A Touch of Minx (16 page)

"How close was I?" he asked, filing the folder and then clearing off his desk as she unrolled the graph paper.

"Ten thousand, two hundred, and eighty-six dollars," she returned, "and I'll probably knock off the two eighty-six when she wants a discount for being a fellow member of SPERM."

"I've often thought I should join the Manatee Society," Aubrey said with a chuckle.

"The lunches are nice, and I do like the acronym."

"My thoughts exactly." He sat forward in his chair. "What do we have here? You did this by hand?"

"It's a hobby."

"I see." Aubrey glanced from the drawing to her. "Wow. What do you need from me?"

"I've never seen the back of his house. Do you remember anything specific? Patio, pool, lawn furniture, flamingos?"

"He has a pool, and a veranda that curves all along the back of the house about out to here," he said, brushing a finger along her drawing.

"What about trees and shrubs?"

Aubrey looked up at her. "Are you going to break in?" he whispered. "I thought you didn't see what you were looking for."

"I didn't. I also didn't see what was in that one room. I need to take a look."

"What if the things aren't there?"

If they weren't, she was back to looking at the Picaults, and she'd have to admit that her instincts were so far off that any wealthy collectors of Japanese antiquities who lived in the eastern half of the United States were just as

— is

likely to have the armor. In other words, she was screwed and the Met was screwed and her future in item retrieval was screwed. "I guess I'll face that if it happens," she said aloud.

He unexpectedly took her hand, squeezing her fingers in his larger ones. "I've known Wild Bill a lot longer than you have, Samantha," he said in a tone more serious than she'd heard him use before. "There's a reason why when he suggested that everybody call him Wild Bill, we all did. His money comes from the two construction companies he inherited from his father. And the rumor is that he inherited his father's associates, as well."

Samantha frowned. "The mob?"

"The mob, some pushy labor union guys—whoever they are, people just don't cross him."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

"Before your visit was a legitimate one, and I was with you."

"Seriously, Aubrey, do you think you could…" She trailed off as he pulled his free hand out of his pocket, revealing a small, shiny, chrome-plated handgun. "Jeez. You had that with you?"

"A gentleman always looks after the lady in his company," he said in his soft drawl. "I may not know how you go about your business, but I know mine."

Samantha took a second to reassess the way she looked at Aubrey Pendleton. It would actually take longer than a second, but nobody got to catch her flat-footed—or at least looking that way. "So how often do you carry that around?" she asked, gesturing at his pocket as he slipped the pistol back inside.

"There are occasions." He smiled. "Usually I rely on my charm and good manners."

She snorted. Okay, there were things about him that she hadn't realized, but nothing here made her want to change her initial opinion of him. "Both also lethal," she commented.

He inclined his head. "Thank you, my dear. Do you go in tonight?"

"I'm not sure yet." That kind of depended on Rick, and she didn't want to admit that out loud. Or even to herself, really. Answering to somebody else, being accountable to them—whatever Dr. Phil might call it, she didn't like it. "Stoney's still supposed to get a little more background on Toombs for me, and I'm kind of hanging back for that."

"Speaking of Walter, he seems to be absent again today."

"Yeah, I figure he's out sowing his wild oats somewhere."

"Miss Kim's been calling. I've been telling her that he had to make an unexpected trip to New York to see his brother."

She hadn't realized that Aubrey knew about Delroy. "That's nice of you," she said, smiling. "Unless Stoney's trying to dump her—which would make him a big chicken, so I'm all for the making excuses thing and letting him face the music himself when he gets back."

"So what's next?"

Leaning in to sketch the layout of the terrace and the pool in Toombs's backyard according to his recollections, Samantha took a deep breath. "Well, I've got a couple of pots on the stove, and now I need to see what starts boiling first." And hope she had a mitt handy so she wouldn't get burned.

Thursday, 8:24 p.m.

"That was a good dinner," Samantha said, wrapping her hand around Richard's arm and leaning into him as they left Chez Jean-Pierre and walked back to the Jaguar. "Did you know they had all of those Dali and Picasso reproductions on the walls?"

Of course she would know they were all reproductions. "I did. I thought you might appreciate them."

"You betcha. I liked the chicken breast more, though." He kissed her hair. Whatever was running through that agile mind of hers, she seemed to be making an effort not to argue, and so for the moment he would be patient about it. "Are you sure you don't want me to go back for more of the chocolate profiteroles? I could feed them to you in bed."

"That might be messy. And if I ate any more of those I'd be too hefty to get out of bed."

He pulled the passenger door open for her, but she didn't move to get into the car. When be looked at her, Samantha's gaze was down the street. "What?" he asked.

"Do you know anybody who drives a shiny new black Miata?"

"Not off hand. Why?"

"I swear that's the third time I've seen it today."

"This is a rather small community, especially in the offseason, and especially on the island here. There are only so many places a car can go in town."

She rolled her shoulders. "Right. Okay. Take me home. And it's your turn to choose a movie."

