A Touch of Minx (2 page)

"Smart ass." With a quick breath she pulled off the lid. And froze.

A couple of months ago he'd given her a gorgeous diamond necklace and a matching pair of earrings, and with his budget and eye for beauty she'd expected something equally… jaw-dropping. The best and worst case scenarios had both centered around the gift being a ring. This, though—

"Well?" he prompted, his Caribbean-blue gaze on her face.

"It's a piece of paper," she said, her breath rattling free in her lungs again. It wasn't anything sparkly, thank God.

"So read it."

Setting the box aside, she slowly scanned the embossed lettering on the check-size document. "You do have a flair for the unexpected," she said a moment later, her voice shaking a little. Inside she shook a lot harder. Okay. Christ. It was a ring—practically—just not the round kind with a diamond.

"It's the best nursery in eastern Florida," he said proudly. "I did some research. And they'll work with you in person, on line, by phone, however you like. They can find any plant in the world, whatever you want."

She blinked. Get with it, Sam. "But this gift certificate's for a hundred thousand dollars," she said. "That's a lot of plants."

"You mentioned maybe wanting to do some hardscaping, too. They also contract for that. Change the pool, put in a volcano, whatever—"

"Whatever I want," she finished.

"Whatever you want." He took the fingers of her free hand and kissed them, feather-light. "I told you that the pool area was yours. It needs to be redone, and you said you've never had your own garden. I know you've been doing some sketches, and I just want you to know that I meant it."

She met his gaze. "So this is your subtle way of telling me to quit stalling and get to work. I have not been stalling, though. You asked me to design that whole gallery for your Devonshire estate, and it does open in two and a half months. We've spent the last three months in England. I oversaw that gemstone exhibit for four weeks. And I have a new business, and—"

"I know. It's a gift, Samantha—not a complaint. If you want something else, I'll—"

"It's amazing," she interrupted, swallowing down her own nerves. Taken for itself, it was a really nice gift. He knew she liked gardens, and he'd just paid for her to create the garden of her dreams. Just because a garden had roots, and roots were a whole metaphorical thing for someone who until the past year had lived most of her life on the move—either he didn't know that, or he did. She was pretty sure, though, that he did. He wanted her putting down roots, and right there with him. But it was still a nice gift. "You're amazing." Slowly she kissed him. "Thank you."

"You are entirely welcome. And now, I have Godzilla, Mothra and King Ghidorah: Giant Monsters All-Out Attack—which I have on good authority is the best of the second wave of Godzilla movies—all cued up on the DVD player, or we can go to bed and have more sex."

Samantha laughed. That was her Rick. He might scare the hell out of her, but he did know what she liked. "Don't you want your present?"

He nibbled on her ear, sliding one hand up under her borrowed shirt to cup her breast. "You gave me your present." Yowsa. "That was not a present. That was… us." One eyebrow lifting, he straightened. "Very well, then." Pushing her shirt back down, she stood up and went to her dressing closet. Reaching up behind the door, she freed the manila envelope she'd taped there. He probably wouldn't have snooped, and so she probably hadn't needed to hide it, but some instincts died harder than oth-ers. She lived in—used to live in—a world where people took things from one another, and so she took extra steps to make sure that her things stayed safe. And apparently now "her things" included Rick and her one-year-of-knowing-you present for him.

"Here," she said, handing him the envelope as she sat down beside him again.

Half his attention still clearly on her, he opened the metal tabs and tilted the contents onto his lap. '"Off-Road Extreme,'" he read, picking up the top brochure. "What's this?"

"It's three days in the Rockies taking four-wheel-drive vehicles through mud and water and over dirt and rocks and probably small furry animals, and then going fishing in the afternoons," she returned, leaning against his arm. "Man stuff."

"With man cars?"

"You betcha." She pulled out the ticket information. "You can redeem it anytime over the next year."

"This is for two," he said, eyeing her. "You're going fishing and mud flinging with me?"

