Flirting With Danger (13 page)

Gray eyes snapped up to hers. “How so?”

Jesus, he never let anything go by without comment. “Crikey,” she said in an exaggeration of his soft British accent, trying to cover an uncomfortable surge of self-consciousness. She was so unused to talking about herself. “It’s nothing. The Norton Museum received an endowment last fall, and all kinds of works have been coming in. I’ve been helping with the cleaning and cataloging.”

“Your legitimate job,” he said softly, a slow smile touching his mouth again.

“Drop it, Brit.”

“Fine. Eat your pie. And save room for a slice of Ultimate Chocolate Cake, Yank.”

Bright light flashed in her eyes, and she jumped, instinctively throwing an arm in front of Rick. He moved nearly as fast, grabbing her and keeping her in her chair.

“Easy,” he whispered, his gaze on a man standing a few feet away, a camera in his hands. “The press.”

“Shit.”

“Happy?” he said in a louder voice. “You’ve got your photo, so please leave my friend and me to finish our meal in peace.”

The photographer grinned, a leer that made her want to kick in his teeth. “Does your ‘friend’ have a name, Mr. Addison?”

Rick’s grip on her shoulder tightened. “If we don’t tell him, they’ll make a very large deal out of it,” he murmured in her ear, making the motion look like a caress.

The camera flashed again. “No. Please,” she returned. “I hate…”

“Samantha Jellicoe has a legitimate reason to be seen with me,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Trust me a little.”

Every nerve screamed for her to run and hide, and at the same time she knew he was right. She blew out a shaky breath. “Sam Jellicoe,” she grated with what she hoped was a professional-looking smile.

“That’s ‘o’ ‘e,’” Addison added helpfully.

“And your relationship?”

“I’m his artworks security cons—”

“We’re dating,” Addison said over her explanation.

“
You sh
—”

“And I am consulting with her regarding security,” he continued smoothly. “Anything else?”

“Address would be nice.”

“If you’re trying to goad me into threatening you, you’re very nearly there. I’ll need your business card. Now.”

Jovial Richard Addison was gone, replaced by the hard-assed businessman she’d heard about and read about online. Sam wasn’t the least bit surprised when the reporter lowered his camera and dug into a pocket for his card, which he handed over without further comment.

“Thank you, Mr…. Madeiro,” Addison continued. “I’ll expect the
Post
to report this information in an accurate and respectful manner. Good evening.”

“Good…evening.”

As soon as the reporter’s back was turned, Sam jammed Addison in the ribs with her elbow. With a grunt he doubled over. “Don’t ever do that again,” she hissed, shoving her chair back and standing.

Twisting, he grabbed her arm and yanked her back hard into her seat. “Leave the damned introductions to me,” he growled back, refusing to release his grip even when she pushed at him again.

“What’s your damage?”

“I wanted to keep your involvement in our little investigation quiet,” he retorted, bracing his free arm against his rib cage. “Whoever paid DeVore to set that explosive might not know any more than the thief who escaped was female. I date on occasion, Sam, and I don’t use personal security. Now you stand out as both security and an art expert.”

She snapped her jaw closed.
Fuck
. Addison let her go, and she sat where she was, trying to get her breathing back to normal and searching for words she very seldom—never—used. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I screwed up.”

“It happens,” he grunted back. “We’ll have to be more careful with you now. That’s all.”

“I didn’t pound you that hard.” Sam reached over and touched his rib cage. “Are you all right?”

“I acquired some bruised ribs the other night when a very nice young lady tackled me and saved my life.”

“Oh, God. I’m really sorry, Rick. I just—”

“You didn’t like that I said something personal about you. I get it. The whole kissing-newlywed-hand-holding thing was just for show.”

The fact that he was wrong didn’t make her feel the least bit better. It wasn’t like her to react so violently to a little subterfuge; hell, she lived by subterfuge. “Stoney was right,” she muttered, downing the rest of her drink. “I am going insane.”

He made her sit with him through dessert, and considering that it was chocolate and heavenly, she didn’t object overly much. As they returned to the car, though, she put a hand on his arm. If someone was out to kill her, she didn’t want her equipment sitting around being useless ten miles from where she was staying. “Okay,” she ventured, “since this partnership thing seems to be going all right so far, can I take you up on your offer to move my car into Harvard’s parking garage?”

