A Touch of Minx (23 page)

He took her arms and drew her up against his chest, then leaned down and kissed her. She slipped her arms around his shoulders, kissing him back, slow and deep. "Thanks," she whispered against his mouth.

"For anything in particular?"

"No. And yes."

If Samantha hadn't done the security upgrades for the Malloreys' residence, Casa Palomas, he probably wouldn't have bothered to attend. Not only was he generally out of town at this time of year, but he preferred to choose his charities based on their works rather than the quality of the filet mignon served by their honorary chairpersons.

He felt especially conflicted tonight; on the one hand, he would rather have kept Samantha at home where no sick wankers could take photos of her for their own private use. And on the other hand, he wanted to look Gabriel Toombs squarely in the eyes before he throttled the bastard.

The stretched Mercedes stopped at the curb, and Ben climbed out to come around and open the door for them. Beyond the wall of paparazzi lining the sidewalk the windows of the three-story Casa Palomas were all thrown open, lights and music spewing forth into the deepening twilight. "Ready?" he asked, offering his hand to Samantha.

She'd chosen to wear deep purple and black tonight, offset by the diamond triad necklace and matching earrings he'd given to her three months earlier in England. And she looked stunning, every inch a member of the world's upper crust—hair upswept and held in place by gold pins, her chin high, her green eyes glinting. If she felt any trepidation about coming face-to-face with Toombs, she didn't show it.

"Ready," she said, and wrapped her fingers around his.

Cameras flashed as he helped her out of the car. Usually he barely noticed them; he'd long ago become used to being photographed at every public event he attended. This evening, though, he felt hyper-aware of every click, every jostling movement in the crowd.

Samantha tilted her head toward him, and the flashes increased in intensity. "You're going to break my hand," she murmured.

Immediately he loosened his grip a little. "Apologies," he returned in the same low tone.

"You were the one who used to tease me about being skittish in front of the press." To his surprise she flashed her quicksilver grin. The paparazzi started a supernova.

"That was before I realized that some people might use the photos in their private collections."

"I bet your pictures are in some bedrooms, Bond."

"Do not tell me that." He ignored the Bond bit for once; she called him that every time he wore a tuxedo. Tonight he had a little more in common with James Bond than she probably realized, since he carried a Glock .44 in his inside pocket.

Upscale events like this generally didn't use metal detectors; the sheer volume of gold and silver and platinum being worn by the guests made it both rude and impractical. The security guards on either side of the drive and the wide doorway were most likely there to keep the press at bay.

"Rick, welcome," Gwyneth Mallorey said, greeting him with a warm smile, her neck, ears, and wrists so encrusted with glittering gems that he wondered how she could stay on her feet. If she'd wanted to, Samantha could have her stripped bare in about five seconds, and it would be another two minutes before Mrs. Mallorey even realized it.

"Gwyneth, Lewis," he returned aloud, shifting to shake hands with her scarecrow of a husband. "Thank you for inviting us."

"My pleasure," Gwyneth gushed, her smile widening further. "While you're here, Sam will have to give you a tour of the security equipment she installed."

Samantha stirred, and Richard tightened his grip. Sometimes it would be nice to be surprised by people. He put on his business-friendly smile. "I do love to see her work," he said. "And when we're finished, perhaps you or your husband could help me with my refrigerator thermostat question."

"Oh. Of course." Gwyneth's smile became all teeth. "For now, why don't you join our other guests on the terrace? And I hope you brought your checkbook, Rick."

"Ouch," Samantha murmured as they left their host and hostess and headed through the large, open foyer to the back of the house.

"You're the one who suggested that comeback. And I'm just reminding her to be sure of her footing before she swings her bat."

"Baseball bat?"

"Cricket bat, naturally. I'm not a savage."

"Keep that in mind, please."

Outside on the stone terrace and spilling onto the well-manicured lawn, forty or so other guests stood around in small groups, drinking and chatting. Aubrey Pendleton was there already, in the company of a tiny, yellow-haired lady who had a claw firmly dug into his forearm. The walker nodded at them, then angled his chin in the direction of the lit fire pit.

