A Touch of Minx (17 page)

"Stop that."

Ignoring her, he stalked into the bathroom and put the toothbrush into the medicine cabinet beside the one she used daily. Then, still holding the pack, he went to the balcony door, opened it, and tossed the duct tape down into the pool. He reached into the backpack again and came up with her spare jogging shoes, which got tossed back into her closet along with the T-shirt, jeans, pair of underwear and socks she kept in reserve.

The cash he dumped into her nightstand, along with the small coil of copper wire and the flashlight. The disposable cell phone went into the waste basket.

"Don't make me kick your ass, Addison," she warned, though in truth she felt more surprised than angry. Rick lost control so rarely, and this was a doozy.

Returning to the bed, he turned the backpack upside down and dumped the remaining bits—fake passport and driver's license, paper clips, pen, pad of paper, tube of lipstick—onto the coverlet before sweeping it all into the waste basket. Then he unzipped the small outer pocket and pulled out the Swiss army knife she kept in there, though how he'd known about it, she had no idea. He opened it, and proceeded to slash the backpack to shreds before he threw it away, sent the knife into the night stand, and slammed it shut. "There."

Feeling like her jaw was hanging open, Samantha stared at him. That pack—a pack—had been part of her life since she and Martin had left her mother. For the ensuing twenty years she'd kept one ready, and had made good use of it on more than one occasion. And Rick in his gray Armani suit and black and gray tie had just trashed it. Not just trashed it, but demolished it.

"You threw my duct tape into the pool," she said, focusing on the most obvious offense. "I didn't want to walk it down to the utility room." Her gaze went to the crumpled, ripped blue pack sticking out of the mahogany waste basket. "This wouldn't stop me if I wanted to go."

"I know that." He blew out his breath. "Now it just won't be as easy." Rick dusted his hands off on his slacks and walked up to her. "Do you want to leave?"

"You tried to step all over my—"

"You're backtracking," he cut in. "We had an argument, and I gave in. Do you want to leave?"

"Your way of giving in looks kind of like you conceding, one point and then demolishing my stuff."

"Do you—"

"No, I don't want to leave. Of course I don't want to leave."

"Good." He touched her wrists with his fingers, sliding his hands around slowly to embrace her.

"But," she continued, unwilling to let him believe that by trashing her stuff he'd erased every reservation she'd ever had, "if we aren't compatible, I'm thinking we should figure that out now."

"We're compatible," he said, backing away a little to meet her gaze. "Stubborn and arrogant and independent, but compatible."

"You're that sure?"

"It's hearts and minds, Samantha. What my heart wants, my mind will bend, fold, and mutilate in order for me to have. We may not be there yet, but I have no intention of letting you walk out of here."

He spoke softly, but she heard the steel in his voice. For a second she wondered what he would have done if she had actually seriously tried to leave. Not just throw a fit and stalk out for a day or two, as she'd done before, but leave for good.

His blue eyes studied her face, trying to figure out what she was thinking. Rick Addison was a man who could buy and sell most of the world, and he knew how to get what he wanted. He expected to get what he wanted. Man, she must frustrate him, just like he frustrated her. She'd spent her life maneuvering and manipulating, seeing every other person as a mark to be taken advantage of or an enemy or an ally to be dealt with accordingly. He saw through all of her shit. She'd been more honest with him than she had anyone else in her life, with the possible exception of Stoney—wherever the hell he was.

"Have you noticed that our fights are getting more serious?" she finally asked, moving her arms to break his grip.

"That's because we're getting more serious. The stakes are higher." She felt his gaze on her as she headed toward the balcony door that overlooked the pool area. "Air?"

"I'm going to fish the duct tape out of the pool before it clogs the filter," she said, pushing open the door and stepping onto the small balcony. Then she stopped and looked back into the suite. "You've had more experience with the whole relationship thing than I have," she said, taking a dig at his nasty, failed ex-marriage even though she knew she should probably shut up and leave fairly okay alone, "but once in a while, instead of the logic thing and attacking or negotiating your way into coming out ahead, you might just try apologizing."

"Mm hm. Maybe next time."

