours before the men in suits came looking for her. In the back of her mind she’d known something like this would happen; once she’d learned that Etienne had been killed she’d realized that more had to be at stake than a tablet.

  If she left before dawn, she might be able to get a flight out. Once Castillo had decided not to look in her direction, the net would have loosened considerably.

  Sam yanked the dress off its hanger and flung it onto the bed. Then she hurled a pair of tan shoes against the far wall. The thud they made was satisfying, but it didn’t change anything. She still had to leave Solano Dorado House—leave him.

  It so figured. She’d been living quietly on the outskirts of Palm Beach for nearly four years, working at a job she enjoyed and that didn’t require bolt cutters or paint guns, doing the occasional work for Stoney if it piqued her interest or her curiosity. Then a week after she met…probably the most fascinating man she’d ever encountered, she had to leave. Fate sucked. Big-time.

  Whatever Rick had in mind, he seemed to want her to look nice for it, so she took a moment to comb out her hair and refresh her makeup. As she checked her face in the mirror, she felt the unexpected urge to cry. “Buck up, Sam,” she growled. She never cried. Just because she’d finally realized what it meant, how it felt, to have someone so dynamic, so important in her life, it didn’t mean she got to keep it.

  When she joined Rick in the foyer, she forgot her tears. She nearly forgot to breathe. He stood by the front door in a black suit with a gray shirt and a red tie. Even though she could never mistake him for anything but a confident, self-assured, and successful man, he abruptly looked…powerful.

  “Wow,” she said. “Armani really works for you.”

  “Thanks, and wow, back. Ready?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Jail.”

  Twenty-five

  Monday, 11:08 p.m.

  The officer led them into what looked like one of the interrogation rooms from Law and Order, though Sam had never seen one in person until now. She stared at the wall-sized mirror, wondering who in hell was standing behind it, ready to watch and listen to their conversation.

  “Relax,” Rick whispered, drawing her down onto the chair beside him.

  “How do we know we’re alone?” she muttered back, still gazing at the glass. “What if I say something, you know, incriminating?”

  He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “You’ll just have to trust me, Samantha. I won’t let anything happen to you in here. I swear it.”

  She forced a smile. “Your shining armor is showing again.”

  Rick would have replied, but Danté Partino arrived in the doorway, another officer on his heels. He wore jail orange and his hands were cuffed to his belt, Sam noted with an uneasy breath. She couldn’t imagine being closed into a tiny room and her hands bound.

  “Could you take those off?” Rick asked, gesturing at Partino’s hands.

  “It’s not really…Yeah, okay. But just for ten minutes.”

  As soon as the door closed, Danté slammed his chair back and stood. “Am I supposed to think you’re here to help me? I have worked for you for ten years, Rick. And because this whore climbs into your bed, you believe any lie she tells you?”

  “Danté, I didn’t have to come here tonight,” Rick said, his voice so cool and calm that Sam had to glance over at him. “Are they treating you well? I told Tom to find you the best attorney possible, at my expense.”

  Partino’s face folded into a frown. “This is a mess,” he said in a more even tone. “I have no idea what anyone is saying about me, that I stole that tablet, and that I tried to kill…her. Why would I do this?”

  Rick nudged her under the table, and Sam jumped. That meant she was supposed to start in on Partino, she imagined. She took a breath, trying to forget where they were and that damned mirror over her shoulder.

  “Money comes to mind,” she drawled.

  “I’m not listening to anything you say,” he snapped back. “Besides, I already have money. Rick pays me well, because I do good work. You ask anyone. I had no reason to steal that tablet.”

  “I’m not talking about that tablet. Your cut of that would be, what, ten thousand dollars? That’s chump change, even for a moron like you.”

  Partino leaned his fists on the table, obviously trying to intimidate her. “You are the moron, because I know that you are really the one who stole it. They found that fake in your bag. Not mine.”

  “That’s because all your fakes were already up on the walls,” she retorted.

  He actually blanched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, come on, Danté. The Picasso looked like it was painted by a baboon. And you’re such an idiot, you even kept a record of when you took the real one.”

  “Nonsense!”

 
“June 1999,” she said, mentally crossing her fingers. One wrong step, and he wouldn’t cave. And in here, she wasn’t precisely feeling at her best. Jesus. Her, and jail.

  He glared at her with such hatred in his eyes that she steeled herself for him to come over the table at her. Instead, with a harsh breath she could feel on her face, he strode to the mirror and back again. Rick turned in his chair to keep Partino in view; evidently he didn’t trust the man any further than she did.

  “You can’t prove anything,” he hissed. “I am a good man.”

  “I can prove everything,” she retorted, allowing disgust to creep into her voice. “Do you want me to list some more? The Remington? The blue Gauguin?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Sure, but it won’t make any difference. The FBI will be coming to see you in the morning. I just wanted you to know that I know what you did, and that I told Rick, and that tomorrow the FBI will know, too. Can we go now?” She looked at Rick, only half-pretending.

  The estate manager’s face had gone gray. Seeming to lose muscle control, he sank into his chair. “The FBI. You whore.”

  Rick slammed his fist on the table, and both Sam and Partino jumped. “Enough,” he growled.

  “Rick, I—”

  “Shut up, Danté! I want two words from you, and then I’ll do what I can to help. If you don’t give me those two words, I’ll use every last dollar I possess to make sure you are found guilty of killing Prentiss and of trying to kill me.”

  “I never—”

  “Those aren’t the two words.”

  “What…what do you want, then?”

  “The name of your buyer for the tablet. We know you had your own plans for it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Those aren’t the two words, either. Last chance, Danté.” He sat back, his gaze steady on Partino’s face. “Who was going to buy that tablet from you?”

  His mouth opened and closed like a fish, then Danté swallowed convulsively. “Meridien,” he finally rasped. “Harold Meridien.”