“Certainly.” If he was surprised, he kept it to himself, facing half away from her as he keyed the remote to unlock the Mercedes. “Where to?”

She gave him the directions, and fifteen minutes later they pulled up beside her nondescript blue Honda. “Okay, you want to lead me to the garage?” she asked, climbing out of the SLK.

Under the streetlights he studied her face for a moment. “You’re not bolting anywhere?”

She shook her head, wishing she had the guts either to grab him or flee into the night. “You’re still my safest bet.”

With a slight scowl Rick waited while she started the Honda and eased back into the street. Under any other occasion the caution with which he drove, making sure they were never separated at a light or even by another car, would have
been amusing, but she was still too busy mulling over whether anyone might want her dead to be anything but appreciative.

The night attendant waved Addison through without blinking, and whatever Rick said to him, it got her into the parking garage without so much as a word. She picked a spot close to the exit but out of sight of the street, parked, and got out. “Is there room for my gear in your trunk?” she asked, leaning into the SLK’s window.

“That depends. Do you tote ladders and grappling hooks?”

“I keep those in my purse.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

He pushed a button and opened the trunk while she went around to the back of the Honda and did the same. Nothing had been disturbed, thank God, and she hefted her knapsack into Rick’s car as he emerged, following it with a duffel bag and a hard-sided case where she kept the most delicate equipment. Shoving his trunk closed, she leaned back on it. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. But I do have a question,” Addison said, as she climbed back into the SLK beside him and headed back to his estate.

Feeling a little more relaxed now that she and her things had been reunited, Sam sank into the leather seat. “Shoot.”

“Do you ever steal from the museum where you’re working?”

So much for small talk. “Would you have divorced your wife if you hadn’t caught her with Sir What’s-His-Name?”

“Peter Emerson Wallis,” he said in a stiffer voice. “In England we’d call this conversation tit for tat. Is that what we’re playing?”

“Yes,” she decided, gauging his dislike for discussing his ex. “You answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

“That’s a deal. And the answer is yes, probably.”

That was unexpected. “Why?”

“First you answer my question, love.”

Sam drew a breath. The issue of how much he needed to
know and how much she wanted to tell him was becoming more complicated with every second. “No, I don’t steal from the museum where I’m working. Your turn.”

He shrugged. “I imagine it would have taken a little longer than three years, but…she didn’t like my lifestyle.”

“Women throwing themselves at you and mentally undressing you every time you stepped out of doors?”

“That, and my being occupied with business most of the time.” He turned onto the main highway. “Your turn. Why don’t you steal from your museum?”

“I don’t steal from
any
museum.” She frowned into the darkness, seeing the faint reflection of her face in the window. “It’s just stupid. The things there are…where they should be. No one person gets to hold history.”

“That’s not stupid. It’s interesting.”

Her father had thought it was stupid. It was his persistence in hitting museums and galleries, though, that had finally gotten him caught, then convicted. Angering one collector was different than angering a country when you made off with a national treasure.

She shook herself out of her reverie. “Were you friends with Sir Peter Wallis? Before, I mean?”

“Yes. We went to Cambridge together. We even roomed together for a year.”

“Good friends.”

“For a time. He was extremely competitive, though, and it got a bit tiresome. Cars, business deals, women.”

“He won, then.”

Addison glanced at her. “Because he took Patricia from me, you mean? I suppose so. He…fooled me with his claims of friendship. And that actually made me more angry than his theft of my wife.”

“You don’t get fooled often.”

“No, I don’t.”

“If you were so mad, though, why did you let them keep one of your houses in London?”

“You know a lot about me, don’t you?”

She favored him with a short smile. “You’re all over the Internet.”

“Smashing. I let them keep the house in London because it shortened the divorce proceedings, and because it seemed…fair, not that I was overjoyed to do it. I knew she hadn’t been happy in our marriage, and I didn’t do much to amend that situation.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was so I could have the final word.”

Just when Samantha was congratulating herself on getting a handful of answers out of him for the price of just one question, he slowed and turned into his drive between the two bored policemen. This time they barely glanced at the two of them before opening the gate.

“They’re getting complacent,” she commented, stretching as they crossed through the palm grove and stopped in front of the house. “Your crappy security just lost about half its effectiveness.”