Samantha blew out her breath as she descended the red stone stairs. Leaving, staying, offended, worried, hurt—arguing with Rick was tough. She'd pulled jobs that left her less mentally and physically tired. Her dad, Martin, wouldn't have gotten why she'd bothered to stay and fight—after all, he'd taken himself and her and left their house without even looking back. Look out for number one, and get rid of anything that might get in the way of that. That was the first and most important rule of survival in Martin's thief world. And once she'd met Rick, that was the first rule she'd begun to chip away at.

Obviously she still had some more work to do. Rick kept pushing at her, but he wasn't Mr. Perfect, either. Too many people asked how high when he said jump, and he'd gotten used to that.

She found the pool net and managed to fish out the roll of duct tape from the deep end without getting chlorinated water all over her dress. Then she sat at one of the tables surrounded by the low area lights, and listened to the sound of the nearby ocean. Man, she felt wiped out. And angry as she'd been, more than anything else she'd wanted a reason not to leave. Even Rick demolishing her emergency backpack hadn't freaked her out like she'd thought it would.

She stayed by the pool for nearly an hour, until her bare legs and arms began to goose pimple in the light ocean breeze. Rick hadn't come down to see what she was doing, and she had to give him credit for that. At least he'd realized that she needed a little space, a breather without him analyzing and countering everything she did or didn't say.

Back upstairs, only the lights outside her dressing closet and in the bathroom were on, and the bedroom door was half closed. She relaxed a little bit more as she changed into loose shorts and a T-shirt. No more confrontations tonight then, hopefully. If Rick had been up waiting for her she probably would have opted to sleep on the couch or in one of the guest rooms. He'd more than likely realized that, too.

Once she'd brushed her teeth and tidied the bathroom, she slipped into the bedroom. Rick lay in bed, and in the dark she couldn't tell whether he was still awake or not. Silently she slipped into bed and curled onto her side, her back to him.

As she settled in, Rick moved closer, slipping an arm across her waist and fitting her back against his chest. "Sorry," he whispered into her hair.

Samantha nodded; if she'd said anything out loud, she would have started blubbering. And she never cried. Not even from relief.

Friday, 12:18 p.m.

"I don't want to interfere," Richard said, hefting his notebook computer under his arm.

"So don't interfere. You can still join us." Samantha finished tying her hair back in a perky ponytail. She looked the image of what she was no doubt trying to project—the wealthy, competent mistress of a large, wealthy estate.

"But it's your anniversary present."

"If you don't want to sit in, then don't," she returned, slipping into her deck shoes, sockless to go with her blue capri pants and snug white T-shirt spattered with pastel butterflies. "Spying out the library windows, though, will just make you look creepy."

"Not mysterious and eccentric?" he asked with a slight grin. He'd taken the whole morning very carefully, trying to avoid any mention of the blow-up from last night. He didn't care for a repeat of that.

Apparently, neither did she. In fact, she seemed more at ease today than he could remember—though that might very well be wishful thinking on his part. At the least he'd expected her to go out to purchase a replacement backpack, but she hadn't even glanced at the full waste basket.

"Not so much. It's your house, Rick. If the nursery guy or I suggest something that you don't like, you get to say so."

He was actually more interested in just seeing how the meeting went. She acted a good game, but faced with an actual landscaping expert, he didn't know how she would react. "How about if I let you get started, then wander by?"

Samantha chuckled, picking up the phone next to her as the house intercom buzzed. "Hi, Reinaldo. Okay, show them to the pool, if you don't mind. Thanks." She hung up. "We must be important," she said, a half smile still on her face as she looked over at Richard. "Piskford Nurseries sent three people, including Burt Piskford."

"They know how much money you have to spend." Taking her fingers, he tugged her up against him and kissed her. Perhaps they'd made up, but he preferred proof. As she sank against him, her lips warm and soft against his, he finally felt relieved. She couldn't fake that. Probably.

Laughing again, she pulled free of his grip. "I'll make sure they know that. Wander by at your leisure."

With three of them for her to deal with, he'd be wandering by sooner rather than later. This was supposed to be fun for her, not another challenge of courage and willpower— though she did seem to like those sorts of challenges.

Samantha rolled up her plans, picked up her books, and with another quick kiss left the library. As soon as he was certain she wouldn't turn around and walk back in to catch him, he set aside the computer and went to the window.

Standing alongside the wall so hopefully no one from outside would be able to see him, he settled in to look down at the pool area. Creepy or eccentric, he wanted to know how Samantha fared, and whether or not she needed him for backup or for decoration. Either one would suffice today, as far as he was concerned.