Gabriel Toombs stood on the far side of the fire in the company of Dr. and Mrs. Harkley and the Picaults. He wore all black as he generally did, his dark hair slicked back on his head and his hands folded behind his back. That smug son of a b—

Samantha pulled free of his hand and strode forward, the click of her two-inch black Ferragamo heels sharp on the gray stone as she approached the fire pit. Bloody hell. Swiftly he lifted two glasses of wine off a passing server's tray and caught up to her. "Here you are, my dear," he said smoothly, stepping between her and her view of Toombs and handing her one of the glasses.

She blinked, lifting her gaze to meet his. "I changed my mind," she murmured very softly. "I'm going to kick that sick fuck's ass."

Saturday, 8:28p.m.

"Not tonight, you're not," Richard said just as quietly, keeping himself between Samantha and Gabriel Toombs. He didn't try to touch her, to steer her away, because that might just set off the explosion he was trying to avoid. "No ass kicking."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you have something more important to do, and he'll keep for a couple of days. Hurting him now will get you on the front page of the Post, but it won't find you that armor." He refrained from rehashing the finer points of the argument; she knew them already.

"I thought I'd be sick, seeing him," she whispered, slow-ly taking a sip of the wine. "Instead I just want to—"

"I know what you want to do, Samantha. And I'm afraid you'll have to get in line. They might have been your photos, but they were pictures of the woman I love."

She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, her shoulders lifting and falling with the deep breath she took. "You're right. This is a gig; I can pull this off for a gig."

Under normal circumstances that would have bothered him, but tonight he only nodded. "Good."

He moved out of the way, tapping his glass against hers. "Now you can worry about holding me back."

She did tend to attack her problems head on, and she'd been remarkably restrained up until now. When he considered it, in fact, her trepidation about seeing Toombs was more out of character than her charge across the terrace. And he'd nearly missed it, because he was consumed with his own vengeful imaginings.

August Picault waved them over. Apparently Richard was going to have to restrain himself. And if he didn't, he was fairly certain he'd have backup for the fight.

"Good evening, Rick, Samantha," August said with a smile.

"Good evening," Richard returned, and faced Toombs. "Samantha tells me that your collection is magnificent," he said so smoothly that he nearly startled himself. "I wish I'd been able to see it."

Toombs inclined his head, his black eyes shifting to Samantha. "I'm leaving for New York to see to some business in a few days, but when I return I'd be honored to have both of you over for a tour and for dinner."

"That's very kind of you, Wild Bill," Samantha said, smiling.

"It would be my pleasure."

•'In the meantime," Yvette Picault said, wrapping an arm around Samantha's free one, "you will come to see our home tomorrow, yes? We have some very lovely pieces, if I say so myself."

"I'm looking forward to seeing everything," Samantha agreed, all charm. "What time do you want us there?"

""We always go for a bike ride along the beach at sun set on nice Sunday evenings," Yvette answered. "Is eight o'clock acceptable? I know we eat later than most Americans, but it is the tradition in France."

"That sounds wonderful to me. Rick? Wild Bill?"

Richard and Toombs both agreed, and they all seemed to assume that Aubrey Pendleton would be amenable to anything. Since the plan Samantha had discussed in the Solano Dorado library earlier had involved taping down sensors and window locks during the dinner and breaking in shortly after they supposedly left for the night, they would be in for a long evening. He might have an early meeting on Monday, but Samantha was half nocturnal. At least she hadn't argued with him about accompanying her on yet another B and E. Pendleton had seemed fairly adamant about joining in, as well.

One of the servers came out to the terrace to bang on an absurdly dainty-looking gong, and all of the guests trooped into the house to take seats at the multitude of round tables in the formal dining room. As he'd expected, the dinner was filet mignon, followed by speeches from Gwyneth Mallorey about how gracious she was, and from the director of the homeless project who actually ran the program.

"How much are you going to give?" Samantha asked, leaning against his arm as he wrote out the check.