Samantha wrinkled her nose. Maybe she sympathized with the fish too much to ever enjoy that. The whole being tempted and deciding whether to take the bait or not. "Only if my life depended on it," she said aloud. "I thought you and Donner could go bond or something. But don't you dare tell him that I voluntarily included him."

All she needed was for Rick's closest friend, that Yale graduate lawyer, to find out that she'd bought something for him. She'd never live it down. The Boy Scout was impossible to be around as it was.

"Your secret is safe with me. I'll tell Tom I insisted that someone go with me, and throwing his name out was your last recourse to escape the trip."

"I like it." She kissed him again.

He smiled. "Happy anniversary, Samantha Jellicoe. So, Godzilla, or sex?"

Samantha laughed. "How about both?"

"I like that. I get to be Godzilla."

"I guess that makes me Tokyo."

Friday, 10:10 a.m.

"Yes, she suggested your name, so she wouldn't have to go." Richard Addison flipped the offroading brochure across the wide desk of Tom Donner, senior partner in the law firm of Donner, Rhodes and Chritchenson. If Samantha was finally beginning to soften toward Tom, he had no intention of ruining that phenomenon by letting the attorney know it.

"Huh. Well, since you're going, I guess she wouldn't set up a death hunt thing on me," Tom commented in his deep Texas drawl. "Probably not, anyway."

"Come on, admit it. It looks fun."

"For something cooked up by Jellicoe, it does look pretty good." Donner read through the brochure before he handed it back. "I still can't believe that you two—and you, especially—are celebrating the night you met. One of your security guards died when that bomb went off. And she was there to rob you, remember?"

Richard clamped down on his abrupt annoyance. "I think we've reviewed your opinion of what happened. This is about a gift she gave me."

Tom held up his hands. "Fine. You know more about her than I do."

"That's right. I do."

"Speaking of presents," the attorney continued, clearly doing his best to ignore the hostility Richard wasn't even trying to disguise, "how did she like yours?"

That was a damned good question. "It went over quite well, thank you."

Clearing his throat, Tom sat back. "Maybe we should just worry about filing these incorporation documents, and leave the personal stuff out."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You said 'quite well,'" he answered in a very poor imitation of a British accent. "That's how people talk about trips to the doctor, Rick. But I'm not butting in. I know you don't like that. So look over the dates I set for estimated tax payments and your first profit audit. If they're okay, we can get this filed today."

Richard shook himself. Samantha had said she liked his gift, and he had no reason to doubt that. No, she hadn't been precisely gobsmacked, but then she was unpredictable. That was one of the things he loved most about his former cat burglar. If that hadn't been the case, he would have given her jewelry, and she would have oohed and aahed, and he would have gotten a tie clip or something. His nagging worry wasn't that he was pushing her, because he knew that he was, but that he was pushing a little too hard again.

"Or we can sit here and contemplate our navels," Tom continued. "You're the boss."

"Oh, shut up," Richard grumbled, leaning over the incorporation documents again. After a moment, though, he closed the folder.

"It's just a present, Rick." The attorney dug into his desk for a roll of Life Savers and popped one into his mouth. "A really expensive one, but I don't think either one of you care much about that."

"I want to buy her a ring, Tom."

Silence.

Taking a breath, Richard pushed to his feet and paced to the window. Samantha's office, Jellicoe Security, was just across the street. As far as he knew, she was over there complaining to her business partner, surrogate father, and former fence, Walter "Stoney" Barstone, that stupid old Rick had given her a gift certificate for plants in honor of the anniversary of their first meeting.

"A ring," Tom finally repeated, his voice cracking. "The ring?"

"An engagement ring," Richard clarified. "I want to ask Samantha to marry me."

"Rick, that's—I don't even know what to say."

"How about, 'Yee haw, she's a hell of a gal, and y'all are great together'?' Richard suggested in his best imitation of a Texas accent.

