A Touch of Minx (19 page)

Samantha didn't know whether he meant it or not, but she supposed she'd have to take him at his word. Having him along would help resolve the problem of toting out sixty pounds of fragile armor and two valuable swords, but it could create a whole new set of problems.

"I've gone into places with you before," he stated, standing and holding her chair for her.

"Yes, when nobody was home and where security sucked."

"Toombs will be at the party, and you'll take care of security. And I will follow your lead."

A successful break-in was more than a matter of willingness to go in and follow instructions. On the other hand, keeping him from getting involved would be pretty much impossible. "I guess after dinner we'll have to pick out our matching B and E outfits."

Rick took her hand as they headed inside. "Men don't wear outfits."

"Studly man clothes, then." Okay, he wanted to keep it light. That was better than more yelling and threats and trying to order her around.

So far she'd avoided telling anyone about Mike Donner's involvement with Anatomy Man. All she needed to do was take a quick trip to the old warehouse tonight to rescue Clark, and then another jaunt to Miss Barlow's classroom to drop him off. Then at least that would be finished.

After a moment she realized he was steering her toward the stairs rather than the dining room. "Where are we going?"

"To eat top sirloin. Picanha, remember?"

"In bed? Won't that be messy with the steak sauce and everything?"

"Not in bed. In the Keys."

She hauled on his hand until all six-foot-two of him stopped on the landing. "Don't make me hit you on the head and call Dr. Klemm."

He grinned at her. "I liked having the helicopter in England, so I bought one for Florida."

Now it made sense. "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday."

She snorted, shaking her head at him. "Boys and their toys."

"That's right. So I need shoes and a jacket, and you need a wrap or something, and we're flying to Islamorada. I made seven o'clock reservations at Braza Lena."

If she didn't know better, she would be ready to swear that Rick knew she had B and E plans for the night and he was trying to disrupt them. What a way to do it, though. Dinner at the edge of the Caribbean. Of course to get there and back she would have to ride in a helicopter, but what the hell. "Just don't expect to get lucky in the air tonight," she said, separating from him just inside the bedroom suite.

"I can wait until we get back home," he returned with a slow, sexy smile.

"Oh, you're so sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"I am." He sat on the couch to pull on his brown loafers, sans socks. "And the next time you figure out that a car is tailing you, please don't wait twenty minutes before you tell me."

Wow. He'd actually said the P word. "The Miata was probably the paparazzi, or Nancy O'Dell from Access Hollywood. I think she has a thing for you, Brit."

"I'm taken. And so is she, if I recall." He stood again. "And not to change the subject, but did you get a look at Castillo's list of thefts?"

"I did." While she decided how much she wanted to say about Frank's file, Samantha ducked into her dressing closet and changed out of her sneaking-around T-shirt and into a black and red striped Donna Karan blouse, then slipped a thin black jacket off a hanger. Honest as she tried to be with him, there were some things he would be both better off and safer not knowing.

"And?" he prompted, stopping in the doorway and leaning against the frame.

"And that's one of those things where I have to ask if you really want to know the answer." There. Now the decision could be on his head.

"Unbelt. And I know you know what that means, so don't try to change the subject again."

"Fine. Since you asked so nicely, I'm responsible for three of those pieces from Castillo's list. Feel better?"

"Do you know where any of them ended up?"

"Just the bridle. Stoney would know about the rest, but I seem to have misplaced him." Blowing out her breath, she forced a smile and strolled up to wrap her hands into his lapels. "So are you sure you want to ride in a helicopter with me? I'm kind of mad, bad, and dangerous to know."

He kissed her softly. "You and Lord Byron," he murmured. "And you're not mad. You're… unique. And I thank God for that every day."

"Good save," she said, noting that he hadn't argued with the "bad" or "dangerous" bit. She tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the hallway. "That first part didn't quite sound like a compliment, but then you pulled it off."

Rick came to a sudden stop, nearly jerking her off her feet.