"I figured five thousand would get us out of here without any dirty looks," he returned in a low voice, most of his attention still on Toombs halfway across the room. He wished the bastard would make some kind of move, pull out a camera and aim it at Samantha. Then the gloves would come off.

"We're leaving after dessert, right?"

He snorted. "You amaze me," he whispered, lifting her hand to kiss her fingers.

"Hey, it's strawberry cheesecake with chocolate drizzles. The—" The small purse Samantha had over the back of her chair hummed, making her seat vibrate. "Excuse me," she said to the other guests at the table, and lifted it free, standing and moving to the side of the room as she flipped it open. She didn't recognize the number. "Hola," she said in a low voice.

"Honey pie. How the hell are you?"

Her heart clenched and then began hammering. "Stoney? Where the f—where have you been?" she hissed, taking a self-conscious look around and moving farther from the tables.

"Oh, here and there. The—"

"Are you drunk?"

"You betcha."

"Where?"

"Felipe's on Third."

"You stay right there. Do you hear me?"

"I can't pay my tab," he said in a loud, slurred whisper. "I have to stay. Why do you think I called?"

"Do not move, Stoney. Promise me."

"I promise."

She hung up and returned to the table. "I have to go," she whispered in Rick's ear, slinging her purse over her shoulder.

He grabbed her wrist. "What is it?"

Dammit, she wanted to go. Now. Taking a breath, she leaned closer again. "Stoney," she murmured.

Rick took his napkin from his lap and set it on the table. "Excuse us," he said, much as she had. "Don, will you see that this check gets to Gwyneth?"

The lawyer-looking guy on his left nodded. "Of course. I hope nothing's wrong?"

"No. A bit of a time zone complication" he said with his trademark smile. "Good evening."

"Good night, Rick, Samantha."

As they left the room, Samantha couldn't help a surreptitious glance past his shoulder. Toombs sat with his back half to them, but she wouldn't have bet a nickel that he didn't know she'd left. If they spied a black Miata on the way to Felipe's Bar, it was getting run off the road.

Rick took out his phone and dialed Ben as they left the house. A minute later the stretched Mercedes pulled up to the center of the drive. "Ben, please take us to Felipe's Bar on Third Street," she said, sitting back despite the wish to climb into the front seat and take the wheel herself.

"That's not a very nice part of town, Miss Sam," the driver said over his shoulder as he pulled onto the street.

"I know."

She dug into her purse. Small as it was, after she'd dumped in some paper clips, a pair of wire cutters, and her lipstick and phone, there hadn't been room for much else. She pulled out two twenty-dollar bills. "Do you have cash?" she asked Rick.

"A couple hundred," he returned, his eyes studying her face.

"Stoney's drunk, and he said that he called because he couldn't pay his bar tab. He doesn't drink very often, but when he does—I'm not sure my forty will cover it."

"No worries," he said, at least reading her well enough to not start in about Stoney being a bad influence on her. Stoney was family. Period.

She fidgeted in her seat. Nerves of steel during a robbery were one thing; seeing her surrogate father after he'd been missing for a week was evidently enough to make her all squishy inside. Even when she was ready to be furious at him.

"Did he say where he'd been?" Rick asked, looking far calmer than she probably did.

"I didn't ask."

"You-"

"Oh, don't worry; I will. I just want to make sure he's somewhere he can't vanish when I do."

"That sounds familiar," he muttered under his breath.

She heard it, anyway. And she really couldn't dispute it. "I get it," she said stiffly. "The walking a mile in your moccasins. But at least my leaving had a logical reason behind it."

"I'm not going to argue with you right now. I'm more interested in Walter's very bad timing for making himself scarce."

"So am I, but I'm hoping it was just a coincidence."

"I am as well, believe it or not."

Twenty minutes later Ben stopped the Mercedes half a block from Felipe's. A scattering of Harleys and some very shiny muscle cars lined the street right in front of the bar, and Rick moved closer to her as they walked. As for her, this was like home. She'd grown up in seedy bars where Martin could charm information about prime robberies out of his fellow low lifes. She'd learned to blend in anywhere, but sometimes places like this were the easiest for her.