They climbed out of the car, and Rick caught her arm as they reached the front door. “You owe me an answer,” he murmured, turning her to face him.

She managed a smirk. “I thought I got that one by you. All right, what’s the question?”

Addison gazed at her for a moment. Reaching out, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, then leaned in and kissed her. Soft and warm and lingering, it sent heat down to her toes and everywhere in between. His tongue glided along her teeth, and without even thinking she opened her mouth to him. She went wet. Just when she thought she would melt into him, he backed off an inch or two.

“What’s your answer, Samantha?” he whispered against her mouth.

Saturday, 9:21 p.m.

Mouths locked in an embrace, Rick gave way as Sam towed him up the front steps. As she dug into his pants pocket for the front door key, her fingers brushed his straining cock through the denim, making him jump.
Jesus.
With a grin she pulled his face down again, kissing him hot and openmouthed while she fumbled the key into the lock and turned the doorknob.

They stumbled into the foyer. Rick closed the door and pressed Samantha back against the heavy English oak, cupping her face as he kissed her. Their tongues teased and met in a swirl of heat and mutual lust—need—that had him near to reeling. God, when she made a decision, she didn’t hold back.

He wanted her right there on the marble floor, on the couch in the nearest sitting room, on the staircase. Only the knowledge that several security guards wandered the estate at all hours kept him from sprawling onto the floor with her. As he ran his hands down her spine, pulling her against his hips, he dimly recalled that he hadn’t felt this way in a long time. Sex
was fun; it wasn’t an all-consuming need for possession. Until tonight. Until Samantha Jellicoe.

“Rick,” she moaned, yanking the open shirt down his arms, throwing it over the fake Ming vase, then pulling the black T-shirt from his jeans.

“Upstairs,” he said, using every ounce of hard-won willpower to push away from her again. Before she could argue he grabbed her hand and towed her toward the stairs.

If she’d said no, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. He’d been hard and aching for her since they’d climbed into the car that morning. Separating the woman from the job had been driving him insane. It made no sense that he could want her and disapprove of what she did, all at the same time. That was why he kept looking for loopholes. She liked working in museums, and she didn’t steal from them. There was no reason she couldn’t give up one part of her life and continue with another when she so obviously enjoyed it.

At the top of the stairs the need to taste her again overwhelmed him. Stopping at the landing, he pulled her against him, savoring her mouth, the soft warm skin of her throat. Holding her against the wall with the weight of his body, he reached between them and undid her jeans, slipping his hand in under her panties to cup her. She was wet for him already.

“Naughty,” Samantha breathed.

She moaned, pressing herself harder against him as he slipped a finger up inside her. Everything she’d learned in her life, from her own experience and from listening to the stories of others in her profession, told her that what she was doing was a very bad idea. Clients or victims—you couldn’t trust either one of them. Nothing she’d done since the night of the explosion, though, made any sense at all.

A shadow moved at the far end of the hall, and she tensed. Fun was good, but not in front of witnesses. “Rick,” she muttered unevenly, tearing her mouth from his and shoving at him, “stop.”

He seemed to sense that she meant it, because he withdrew his hand from her jeans, turning as one of the security guards
emerged from a connecting hallway and came toward them. From his carefully bland expression the guard had seen precisely where his employer’s hands had been, but with a nod he kept walking toward the west wing.

“Shit,” Addison said, his breathing harsh. “Come on.”

“This isn’t a good idea,” she protested with her last remaining breath of sanity. She did not belong in his bed, however much she was coming to enjoy his company and his attention—and his very naughty hands. He made her lose her concentration. She couldn’t be soft; her life, and perhaps his, depended on it.

“It is a very good idea,” he returned, kissing her again, hot and aggressive. “I want to be inside you, Samantha.”

“This is a business deal,” she protested, even as she allowed him to draw her forward again, toward the east wing of the house, where she’d never been.

“No, it’s not.” He turned, gazing hard at her. “Scared?” he asked, his tone taunting her to admit to it.

Sam met his mouth with hers again. “Never.”

When he pulled her through a door, shutting and locking it behind them, she knew instinctively that they’d entered his private domain. Dimly lit by a lamp in the corner, a massive sitting room of royal blue and oak sprawled before them. She would wager that no security guards or anything resembling a camera were allowed in here—ever.