"Christ, I hope I don't actually sound like that. And can you marry her? I mean, even if she says yes, does she have a birth certificate? A country of origin? You can't have her dad give her away, even if he's not dead like he's supposed to be, because the last time the two of them got together they tried to rob the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

"You make her sound like a space alien. I'm certain she has a birth certificate somewhere. And while I don't think I need to remind you, she also thought her father was dead until six months ago, and she worked with both the NYPD and the FBI on the Met job."

"Okay, then ask her. Pop the question."

He wanted to—and that was what made everything so difficult. When he wanted something, he got it. Either he bought it, or he maneuvered the opposition until it was given to him. That was how he ran his life. Samantha, though, didn't follow anyone else's rules or protocols.

The diamond necklace he'd given her in June when they'd stayed at his country estate in England hadn't spooked her. In fact, she treasured it. But a necklace didn't have the same significance as a ring. And he still wasn't certain about her reaction to being offered a garden.

He'd granted her the pool garden nearly nine months ago, and she still hadn't bought a single plant for it. Yes, they'd been busy with other things, but unless he was seriously mistaken, she was stalling about the garden. And if she couldn't handle a garden, she definitely wouldn't be able to handle an engagement ring.

"I'm not asking your permission," he finally said. "I'm just telling you."

"And in response, I'm just saying holy crap."

"Thank you for clarifying. Do you think Katie would be willing to take Samantha to lunch?" he asked, putting his back to the window in order to see the largest of the framed photos Tom kept on his desk. The whole towheaded Donner family—Tom; his wife, Katie; and their three children.

"Probably," Tom returned. "But Katie's not going to turn around and tell you everything they talk about."

That would have been handy, though. "I'm aware of that. But Samantha doesn't seem to have any female friends, and I don't want her getting all of her advice from Walter Bar-stone." In fact, the only positive thing he had to say about Barstone was that he was a better father to her than Martin Jellicoe had ever been. If he hadn't been a high-level fence and Samantha's spiritual and practical advisor, Richard probably would have been more inclined to like him.

"No, you don't want that," Tom agreed.

"The only other female she's had conversation with is Patricia, and there is no way in hell that I want Samantha getting chummy with my ex-wife."

"Are you kidding me? Those two hate each other."

Personally, Richard thought it was more complicated than that, but he wasn't going to discuss the dynamics of Samantha and Patricia's apparent horrified fascination with one another. "And I have no problem with their animosity," he said when he realized Donner was still looking at him.

"I'll mention lunch to Katie, then, but I'm not going to tell her why. You can do that."

"Thank you."

"Yeah, don't thank me yet. She may find out that Jellicoe really has just been using you since day one. You said—"

"That's enough."

"No, I'm getting this one out. You said she was 'fine,' I think it was, with the nursery gift certificate. Not bowled over. That makes sense. What does a cat burglar really want with a garden?"

Richard leaned his spine against the window frame. As a rule he didn't explode when he got angry; he got even.

Only Samantha could push him past where he wanted to be. "I am going to say this one last time," he murmured, knowing he sounded cold and not caring. "I love Samantha Jellicoe. I trust her. In her way, she's the most honest person I've ever met. If you two don't like one another, that's fine. I'm not throwing her over for you and I'm not throwing you over for her. The end."

From Tom's expression he wanted to keep arguing. Richard waited. After fifteen or so years spent maneuvering through tough and frequently hostile negotiations and usually coming out on top, he'd become something of an expert at reading people. And Tom Dormer was about to concede. A nicer, less competitive man would probably have spared his friend the humiliation by changing the subject, but Rick wanted to hear it.

""Okay," his friend finally said heavily. "If you want her to stay around, then ask her to. I don't think I'll be the problem."

"Bastard," Richard growled. He looked from the window to the paperwork on the attorney's desk. "Let's go," he said, heading for the door.

"Go where?" Tom stood.

"Golfing." He pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor.

"I can't go golfing. I have two meetings this afternoon."

"Cancel them. Your business is about my business, and I give you permission. In fact, I insist."

"We don't have a tee time reservation."