His cellular rang, making him jump. If that was Samantha commenting on his spying, he was going to have to give up his stealth activities as pitiful beyond comprehension. "Addison," he said as he flipped it open.

"Mr. Addison. I didn't realize this was a direct line," a cultured female voice with a hint of Southern drawl said.

"It is," he returned, ready to hang up and have the number blocked if someone was going to try to sell him a subscription to something.

"This is Joanna at Harry Winston. Your ring is ready for you to pick up, or we can have it delivered if you prefer th—"

"I'll come get it," he interrupted, his heart pounding.

"Of course. And you'll have final approval, naturally, but if I might say so, Mr. Addison, it's… quite lovely."

"Thank you. I'll be by in the next day or so."

He wanted to go immediately, just to be sure he had it in his hands, but he was being supportive at the moment. Once he had it on him, he wasn't entirely certain how to go about giving it to Samantha, anyway. Judging from last night, they still had some serious issues to work through. Whether that had been the biggest hurdle or worse was still to come, he didn't know yet. The question was whether he was willing to wait to find out, or take the plunge and demand an answer immediately—and risk the consequences.

Rick was probably more anxious about the pool area planning meeting than she was, Samantha reflected as she spread her sketches across one of the patio tables. He thought she was nervous about making a mistake or looking like she didn't know what she was doing in front of Burt Piskford, because that kind of thing would bother him.

As for her, however, the tough part had been the decision to put down her literal and metaphorical roots. After that, everything else garden-wise was pretty much a piece of cake.

"Changing the size and configuration of the pool will be the hardest part," Benjamin Alvaro, Piskford's number two guy, said as he made some notes on a clipboard. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a resurfacing to match the new sandstone?"

Samantha lowered her sunglasses a little to look at him. "This is a rectangular pool," she said smoothly, playing the sophisticated socialite to the hilt. "I don't think coloring the walls tan will make it look like a natural rock grotto, do you?"

"I just want you to realize what a mess it's going to be. And changing out the pool will add at least four weeks to the project."

"We won't be here through most of November and December, anyway. I'd rather have it look nice than be finished quickly."

"Who did you consult in putting together this list of plants, if you don't mind my asking?" Alma Rivera, the nursery's head plant consultant, asked.

"Why, is something wrong with the selections?" Samantha returned. All right, maybe they'd struck a nerve. She'd worked hard on that list.

"No, this is terrific," Alma said quickly, smiling.

"Then I did it myself."

"You have a very line eye." Alma was obviously better at the soft sell than Alvaro. "Most people pick plants by color, but these are all growers for this climate. The only thing I would recommend is adding a half dozen Gaillardia Fanfare. The red and yellow blossoms are gorgeous and Mediterranean-looking, and it blooms for most of the year."

"Sounds good."

"Great," Piskford finally put in, obviously waiting until his minions had done all the preliminary work. "I guess all that's left now is setting the price." His gaze lifted past her. "Mr. Addison. Thank you again for choosing Piskford Nurseries, sir."

A warm hand slid around Samantha's waist. "You have a grand reputation," Rick said, "which seemed to be a good match with Miss Jellicoe's plans."

He'd lasted lurking up in the library window a lot longer than she'd expected. "We were just getting to the price for all this," she informed him, wondering not for the first time if he had a radar for negotiation stuff.

"Ah, my favorite part. The—"

Her cell phone rang. It was the generic tone for an unknown number, and her insides tightened a little. Stoney, maybe? "Excuse me," she said, opening the phone and moving toward the house. "Hola."

"Sam?"

It was Mike Donner. "Hi," she said, wiping the frown from her face before anyone could see it. Money exchanging hands or not, she'd agreed to do a job for Olivia Donner. A job with a deadline. "What can I do for you?"

"I can't rat out my friends, or they'd never talk to me again. They know you're looking for the… the thing, and they know that I know you."

"How do they feel about doing the right thing and telling me who they sold it off to?"

"Sold it? Who'd want that thing?"

Samantha paused for a heartbeat. They still had it. Okay, why? "What about returning it, then?"

"I mentioned it, but they blew me off. I don't want them to think I'm a wimp or something, you know?"

She supposed a responsible adult would give him some advice about not succumbing to peer pressure and knowing right from wrong. She wasn't exactly the embodiment of responsibility, though. "The class wants it back," she said, careful not to use Mike's name in case Rick could hear her end of the conversation. "I'm going to find it; that's what I do. Are you going to see it this afternoon?"