"Excellent. The Guns of Navarone."

"You're such a guy," she said, chuckling.

He didn't know whether that was a compliment or not, but since she was smiling and she'd worn a gorgeous burgundy Vera Wang dress, he let it pass. They pulled out onto County Road, heading for Solano Dorado. "Does this mean you're staying home for the evening?" he asked, keeping his gaze on the road.

"I haven't decided yet," she returned, fiddling with the CD player in the dashboard. "Aubrey's supposed to call and let me know if Toombs is going to the Mallorey thing on Saturday. If he is, that would be a better night to get in. If he's not attending, then the sooner the better."

"So nothing I said is going to make any difference to you."

"Rick, knock it off."

"I don't want to knock it off. We live together. If you're going to break the law, I think I deserve a heads up."

She faced him, folding her arms across her chest. "Heads up, Brit. In the next couple of days I'm going to be breaking into Gabriel Toombs's house."

"What if I call Viscanti and tell him you've located the probable location of his property, and tell him to proceed however he chooses?"

For a long second she sat there, silent. "If you did that," she finally said, her voice clipped, "I would leave."

He pulled over and slammed the Jag into park. "Just like that?" he demanded, glaring at her set expression. "No discussion, no argument? If I did something to try to keep you safe, you would just leave? That's ridiculous."

"I'm not going to argue about this. You know it's not about keeping me safe. Something like just taking every decision away from me—I can't even—Fuck this." She hit her seatbelt release and shoved open the door. "I can't believe you threatened me with that," she said quietly, her voice shaking. Then she got out of the car and slammed the door behind her.

For a second Richard sat there. Christ. He was used to the bluff and bravado method of negotiation, but she had said it so… matter-of-factly. Like she meant it. And she hadn't tried to argue. She hadn't even wanted to argue. She'd just walked away. People didn't walk away from him. Especially not Samantha.

He climbed out of the car and slammed the door shut. She was thirty feet in front of him, walking quickly in her burgundy heels down the sidewalk. "Samantha."

"Get back in the car," she said, not slowing. "I'm walking home. I need to think." More than anything else, the even tone of her voice bothered him. Bothered him—hell, it frightened him. Cars driving along the street were slowing down; in a couple of seconds cell phones would be snapping photos and taking videos. The spat would probably make the evening news, and then the entertainment shows tomorrow. He could pay attention to that, be annoyed by the unanticipated publicity, or he could take care of the very large problem at hand. Because he had the feeling that if he waited until she got home, gave her time to think over whatever she was considering, things would get much worse.

"Am I wrong to be worried about you putting yourself in danger for a paycheck you don't even need?" he asked, striding after her.

"It's not about the fucking paycheck," she snapped, not slowing. "And you know it, slick."

He heard anger in her voice this time. That and the name-calling was good. He could work with, understand, her emotions better than her version of logical assessment. "I don't want you to get arrested and sent to prison, especially not for the sake of a museum exhibit."

"That stuff belongs in the museum—not in Wild Bill Toombs's spare bedroom. I accepted the job, and I'm going to make it right."

Richard caught up and clutched her shoulder, turning her around to face him. "You can't make every job a crusade."

Samantha jabbed a finger into his chest. "You can't decide which jobs are important to me. And you don't get to decide what I do for a living or to try to go around me to shut me down. If you can't live with it, then we can't live together."

Just barely he resisted the sudden urge—need—to grab her and keep her there, keep her in his life. "That's somewhat drastic, don't you think?" he managed, his tone hard-er than he would have wished. "We should be able to reach a compromise."

"A compromise? What the hell do you think I've been doing for the past twelve months? I was making over two million dollars a year before we met. Now I'm installing security cameras. I have a damn office with a coffeemaker. What's your compromise, Rick.?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but everything he might say would only make things worse. When put in a weaker position, change the subject and attack. "You haven't compromised as much as you claim."

"Excuse me?"

"You put on a good show," he returned, "but every time we argue you get ready to leave. No roots at all. Especially not in the bloody garden I gave you."

"The—I've been busy."

"If I don't get to decide what you do for a living, you don't get to blame me for it, either. You could have left me a year ago. I asked you to design the gallery wing at Raw-ley Park, but the security business was your idea."

"I couldn't keep doing what I was doing and be around you."

"No, you couldn't." Tentatively he reached out to brush a strand of her hair back behind her ear. "And I'm very glad you decided you wanted to be around me. I'd like to be able to count on you being around me for a very long time to come. When the decisions you make threaten that, yes it worries me, and yes it makes me angry. But the decisions are yours. That's my compromise, I suppose."

Samantha eyed him, her expression beneath the street lights still not giving much away. "You could probably convince a penguin to buy a tuxedo, couldn't you?"

"I don't know. I've never tried. But if you're implying that I'm trying to force you to accept something you don't want or need, I have to disagree. I think I'm good for you. I know you're good for me."