Richard pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Robert Mayhill, please," he said when a pleasant female voice answered. "Robert? Rick Addison. Is there any way you can get my friend and me on the course in about forty minutes?"

"Of course, Mr. Addison. I'll see to it."

"Thank you." Snapping the phone closed, Richard pocketed it again. "Well?"

"Mayhill. Mar-a-Lago?"

"Where else?"

Tom sighed. "I'll have Shelly reschedule the meetings."

"Good."

"No," Samantha said with a sigh, setting aside the phone message. "I'll give them a call and recommend another company. Maybe DeSilva."

Her office secretary gazed at her wisely. "You've robbed Dr. and Mrs. Harkley."

She scowled. "You know, Aubrey, a gentleman wouldn't accuse a lady of such things."

Aubrey Pendleton stood and went to the conference room refrigerator to fetch her a Diet Coke. Tall and stately, his blond hair just going to gray, he looked exactly like what he was—a Southern gentleman, almost antebellum. "You are right, Miss Samantha," he drawled in his practically patented accent. "And I do apologize. Allow me to make that phone call. I've escorted Lydia Harkley to several social gatherings over the years, and I golf with Randall. We're good friends."

Apparently not good enough that he would inform them who'd in all likelihood stolen their Mayan crystal skull six years ago. But since previous to Samantha's acquaintance with him Aubrey had worked as a walker, a professional escort for the ladies of Palm Beach, he might view his friends the same way she tended to—a means to an end. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

The receptionist sat down again to lean his chin on both fists. "So tell me how Rick liked your present."

She grinned. "It was fab. He practically started drooling."

"Now didn't I tell you that men can be broken down into three components? Food, c—"

"Cars, and sex. Yes, you did. I would like to point out, though, that you suggested drag racing. I picked the off-roading."

"Yes, you did. I suppose I just have an affection for drag."

Samantha swatted him on the arm. "You are so bad."

"And don't you forget it."

In truth, while she remained fairly certain that Aubrey was gay, Rick said it was an act. Apparently a man who rebuilt the engine of his own '62 El Dorado had to be straight. She liked him either way—she had from the moment they'd met. And that was why when he'd just started showing up at the office, taking messages and helping her decorate and organize, she'd gone along with it. Stoney cut the paychecks, so she didn't even have any idea if and what they were paying Aubrey, but everybody seemed happy with the arrangement.

"Any other potential clients I can reject?" she asked, gazing at the folder in front of him.

"The art gallery in the Town Center at Boca Raton called. From what I could tell, all they seem to want is some sort of keyless entry system on the cheap."

She nodded. Going from cat burglar to security consulting and installation had seemed a good fit nine months ago when she'd started Jellicoe Security, but she hadn't realized she would have to factor in such a huge boredom quotient. "I'll stop by there this afternoon. Did they say whether they wanted keypad or thumbprint?"

"I don't think they have any idea at all."

"Okay." She sipped her soda, while Aubrey sat across from her, his gray eyes still watching her. "What?" she finally prompted.

"You had one other phone call."

The thing about Southern gentlemen was that they tended to use the same warm tone whether they were discussing a bazillion-dollar lottery win or the death of dear old Aunt Mabel Sue. The only clue she had was the damned twinkle in his eyes, but that could just as easily have been from Viagra or something. "Are we going to play twenty questions, or are you going to tell me who called?"

"Dr. Joseph Viscanti."

A thrill of adrenaline rushed down her spine. Samantha stood up. "And you saved that for last? You son of a—"

"He said he would be out of his office until after one o'clock, Miss Samantha. Otherwise I would never have delayed telling you about his call."

Checking the clock on the microwave, she blew out her breath. Twenty more minutes. Normally she didn't jump even for the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but Joseph Viscanti had made her a unique business proposition six months ago. One that so far hadn't panned out, but if he'd called… "Did he give you a hint what it might be about?" she asked.

"He did not. And believe me, I tried to get one."

"I'll give him a call, then." She shook out her shoulders. "Is that it?"