A Touch of Minx (3 page)

"Two—or maybe three—job requests in a week, three months before the winter season even starts, isn't bad at all, Miss Samantha."

"I know, I know. I guess I was just hoping for something more—"

"Exciting?"

"Interesting."

"Were you two talking about me?" came from the conference room doorway, and she grinned.

"Stoney. It's nearly quitting time, man. Why'd you even bother coming in?"

"Oh, don't you start that shit with me, honey," he rumbled, taking a bottled water out of the fridge and sitting beside her. "I have spent way more time in this damn office than you have."

Considering that she'd made him retire from his very lucrative career as a high-level fence, Stoney had definitely gone above and beyond the call of duty in helping her run a security business neither of them particularly liked. She patted his dark-skinned hand. "I apologize. You're the best."

"Thank you. That's all I wanted to hear. Now what's interesting?"

"Aubrey just gave me a message from Joseph Viscanti. I'm supposed to give him a call back this afternoon."

The big man frowned. "I'm going to tell you one more time, baby, working for museums to recover their stolen stuff is not the way to live a long life."

"Like stealing stuff is."

"At least you were well paid for your services then."

"You can't spend money if you're dead."

He jabbed a beefy finger into her shoulder. "That is my point."

"Yeah, well, it's my point, too."

They'd already debated whether it was less dangerous to take things in the first place or to try to get them back for the proper owners. She knew what worried Stoney, and the same thing bothered her; undoing a thief's work crossed a line she wouldn't be able to uncross. She became a white hat, and thanks to her high-profile life with Rick Addison, all the black hats knew where she lived.

On the other hand, she could get her adrenaline fix without too much worry over being forced to go into hiding or getting thrown into the slam. Of course, stealing from people who bought stolen goods had its own risks. But risk excited her.

As she refocused on Stoney, he was shaking his head at her. "I don't know about you, Sam," he muttered.

The reception phone rang, and Aubrey excused himself to answer it. Samantha edged closer to her former fence and current business partner. "What don't you know about me?"

"I still get calls from brokers. If you want to do some B and E, you could fly to Paris for the weekend, nab a Monet, and make a quarter million. You think the Met is going to pay you anything like that?"

"It's not about the money. It's about the rush. And about doing the right thing, of course."

"Of course." He shook his head. "You were crazy before, and this is not an improvement."

She took a drink of soda. "Sure it is."

"Why? The only difference is that the cops might not get called."

"You know, there's nothing that says I have to break in somewhere and steal things back. Maybe I do some research and then I call the cops."

Stoney snorted. "Who do you think you're talking to? You would never call the cops if you could pull and B and E instead."

"Maybe, and maybe not. But at least with me working on the side of the good guys I get to have a really cool boyfriend."

"Great. Is that what it comes down to? You being as crazy as you can be and still get away with sleeping in the big house on the hill?"

"I am not having this conversation again. I'm a millionaire all on my own, Stoney. I could afford my own house on the hill, and yeah, I could keep up my old career— except that sooner or later my luck would have run out, and I would have ended up in jail or dead. I had a hell of a run, but I have no intention of ending up like Martin."

Her dad had kept working too long, taken one job too many, and had ended up in prison. And until six months ago she'd thought—they'd all thought—that he'd died there. However smug he pretended to be now, the younger version of Martin Jellicoe would never brag about making a deal with Interpol, even one he seemed to think he could manipulate.

"I'm just worried, honey, that now you're working with even less of a safety net. Because as long as you're with the English muffin, you can't slip away if something goes south. You're living in houses that have names, and everybody knows your address."

"The muffin is very nice, though."

"I know you think so."

Samantha leaned around to kiss him on the tip of his nose. "And I know you worry about what I'm doing. But I'm still going to call Viscanti back."

Stoney sat back, blowing out his breath. "Yeah, I figured that." Tightening the cap on his bottle of water, he stood. "Are you still sending Daltrey and Jaime out to pull the wiring for the Mallorey job?"

She nodded. "Gwyneth is throwing a charity thing next weekend, so we need to get it done before then." A charity thing that she and Rick were attending, so she needed to have the security system rewired or she'd never hear the end of it.

"You're insane, Sam," Stoney grumbled, pushing to his feet. "Really, really insane."

Probably. Maybe Rick thought so, too, and that was why he'd given her a gift certificate for plants for their anniversary thingy. "Thanks," she said aloud, following Stoney along the short corridor to her office. "I'll call Gwyneth."

"And sign those petty cash vouchers on your desk," he threw over his shoulder as he continued on to his own office. "I don't want to get nailed by the IRS like Capone."