"Ow."

"I was serious," he said, frowning.

She let him keep his grip on her hand. "I know that," she retorted. "It scares me a little that you're thanking God for me, so I made a joke. Okay?"

He met her gaze. "Okay. But I still can't help that I love you."

"That's not as scary as it used to be. And I love you, too." She pulled on his hand. "Can we go get our picanha now?" The sooner they went, the sooner she'd be able to get back, and the sooner she'd be able to rescue Clark the Anatomy Man.

Saturday, 2:08 a.m.

"I didn't ask to fly the helicopter until we were out over the water and away from any civilians," Samantha said, climbing out of the back of the stretched Mercedes S600.

"That didn't make me feel any better. The Atlantic Ocean is rather substantial. And deep."

She laughed. "The pilot was right there. And we had flotation devices in the back."

Ben closed the rear door behind them. "Would you like some assistance getting into the house?" he asked.

Samantha patted him on the shoulder. "We're good. If you come out in the morning and find us on the driveway, though, I give you permission to drag us inside."

With a quick, stifled smile Ben nodded. "With pleasure. Good night, Miss Sam, Mr. Addison."

"I think the lad believes we're pissed," Rick observed as the car pulled around the side of the house to the garage.

"You're pissed" Sam amended. "I'm a little tipsy. What the hell are mango mojitos, anyway?"

"Mango rum and mint leaves," he answered, "among a few other things."

"I'm glad I only had two of them." She glanced at her wristwatch. Damn. Her buzz wasn't too bad, but she was not going to try a B and E unless she was one hundred percent sober. Clark's rescue would have to wait until tomorrow.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" Rick asked, pushing open the front door and stepping aside to let her enter first.

He was obviously more sober than she'd given him credit for. "I was going to go on a dummy rescue," she said, deciding she'd give that honesty thing a try again, "but it can wait until tomorrow."

"Good." Rick snagged her arm, tugging her up against him as he backed into the closed door.

She leaned up along his hard chest, kissing him open-mouthed, their tongues dancing. With his free hand he unzipped her jeans and slid his fingers beneath her panties. The pleasant warmth already running through her spiraled into intense, insistent heat.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice a little ragged, "does this mean you'd like to make an appointment with me?"

He curled a finger, pressing into her. "Clear your calendar," he murmured, taking her mouth again.

Holy smokes. She'd gotten to fly—or hover, actually— a helicopter for a couple of minutes tonight. It had been thrilling and exciting, but this was better. Much better. Rick's arms, his skin, his warmth and the way she knew she was safe in his company—he stirred her up more than a boatload of mango mojitos.

Withdrawing his hand from her pants, he went to work unbuttoning her blouse, trailing his fingers across her breasts as he did so. She hissed in a breath. During the day the foyer would have been busy, crisscrossed with maids, housekeepers, and security. At this time of night the only people she had to look out for were the three security guards who patrolled the inside of the house.

Whether she had the power to hire and fire them or not, she still didn't want anybody stumbling over her while Rick had his hands in her bra or underwear. "Let's go upstairs," she rasped, as his fingers closed over her right nipple.

"Right here on the floor," he said, pulling her blouse and bra aside and replacing his fingers with his mouth.

Samantha put a hand against the door to brace herself as her knees went wobbly. She knew it wasn't from the rum. Christ, he felt good. But her brain hadn't totally shut down. Not yet, anyway. "Pick a room, sailor," she insisted, grabbing his hair and pulling him away from her chest.

"You're a tease; that's what you are," he panted, and grabbed her hand, towing her into the downstairs sitting room and slamming the door behind them. "There."

"Lock it. You just made a lot of noise."

"Bloody… Fine." Rick strode back to the door and twisted the lock.

As he came bade to where she stood beside the old Georgian cabinets, he pulled his jacket and shirt off, tossing them onto the floor. Even if she'd come up with another thing to protest she wouldn't have, not when he had that look on his face.