“Nice, Your Dukeness,” she muttered, then couldn’t breathe as he slid his hands up under her shirt to cup her breasts.

“Very nice,” he agreed, closing his teeth gently over her earlobe.

The hell with restraint. She could back off again later. Sam pulled his shirt off over his head, noting the wrapping around his ribs and the bandage high on his shoulder. They’d both been marked by what had happened, and if this gorgeous, sexy man wanted her, she was not going to argue. Tomorrow could wait until tomorrow. Tonight she was going to get lucky.

Her T-shirt hit the floor next, and as he wrapped his arms
around her to unfasten her bra, she indulged in another melting, faintly chocolate-tasting kiss. His thumbs grazed her nipples, and she moaned again.

“I meant to tell you before,” he said, holding her back a little so he could run his fingers in slow circles around her breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger so that they hardened, “you have lovely tits.”

“Thank y—”

Rick bent down and took her left breast into his mouth, sucking and caressing with his tongue. Sam arched against him, tangling her hands into his dark, wavy hair. “Oh, God,” she muttered, her knees turning to Jell-O.

They sank to the floor just inside the doorway, carpeted like the rest of the sitting room entry in dark, thick indigo. Rick laid her down so he could peel her out of her borrowed jeans. “I didn’t compliment you on your great ass, either,” he said, bending down to run his tongue with maddening slowness from between her breasts to the band of her panties. “It just didn’t seem appropriate when I was applying the super glue.”

“You’re a true gentleman,” she managed, lifting her hips so he could slip her underwear off.

With a grin he tossed the skimpy things somewhere over his shoulder. “No, I’m not,” he returned, pulling her knees farther apart to continue the downward trail of his tongue. He dipped his head lower, to her dark patch of hair, driving her into a near frenzy with his mouth and his knowing fingers. He slipped a finger inside her again, and she bucked.

Good God
. Well, she wasn’t going to be the only one to lose control. “Get up here,” she gasped, pulling him upright so she could reach the fastening of his straining jeans. Sitting up so she could unzip him, she did it slowly, smiling a little breathlessly as his hands covered hers to hurry her along. Samantha tugged him closer by a belt loop, fastening her mouth to one hard male nipple and suckling. He moaned, tangling one hand into her hair while he finished unzipping his pants with the other.

Wondering for a fleeting moment if it was his money alone that kept all those swimsuit calendar babes satisfied, she yanked his trousers to his knees. Nope, it wasn’t just the money. “Nice cock,” she whispered, gently closing her fingers around his hard, erect penis and caressing its length while he threw his head back.

“Thanks. You’re seeing it at its best.”

He was glorious, lean and muscled and more professional athlete than billionaire. Rick pushed her flat onto her back again. A hot haze closed around her mind as he lowered himself down on her, taking her mouth again in a deep, consuming kiss. Fingers in his hair, she drew him down the length of her body again, until he stopped for another taste between her legs. God, the Internet didn’t mention how good he was in bed—or on the floor. She arched her back as his tongue darted inside her. “Oh, my God,” she moaned.

“Samantha,” he murmured, rising up again to run his tongue in leisurely circles down her shoulders and suckle her breast again.

She kneaded her fingers into the taut muscles of his back.
Let go
, she told herself. Control, decisions, she could worry about later.
Just enjoy. Just be.
Pressure built inside her as his slow, expert hands moved down the length of her, breasts to toes, and back up again led by his mouth, until she couldn’t even breathe in more than gasps. “Rick—Richard—I want you inside me. Now.”

“I—Fuck.” He raised up, shifted off of her.

“What? What, dammit?” She felt suddenly cold. And very,
very
annoyed. Someone was going to get the crap beat out of him.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

She watched as he strode, fully aroused and magnificent, into the bathroom and then emerged a moment later. “Ah, body armor,” she breathed, reaching up to wrap her arms around his shoulders and pull him back down on her again. He had her brain so clouded with lust that she wouldn’t even have thought about protection, and that wasn’t like her at all.
Neither, though, was falling into bed—onto the floor—with someone like Rick Addison.

“Ready or not,” he murmured, nudging her knees apart again.

“Ready. Definitely ready.” With agonizing slowness he eased inside her. Sam’s head fell back, and she closed her eyes as he filled her, the hot, tight slide of his body inside hers so exquisite she couldn’t breathe.