Christ. Petty cash vouchers, employees, anniversary plants. Joseph Viscanti's call had better be interesting, or for her next trick she was going to start drinking.

"Miss Samantha?" her name echoed over the office intercom.

Man, she hated having her voice bounce off the walls. She leaned over the conference room phone and hit speaker. "What's up, Aubrey?"

"You have a call."

"Viscanti?"

"No. Female."

He was clearly holding something back. "Put it through." What the hell. Even if curiosity killed the cat, she still had a couple of lives left. "Sam Jellicoe."

"Aunt Sam?" a young voice asked. She scowled. "Olivia?" Olivia Donner, the attorney's kid, was the only girl who considered her a relation, and that was only because of her so-called Uncle Rick. "Is everything okay?"

"No. Dad said you recover stolen treasures." Great. Had somebody stolen the ten-year-old's bubble gum? "For museums and stuff, yes."

"Oh."

Samantha waited for a second, listening to the silence. Then she took a breath. "Is something of yours missing?"

"Not mine, exactly. My class just got a really great life-size anatomical man—you know, the one where his front comes off and you can see all of his internal organs and they detach? Somebody took it last night."

"That's too bad," Samantha supplied. "Did your principal call the police?"

"Yeah, but they don't care. And my teacher, Miss Barlow, was going to teach a unit on anatomy, and I want to be a doctor, but now we'll have to look at pictures or something instead of using Anatomy Man. It sucks."

"Wow. I'm sorry, honey. How about if I buy a new Anatomy Man for your class?"

"But somebody stole ours. Dad said he would buy a new one, too, and that whoever took it just has bad character, but it's not right, you know?"

Bad character, eh! Had Donner meant that little crack for her? "I'll tell you what, Livia. I'll ask around and see what I can come up with. Okay?"

"No. I want you to find it for us. I'll hire you."

Great. "We'll discuss that."

"Thanks, Aunt Sam. The anatomy unit starts Monday after next. And Anatomy Man's name is Clark. It's written across the back of his head." She giggled.

"Ah. Was that Miss Barlow's idea?"

"Yeah. She thinks he looks kind of like Superman— when he has his skull and his chest on and all his organs and bones in."

Miss Barlow needed a boyfriend. "I'll let you know if I find out anything. Bye, sweetie."

"Bye, Aunt Sam."

Well, if Joseph Viscanti didn't actually have a gig for her, at least she had Anatomy Man to find. Yes, a former thief's life was a glamorous one.

Friday, 3:52 p.m.

When Richard reached the door with the plaque reading Jellicoe Security, he smiled. He always smiled at the sight of the tasteful embossed gold letters over the deep onyx background; he couldn't help himself. Samantha Elizabeth Jellicoe, his Sam, had gone straight. And while he knew she'd had myriad reasons for doing so, one of those reasons was him. And he'd never been happier to have influenced anyone into doing anything in his life.

"Good afternoon, Richard," Aubrey said from behind the reception desk as he walked into the office.

"Aubrey. Is Samantha available?"

Pendleton glanced down at the phone, then stood. "She's still on a call. I'll let her know you're here."

Giving a brief nod, Richard took a seat on one of the plush chairs in the reception area. Blue this month— Walter's source for furniture had apparently come through again. As far as he knew, Jellicoe Security changed furniture approximately every four to six weeks, and they'd never paid for a stick of it.

"Miss Samantha will be right with you," Aubrey drawled, resuming his seat.

"That's fine." He could go back into her office, but he tried to respect this space as her territory.

"So you liked your present?" the receptionist and former escort to the lonely females of Palm Beach asked offhandedly, pasting some sort of labels on a half-dozen manila files.

"Yes, I did. Samantha told you about it?"

"She asked my opinion. I actually thought either the weekend in Daytona or the diving with sharks would work, but—"

"But I'm still working on a way to combine those two," Samantha finished, pushing through the door separating the reception area from the offices. "I can get the scuba gear and the sharks, but I just can't figure out how to keep the driver compartments of the race cars filled with water."

Richard stood as she approached. When they were apart, he always imagined that she was taller and larger than she was—a match for her personality. In reality, though, when she wore flat shoes the top of her head didn't quite come to his chin. With her auburn hair softly framing her face and those deeper-than-the-ocean green eyes, she mesmerized him. "Hello," he said, smiling.

"Hi." Samantha slipped her arms around his shoulders, rose up on her toes, and kissed him.

She seemed to be vibrating almost on some sort of subatomic level. "What's going on?" he murmured against her mouth. It probably shouldn't, but seeing her that excited made him distinctly nervous.

"I got a job," she returned, flashing him a grin that lingered on her soft mouth. "Two jobs, actually."