"Follow my lead, okay?" she asked, stopping just out-side the open door. It was loud and warm and stinky inside, almost like a physical presence.

"To a point."

Squaring her shoulders, she strolled into Felipe's.

Somebody whistled. "Look what just came in!"

"High society has arrived. Get out the champagne, Felipe!"

All eyes seemed to be aimed at her and Rick—okay, at her, since the vast majority of the bar's inhabitants were men. She flashed a calm smile. "Get me a beer, will you, honey?" she asked, sliding a finger along Rick's lapel.

Clearly he didn't want to leave her side, but with a swift, stifled glare he headed for the bar. At nearly eleven o'clock some of these guys had been drinking for five or six hours, though a number of them had just gotten started. Given a choice, she preferred the less-sauced, more reasonable ones, but neither would have been even better. At a bar, though, nice sober gentlemen would be hard to come by— except for the guy at the bar buying her a beer.

"Here, honey!"

She turned, facing the far corner of the place closest to the emergency exit. Lit by the blinky glare of an old jukebox, Walter Barstone sat at one of the peanut shell-covered tables and waved a bottle of beer in her direction. Even after hearing his voice on the phone, seeing him there and knowing—knowing—he was alive sent a rush of relief all the way down to her toes.

"Hey, over here!" one of the bikers echoed.

"No, me! I got somethin' for you, darlin'!"

She ignored it all, moving around the tables until her forward progress was blocked by a very large slab of a man. Big guys and biker dives. It was like Oreo cookies and cream filling, except a lot louder and less pleasant. "Hi," she said, looking up and up at him.

His grizzled red beard split in a smile. "Hi yourself. You lost and lookin' for some Southern comfort?"

"No," she returned, settling her weight onto her left foot. "Are you lookin' to become a soprano, tiny?"

"Ooh, a smart-mouth bitch. Why don't you give me a kiss with that smart mouth, bitch?"

Samantha puckered her lips, then sent the spiked two-inch heel of her right shoe as hard as she could into his crotch. As he went down with a wumph of escaping wind she smacked her lips together in an air kiss. "Sorry," she said as she stepped around him. "I don't play well with others."

Nobody else got in her way. She reached Stoney's table, stopping herself from giving her former fence a hug. Instead she sat down on his left while he gazed from her to the moaning Gigantor. "Nice kick."

"Thanks. Where the fuck have you been?"

Rick set a beer bottle down in front of her and sat opposite, on Stoney's right. "Perhaps we should have this discussion elsewhere," he suggested.

"Nah. Sam took down the biggest guy in the bar. No one'll give us trouble, now."

"Is that from the bar fight handbook?" he asked skeptically.

"Why'd you bring the English muffin here, baby?" Stony drained his bottle and went for hers, which she slid out of his reach. "I knew you would," he went on before she could answer. "He's in everything now."

"You didn't take off because of Rick," Samantha countered. "So what's going on? Were you working a deal? Did it go south?"

"A deal." Stoney gave a guttural, too loud laugh. "There have to be people willing to hire you if you want to work a deal."

"So this is because you're losing touch with the scum of the earth? Give me a break."

"No, Sam, we're the scum of the earth. You just figured out how to pretend you're not for a little while."

"That's enough of that," Rick put in. "Let's get him back to the car."

"It's okay. He's always been a depressed, bad-tempered drunk. No matter how well things were going."

"Well, things aren't going well now, are they?"

"I don't know. You tell me, Stoney."

He slapped the flat of his beefy hand on the table. "Ya know, you try to get along with people, set up the jobs they ask you to for the money they give you, and everybody's a professional. Then"—and he jabbed a finger at Samantha—"then you realize that the job they hire you for isn't what you thought it was, and you've been had. And your people have been had."

Abruptly alarmed, Samantha leaned closer. "Are the cops looking for you?" she whispered, unable to keep from glancing over at Rick's serious, annoyed expression. "Are they after us?"