She turned her back on him again, took a step away, and stopped. Richard didn't move. As he'd said, and however much he disliked it, the decision was hers. Even so, he couldn't help holding his breath as he watched her.

Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath. Then she faced him, stepped up, and tangled her hands into his hair to pull his face down and kiss him.

Richard closed his eyes for a second as he kissed her back, tasting chocolate faintly on her lips. A couple of months ago they'd fought, and Samantha had slashed his tires and fled England for Palm Beach. He'd known even as he'd followed her across the Atlantic, though, that they would make up. That fight had been frustration more than anything else. Tonight, however—this fight scared him. Not a good sign, considering the item he would be picking up from Harry Winston this weekend.

"May we go home?" he asked quietly, running his fingers along her cheeks.

"Yes. But I'm still thinking. And I'm still mad."

And he was still worried

As they pulled up in front of Solano Dorado, Samantha's cell phone rang to the tune of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." With a sideways glance at Rick she pulled the phone from her purse. "Hi, Aubrey."

"Miss Samantha. I made a few discreet inquiries, and Wild Bill will be attending the Mallorey soiree on Saturday."

"You'll be there too, right?"

"Most definitely."

"Thanks, Aubrey. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good evening, fair lady."

She hung up, and Ben appeared from the direction of the garage to open her car door for her. Rick usually beat the driver to the punch, but not tonight. Instead he went up the shallow granite steps to the front door as Reinaldo opened it.

Whatever the hell had gotten into him over the. past couple of days, she didn't like it. First the "I'm trusting you" shit, like he was warning her to behave herself. Now tonight he'd apparently decided he needed to step in and remove temptation from her weak little fingers.

As she thought about it, it pissed her off all over again. Especially when she wasn't even convinced that breaking into the house of a known receiver of stolen goods in search of more stolen treasures was the wrong thing to do. At the top of the steps she brushed past him and went inside.

"Hans is just closing up the kitchen," Reinaldo said in his light Cuban accent. "Can I get you some coffee or cocoa, or a soda?"

"We're fine," Rick answered before she could. "Good night, Reinaldo."

The housekeeper nodded, backing out again. "Good night, boss, Miss Sam."

"Rude much?" she commented over her shoulder, heading upstairs.

"I take it that we're still arguing."

"That ramrod goes straight up your British ass when you get mad, doesn't it?" She could feel the angry heat coming off him as he climbed the stairs behind her. "What the hell are you mad at, anyway?" she continued. "You gave me the garden. That means it's mine, and I get to work on it if and when I damn well want to."

"I'm mad because you threatened to leave," he retorted, surprising her. "Again. And because, yes, I suddenly realized that you still haven't even made a single bloody phone call about the pool garden, and now because I know what your first instinct still is, and that as soon as we get to the bedroom you're going into your closet and get that idiotic emergency backpack and then walk out."

"Wow, you've got me all figured out." At the top of the stairs she turned around and faced him. "You want a compromise?" she demanded, realizing even as she spoke that chickening out of this relationship would be much easier than staying. "I'll call the nursery in the morning and have somebody come out and look at my plans and start ordering materials. Then I'll go with you to the Mallorey party on Saturday. And then you will back the hell off and let me do my job for the Met as I see fit." Dark blue eyes glared at her. "I don't like it." That stopped her for a second. So she'd found it—his breaking point. She'd always figured it would happen sooner or later. Leaving wasn't her first instinct any longer, but this wasn't just an argument. This was about him trying to pull her entire new life out from under her. And for a second she was glad that she was so furious with him, because later it was going to really, really hurt. "Okay," she finally said. He took a step closer. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, I can't be what you want and still be what I want. So I guess you get to be right one more time. I'll go get my idiotic backpack and then I'll call a cab and you will nevei—never—see me again. Then you won't have to compro—"

"I said I didn't like it," he interrupted. "Not that I couldn't accept it." She blinked. "What?" There was nothing like careening down a road with no brakes and then slamming into a pile of pillows.

Rick shook his head. "Generally I don't like to tell an opponent my weaknesses, but you're not precisely an opponent. You're my weakness, in fact."

"I make you weak. Give me a break."

"Don't threaten me with leaving again." His fingers clenched and unclenched, and then he walked around her and into the bedroom.

If this was another of his negotiating tactics, it was a good one. He'd managed to undercut her entire tirade. "It wasn't a threat," she said, stalking after him. "I meant it."

"I know you meant it." His butt vanished into her walk-in closet. "And I hope you realize by now that I'm apparently willing to let you put yourself in danger in order to keep you around. Make whatever demands you want and threaten to leave if you don't get your way, and I'll give in."

"It's not like that. You were being a total jerk. And what are you doing in there?" She stopped just outside the closet door.

He appeared again, her emergency backpack in his hands. "According to television and the movies, when couples fight and one of them decides to stalk out, they have to go around and collect the pieces of their lives that they've entwined with their significant other." Unzipping the bag, he pulled out a roll of duct tape and a toothbrush. "They don't keep a pack ready and waiting to leave at any bloody moment."