Uh oh. "Considering the wide variety of work you've done in the past, may I ask whether this is legal or more… questionable employment?" he asked, glancing in Pendleton's direction.

Samantha kissed him again. "Both, hopefully."

"Samantha."

"Oh, don't worry about it," she said, releasing him and abruptly testy. "You're such a tight ass."

He caught her wrist before she could retreat from the reception area. "I know what excites you, Sam," he said in a low voice, "And I reserve the right to be concerned when you get all giggly over a job."

She pulled her arm free to jab him in the chest with a forefinger. "I do not get giggly," she retorted, jabbing in iambic pentameter. "Ever."

"Okay. Would you elaborate about this job—jobs? Just to satisfy my curiosity?"

"Maybe. If you buy me an ice cream."

"Done."

And somehow she'd maneuvered him into being the one trying to make amends. No one else in the world could do that to him. He simply didn't allow it. His question had been a legitimate one—even the above-board work she did seemed to include some element or other of danger or deception. Those were the jobs—the "gigs," as she called them—that she liked.

She headed for the main door and pushed it open. "I have my cell, Aubrey," she called over her shoulder.

"I'll love you forever if you bring me back a lemon sorbet," Pendleton returned.

A muscle in Richard's jaw twitched. "I told you he's not gay," he said as they walked to the elevators and began their descent to the lobby.

"He asked for a lemon sorbet, Brit. He's totally gay."

Rick still had considerable doubts about that, but since Samantha seemed to look at Aubrey Pendleton as some sort of eccentric uncle, he supposed the bloke's orientation didn't matter. But he was still correct—Pendleton was straight.

They headed down the street, Samantha riddling with her pocket probably so he couldn't hold her hand. Richard swallowed his irritation; it would only egg her on. "Tom and I went golfing today," he said instead. "Nine holes at Mar-a-Lago."

She eyed him. "You mean you blew off work to go play?"

"Just for a couple of hours."

"Good for you."

"You're being sarcastic, aren't you?"

"No. All work doesn't make you a dull boy, but at the same time it's not like your empire's going to crumble if you relax once in a while."

Before he'd met Samantha, he'd never really realized that. Or more likely, it had just never occurred to him. Golf and skiing were for wooing reluctant partners or buyers, polo was for charity fund-raising. He enjoyed them, yes, but he enjoyed them more when there was no point to them. "Is that why you gifted me with the man trip?" Samantha grinned. "You betcha. Did you tell Donner?"

"I did. His only concern was that you might be sending him out on a death hunt, but he reckoned he'd be safe if I was along."

This time she laughed outright. "Just make sure he gets the special gold ticket."

Ah, a little insinuation of murder and mayhem, and she was back in good spirits again. He held the door of the ice cream shop open for her. "What's your news, then?"

At the sight of them, the young man behind the counter gulped audibly and sprinted for the back, from where he reemerged a moment later with a second employee in tow. "How can we help you?" he squeaked.

Samantha stepped forward. "A scoop of peppermint on a sugar cone for me," she said, "and one with almond praline for him."

He moved up behind her to kiss the top of her head. "Does this mean we're in a rut?" he murmured, sliding his arms around her waist.

"It means we know what we like," she returned in the same tone. "Now let go before I have to dump my ice cream onto your crotch."

Richard let her go, mainly because he knew she would do it. Apparently he was still on the outs in Jellicoe village. She'd relaxed in his presence to an astounding degree given her background, but she still had her touchy subjects with a very prickly fence around them. So did he, he supposed.

While Samantha took the cones and found a Formica table by the front window, he paid for the ices and retrieved napkins. If they were going to discuss these new jobs of hers, he would have preferred a more private setting, which was probably why she'd decided to remain in the shop. Was everything a power play between them, or did he merely read it that way? He liked the way she kept him constantly on his toes, but just holding hands and relaxing once in a while would be nice, too.

"All right," he said, sitting opposite her and taking his ice, "you have your bribe. What are these new jobs you're not giggly about?"

Samantha took a long, deliberate lick of peppermint ice. "I got a phone call from Olivia Donner."

"Tom's Livia?"

"Yes, Uncle Rick. Someone took Clark the anatomical man from her classroom right before she could begin her predoctoral studies. She wants me to look into it."

Richard snorted. "And you agreed?"

"Could you tell her no, Mr. Forty Boxes of Girl Scout Cookies?"

"Point taken. What's the other job?"

"My second call was from Joseph Viscanti at the Met."

Now came the trouble. "Ah. An item retrieval for the museum?"

"Yep. He's giving me another shot."