“No, Samantha. Look at me,” he groaned, burying himself completely.

She clasped herself against him, forcing her eyes open to meet his dark gray gaze. He felt huge, rock hard, as he began to pump his hips, and she arched to meet him. Fire. He felt like fire, and she burned. Heat seared through her. Sam slid her arms around his shoulders, locked her ankles around his hips as he moved. Digging her hands into his back, his buttocks, she met every thrust, filling and tightening until, with a mewling cry, she shattered.

He slowed his pace but kept moving, in, out, in, out. “Mm, you feel good,” he murmured.

Sam couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but gasp for air and float into the white haze covering her mind. She went on and on, his slow rhythm pushing her further than she’d ever gone before.

“Christ,” she finally mumbled, forcing her eyes to focus. “Do that again.”

Rick chuckled, leaning in for another deep kiss. “I’m not stopping now.”

Increasing his pace, he reached back to draw her legs farther up around his waist. She complied, the movement bringing him in deeper and harder. As she felt tension building in both of them, Sam flexed the muscles across her abdomen, tightening around him. Hell, she didn’t work out for nothing.

He groaned, planting his hands on either side of her shoulders and thrusting deep and hard and fast. With a surprising punch she came again, drawing him over with her.

He came with a deep, satisfied groan, settling his weight
down on her and resting his head on the floor beside her neck. Samantha kept her arms around him, finally closing her eyes. Listening to his harsh breathing in her ear, and feeling their hearts pounding together, she realized what it was that made her want him so much. In Richard Addison’s arms, she felt safe.

A few moments later, he lifted his head, dark hair hanging across one eye, to look down at her. “The bedroom’s over there. Shall we?”

She chuckled breathlessly, kissing him again, running her fingers down the straight, sweaty line of his spine. “How much body armor do you have?”

“Not nearly enough, plainly,” he returned, standing and drawing her up into his arms to carry her naked to his dark blue bedroom.

Richard opened his eyes slowly, careful not to move. A week ago, the last thing he would have expected would be to wake up in bed with someone like Samantha Jellicoe beside him. Now she lay tucked against his side, one hand curled over his chest and her breath soft and even in his ear. Auburn hair tumbled across her face and tickled his shoulder. His arm beneath her was completely numb, but he didn’t care. Good God, what a night. He’d been right in his observations that she learned by tactile experience; he didn’t think there was an inch of his body that she hadn’t explored with her hands or her mouth.

Both before and after Patricia there had been women: Models and actresses, mostly, because they hadn’t minded the loss of privacy that being seen with him usually entailed, or the lack of time he had to spend with them between trysts. With Samantha, both were going to be a problem. Her need for privacy was as much a part of her as her hands. And then there was the fact that she thought as soon as they’d figured out what was going on here, she was going to leave, to go on with her life as it had been. She was wrong about that.

Her eyes opened, immediately alert, immediately remem
bering where she was and why. “Mm. Good morning,” she said with a coy smile, giving a cat-like stretch.

“Good morning.”

He rescued his arm, flexing his fingers to get the blood circulating. He put his surviving arm behind his head to watch her, the play of her muscles beneath her skin as she sat up, the satisfaction in her face and the lift of her pert breasts as she stretched her arms over her head. Despite the fact that he was going to have to go through the bother of buying another damned box of condoms, he went hard again.

She angled her eyes over to the blanket just below his waist. “Yikes. I thought you Brits were calm and dull.”

“Shall we go for the seventh inning stretch?” he murmured, sitting up beside her and cupping a hand over her left breast, feeling the nipple grow hard against his pressing palm. “That’s American, isn’t it?”

“Jesus, seven?” she said, arching her back at his touch. “I thought it was just one continuous orgasm.”

“For you, maybe. Safety forces me to keep count.”

Samantha laughed, turning to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth, ears, throat, chest, everywhere her mouth could reach. Last night she’d been open and very responsive, but this was the first time he’d heard her really laugh. Grinning back, he lifted her onto his lap, careful not to pull at the stitches in her thigh as he eased her legs around his waist and impaled his length slowly into her.

By the time they were finished it was considerably later, he’d missed another meeting on the WNBT sale, and they were both starving. “I’ll ring down to have Reinaldo bring up some breakfast,” he said, reaching over to grab the phone off the nightstand.