"Yeah. Right after school."

"Okay. I'll see what I can do for you, but I'm not making any promises. Deal?"

He sighed. "Deal. The bell just rang; I have to go. Do you want to know where—"

"I'm good," she interrupted. "Get going."

"Thanks, Sam. This is not going to happen again. I promise."

If she'd been Martin Jellicoe, her advice would have been just to avoid getting caught next time. "I'll hold you to that. Bye."

"Bye."

She checked the time on the phone before she closed it. The bell must have been for the last class of the day, which gave her about fifty minutes to change into something better for snooping, get the incognito car, and drive to Leonard High School.

"Anything important1?" Rick, asked from behind her.

Shit. She needed to add finalizing the pool area negotiations to her schedule. She'd never make it. But she'd given her word to Rick that she would do this today. Making promises to people was stupid, she decided. "Urn, no. Just an update on Clark."

Rick lifted an eyebrow. "You've located him?"

"Maybe."

He glanced from her to the landscape designers. "You know, if you have to go meet Clark, I can sign these papers. As long as you're happy with the arrangements."

Samantha grinned. "Just make sure Benjamin here is doing the grotto pool and not the resurfacing."

Rick inclined his head, every inch the British nobleman that he actually was. "Of course."

She grabbed his shoulder, lifted up on her toes, and kissed him soundly on the lips. "You rock," she whispered.

"So I've been told." He kissed her back. "Be careful."

"I will be." As careful as she could be, anyway.

Samantha reached the side street across from Leonard High School just as kids began pouring out of the buildings like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Katie Donner was already there, her Lexus parked in one of the three or four prime spots in front of the school. Mike and his two friends—David and the unnamed one—dove into Katie's Lexus, and she took off in the direction of the park again. Baseball practice looked like it was a good cover for mischief. Anything mundane usually was, though. She was pretty sure where the boys would be heading next, but she stayed a couple of car lengths behind them just in case she was wrong.

The did exactly the same thing as they had earlier in the week, down to the other two kids who arrived at the park about two minutes after they did. Hm. Five fifteen-year-old boys. Unless they hormoned her to death she didn't think she'd have much trouble rescuing Clark.

The question of what a group of teenage boys might be doing with a neutral-gender anatomical dummy if it wasn't for money, though, did give her a case of the heebie-jeebies. Hopefully enough of Anatomy Man remained… salvageable that she could return him to Miss Barlow's class.

As soon as the Lexus drove off, the kids bagged up their bats and gloves and headed across the park just as they had before. She kept parallel to them, and turned into the far end of the strip mall to keep an eye on what they were doing. She waited until they passed by the burger place and went behind the row of stores, and then she climbed out of the Explorer and locked it behind her.

Even though she was matching herself against kids ten years younger than she was in age and about a hundred years behind her in life experience, any gig was good for getting the old heart pumping. This one was no exception.

She stopped just short of the corner of the long strip of shops, listened for a second, and then took a quick look down the length of the narrow alley. The last of the boys disappeared over a fence on the opposite side. Well, this was getting interesting. Apparently they were actually doing something clandestine.

Stuffing the car keys deep into her pants pocket, she took a short run at the fence and grabbed the top of it. Using her toes for leverage, she hiked her head over the top. No sign of the kids, so she heaved herself up and over, landing on her feet amid some tall weeds and rusted rolls of spare fencing. Two empty-looking warehouses filled the rest of the yard.

After a second of listening she heard the squeaky rattle of a roller door closing, and headed for the building just to her left. Whatever the hell they were doing with Clark, if Anatomy Man was actually there, she was really starting to get creeped out.

It didn't help when she found a window to look through. Inside two of the kids were pulling off their clothes, while one of the others dragged a heavy-looking roll of tarp into the center of the warehouse. With Mike's help he pulled Anatomy Man free, put a long, blonde wig over the dummy's head, and spent a couple of minutes pulling bikini bottoms and a top onto Clark and then arranging arms and legs.

"What the fuck?" she murmured, shifting to a window closer to the middle of the wall to get a better view. She'd seen some pretty sick things in the course of her life—one instance of mummy necrophilia came to mind—but these were upper middle-class teenagers who played baseball, for cripes' sake.