Though he kept his expression calm, inwardly Richard flinched. She'd done only one of those previously, and the trail had petered out well before she'd tracked the painting down. Though he'd commiserated with Samantha's disappointment, he'd actually been relieved that she hadn't gotten close enough to try a retrieval. Very relieved. "Do you have any details yet?" he asked aloud.

"Do you remember about ten years ago when the Met hosted that traveling Japanese cultural exhibit? The Samurai, it was called."

"I remember," he said, going to work on his almond praline. No sense letting it go to waste just because he was a little worried. "But you were what, fifteen?"

"Hey, burglary is my life," she returned, then flashed her quicksilver smile as he lifted an eyebrow. "'Was my life. Anyway, I was in Italy at the time, but I remember reading about it."

"Is that your way of informing me that you had nothing to do with whatever you're going to tell me happened to the exhibit?"

"Aside from the fact that I never hit a museum, I wouldn't take a job now to retrieve an item I'd stolen then. That would be both wrong and really weird."

Ah, her unique code of honor again. "So what happened? I don't remember hearing about a theft."

"They didn't actually know there'd been one at the time. According to Viscanti, the exhibit went great, they packed it up for the next stop in Chicago, and when it loaded onto the transport trucks they were two crates short. The armor and both ceremonial swords of Minamoto Yoritomo."

"Wow. He's the founder of the Kamekura shogunate, isn't he? The first shogun."

"You and your war guys," she chuckled. "The pieces are nearly a thousand years old."

Rick frowned. "Why did Joseph give you this job now? The statute of limitations had to have run out three years ago."

She nodded. "Apparently the Japanese are accepting applications and bids from museums wanting to host the return engagement of the exhibit, and they're rejecting the

Met because of the theft. Viscanti says they made it pretty clear that the only way for the Met to redeem its honor and be acceptable again for any traveling exhibit from Japan is for them to produce the armor and swords."

"Which is where you come in."

"If possible. He doesn't seem to hold out much hope, but I think he figured he didn't have anything to lose by giving this a shot."

Richard realized he was letting his ice melt after all, and he licked almond praline off his knuckles. No, Joseph Viscanti didn't have anything to lose, but Samantha Jellicoe did.

Adjusting her mom purse, her harried expression, and the piece of paper with school letterhead she'd snagged from the trash, Samantha walked up to the front of J. C. Thomas Elementary School, bypassing the wheelchair ramp in favor of the steps. A security guard met her just inside the doorway. "May I help you?" he asked.

"I certainly hope so," she snapped, clutching the paper harder. "My daughter's teacher asked me to 'stop by,'" she pretended to read, "as if I can just take off from work on a whim."

He gave a sympathetic nod. "School hours are hard when both parents work full—"

"Both parents?" she snapped back at him. "That would be a miracle. I would appreciate if you would stop insulting me and tell me where I can find Miss Barlow's class."

His face reddened. "Sure. Fourth classroom down on the west side—to the right."

She stuffed the paper into her purse and stalked off. "Thank you."

The kids were all gone, but she hoped it was early enough that Miss Barlow would still be inside her fifth grade class-room. If not, she would take a look around for any clues Okay, she felt like a goof, but Livia had asked, and she didn't want to lie and say she'd checked things out when she hadn't.

Most of the school was under one roof, joined by long hallways and a central auditorium. Friendly drawings of big-headed friends and family and rainbows and elephants lined the walls. She'd been to a couple of different elementary schools when Martin settled them somewhere to scout a job and Stoney bullied him into enrolling her, but it still looked and smelled foreign—like cookies and washable paint.

The door to Livia's classroom stood open, and a slim, dark-haired woman with an actual teacherly bun on the back of her head stood in front of a blackboard writing out lessons. "Miss Barlow?"

The woman jumped, putting a hand to her heart as she turned around. "My goodness, you startled me. Yes, I'm Simone Barlow."

"Hi. I'm Sam Jellicoe. I'm kind of Olivia Donner's honorary aunt. She—"

"You're Samantha Jellicoe," Miss Barlow repeated, her brown eyes widening. "Rick Addison is your—"

"My good friend," Samantha interrupted, though a little bit of her was curious to see how the teacher would describe her relationship with Rick.

"Yes, yes. Your good friend. What may I do for you, Miss Jellicoe?"

"Call me Sam. Livia told me that your anatomical man went missing, and she asked if I'd check into it."

"But I thought you did security inspections and installations."

Miss Barlow seemed to be a member of the Rick Ad-dison fan club—or at least of Rick's Chicks, the online version. "I do, mostly. I also work with museums to track down missing or stolen artifacts. Livia thought I might be able to help here. Do you have a police report?"