"Anything else?" he asked.

"Just you."

Samantha pulled off her own blouse, knowing that if he had to mess -with it much longer he would just lip it off, which would suck because she happened to like it. She let him unfasten her bra, since he liked that. Sinking onto the floor to lean back against a leather-covered chair, she tilted her head back as his mouth closed over her left tit. Mm. With his mouth occupied, he pulled off her shoes and then tugged down her jeans, dropping them somewhere close to his shirt.

Her panties followed; she'd lost a handful of them over the past year, and wondered on occasion what the housekeepers must think, discovering them tossed behind bookshelves or hanging off lamps or burning in the fireplace or something. Rick, of course, thought it was some kind of mark of his virility when he could make her underwear vanish. Like he needed anything other than himself for that.

Rick took her by the hips and tugged her forward away from the chair. When she was fiat on her back he sank down, wrapping his hands around her thighs and leaning in to tease between her legs with his lips and tongue.

Samantha gasped, her eyes practically rolling back in her head at the sensation of his mouth on her. Pretty much from the time their clothes started to come off she was ready to go, but Rick liked to drive her right to the edge—or past it—before he got down to serious sex.

"Get your damn pants off," she demanded, writhing and making pitiful moaning sounds.

He lifted his head to meet her gaze. "You do it," he said. Tightening her legs around his shoulders, she rolled them both over, putting herself on her stomach and him on his back. She didn't stay in shape for nothing. She sat up, straddling his bare chest. "Are you ordering me around?" she asked with a slow smile.

Rick nodded. "1 am."

She bent down and kissed him again. "In that case," she murmured, having trouble breathing as his hands cupped her breasts again, "I guess I'll make an exception and take care of that."

With a laugh he rose up on his elbows to watch as she slid off him and went to work on the fastening of his jeans. "I'm glad you're feeling cooperative."

"Yeah, well, that's your fault. You have quite the incentive package."

"Don't you mean packet?"

"Nope." She opened his pants and pulled them down as he lifted his hips to help her. "Package."

He kicked off his loafers, and she tossed his jeans and boxers over the chair. Sedentary as his life could be, he still managed to keep in shape—a living, breathing, sexy-as-hell work of art. And he was all hers, apparently.

"Come up here," he said, taking her hand and drawing her up along his body again.

"You revved me up," Samantha breathed, reaching down to close her hand around his cock. "Now it's your turn."

"I'm always revved up around you." He kissed her, slow and deep, rolling them at the same time so she was underneath Mm. "The second you walk into a room, every time you smile," he continued, pushing his hips forward and sliding inside her, "your laugh, your frown, your—" Samantha covered his mouth with her fingers. "I get it." she managed, locking her ankles around his thighs as he started a slow, deep thrust, "I'm very cool."

"You're more than cool. You're… amazing."

Blue eyes held her gaze as he moved inside her. Tonight he looked so… soulful, almost like she could drown in those deep blue eyes of his. All the arguments lately, the destruction of her emergency backpack, the insistence that she get going on the garden, lunch with Katie and all the talk about kids, and she still couldn't imagine anything better than this.

It all spun together in her mind, mixing with arousal and pleasure and memory—her memory of that weird conversation with Donner and his saying Rick was dancing around giving her something…

"Oh, my God!" she gasped, her body shuddering with release even as her brain seized up.

"That's what I like," Rick breathed, speeding his pace until he shuddered and lowered himself on her.

Samantha didn't feel nearly as relaxed as he obviously did, or as she usually did after a very nice orgasm. He was thinking about proposing to her. About marriage. What the hell was she supposed to make of that? Holy crap. She pushed at his shoulder. "Off," she demanded.

He lifted his head to look down at her. "What's wrong?" he asked, his breathing still hard and fast.

She felt even less ready for conversation. "You're heavy," she improvised, shoving again.

Rick lifted off of her, sitting as she scrambled to her feet. "Did I hurt you?" He ran a hand gently down her calf, his voice husky.

"No! Of course not." His shirt would do a better job of covering her than her own, so she snatched it up and pulled it on, buttoning up the front despite her shaking fingers.

"Something just occurred to me, and I need to take care of it."

"You thought of something else you needed to take care of right in the middle of us making love?" he asked darkly.

'"Making love' sounds lame. We were having sex. And I wasn't doing my taxes or anything, so don't get your tes tosterone all in an uproar. Something just popped into my head. Don't get all bent out of shape." She hurried over to the door and unlocked it. Air. She needed some air. A lot of air.

Rick pulled on his jeans and stood, striding over to close the door again when she started to pull it open. "I am bent out of shape," he snapped. "So tell me what thought popped into your head, Samantha."

"It's my thought, not yours. Get out of the way."

"No."

She let go of the door handle. "Fine. I'll go out the window."

He grabbed her shoulder, pushing her back against the door. "What the devil's got you so frightened all of a sudden that you're trying to run away?"

"I am not fucking running away. Quit screwing with the way things are before you totally ruin everything! Now let go!"

Richard let her go. She scrambled out the door and for the stairs, which relieved him a little bit. At least she wasn't running out the front door. Yet. He squatted down to gather up the rest of their scattered clothes, then sat in the old leather chair, the shoes and garments in his arms.

She'd figured out that he meant to propose. That was the only reason he could think of for her to make the "quit screwing with the way things are" statement. Not quite the reaction he'd hoped for. And he had a ring to pick up tomorrow. "Shit," he muttered.

How could he do what he did, successfully managing several billion dollars' worth of business concerns, and not be able to figure out one woman? What was the difference, anyway, between staying together and staying together with rings on their left hands? Okay, kids, roots—he understood all of that. But they were so alike. How could he want it so badly and her not at all?

It wasn't possible. Whatever she might say, she was just scared. She'd lived day to day for so long that of course the idea of committing to a future terrified her. "You stupid git," he said to himself, standing again. He couldn't leave it like this. If he did, she might very well vanish before he had a chance to convince her otherwise.

The bedroom door was closed and locked. Bloody wonderful. He maneuvered the clothes and shoes around until he had two knuckles free. "Samantha?" he called, knocking.

Nothing.

Since he'd wrecked her backpack, and thank God for that, she couldn't have gotten her things together and left already. He knocked again. "Sam?"

At the far end of the hall he heard a low cough, and jumped.

"Problem, Mr. Addison?" Pablo Esqueda, one of Solano Dorado's night security guards, asked as he walked closer. "I have a master key, if you—"

The door clicked and opened a couple of inches. "I'm good," he said, using one of Samantha's expressions and elbowing the door open far enough for him to get through it. He closed it behind him with one bare foot and dumped the clothes onto the couch. "Why do the security guards have master keys?" he asked, spying Samantha's backside as she disappeared into her dressing closet.

"Because if there's a problem inside a locked room, they should be able to get in," her muffled voice came.

"Into our bedroom?" Yes, he was avoiding the subject, but just talking with her might get him some of the information he very badly needed.

"I just wanted some breathing room, Rick."

Of course she wouldn't want to avoid the subject, but he still needed to tread a little more carefully. "What happened to the thing you needed to take care of?"

She stepped outside the closet as he approached it. Putting her hands on her hips, wearing nothing other than his gray shirt, she gazed at him steadily with her chin up. Scared, but defiant. His Samantha. "Are you going to bust my chops?" she asked. "Or are you going to step back and let me catch my damned breath?"

God, she was sharp. And lethal. And she'd just put this entire business squarely on his shoulders—which at the moment was precisely where it belonged. It was bloody tricky, when his action would depend on her reaction, and yet he had to make his move first. "I have never done anything with the intention of restricting your breathing," he said slowly. "And I never mean to do anything to cause you hurt or distress, now or in the future. I hope the way I feel about you isn't what's distressing you."