Flirting With Danger (23 page)

The morning had come in overcast and humid, so he guided her to the library rather than the patio. That would give them more space to spread out the files, anyway. He wondered how much time it would have taken him to notice that they were missing, if he’d even thought to look. And as for what they represented, it would never have occurred to him.

According to Samantha, he didn’t think like a criminal. In her eyes, no one made up a fake tablet and expected to get it past the British Museum on their first venture into crime. If she was right, Partino had started small, and some time ago, working up to where he felt comfortable stashing the tablet on someone else and assuming both that it would pass muster and that his chosen dupe would take the blame.

“I could use a nap,” she said, sliding into a chair.

“And I really want a shower,” he returned, dumping the files at the head of the research table. “Now, in fact. It’s been a long day and a half. You’ll stay here?”

“Not if you’re going to your room. I haven’t checked it, yet.” With what might have been a sigh, she stood again. “I should do that anyway, before anyone else stumbles into something.”

“Samantha, I told you—”

“I heard you,” she interrupted, picking up the files as she headed out the door. “It doesn’t mean I have to obey.”

Grumbling, he caught up to her and took the folders out of her arms. He couldn’t stop her, but he could at least be there in case something went wrong. His suite, however, was clear of any explosives and murderers, and all but one thief.

“Okay. I’ll be in the library eating your omelet,” she said with a faint grin, reclaiming the files and turning on her heel.

“Samantha.”

She faced him again. “Yep?”

“You really looked nice last night at Tom and Kate’s.”

Her lashes dipped. “Thank you.”

God, she was lovely. “But don’t tell Hans you’ve been slicing olives; you’ll ruin your image with him.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t want any more of your employees thinking I’m after their jobs.”

As Richard stepped into the shower, he realized that what Samantha had proposed made the whole issue of Partino’s involvement more problematic. The only evidence they had linking Partino from the grenades to the fake tablet to the original theft was the jump in the video surveillance tapes. If nothing came of the missing market comparisons in those files, they would have only speculation, unless Castillo had come up with something.

He would call the detective after breakfast. Because whether Samantha realized it or not, if Danté was eliminated as a suspect, she became the most likely culprit once more. He didn’t believe it, and Castillo didn’t seem to, either, but with his high profile, someone would be found guilty of the crime.

Richard dunked his head under the water. Damn. Somewhere this all made sense. Somewhere a trail existed, leading from the theft all the way to whoever now possessed his bloody tablet. And the sooner they discovered that path, the better for Samantha—and the worse for her reasons to stay around.

Monday, 8:03 a.m.

They decided to start with the Picasso, both because it was convenient, and because Sam hadn’t been able to get it out of her thoughts since she’d set eyes on it. She didn’t even particularly like Picasso; something seemed vaguely not right about a person who took women apart like that, whatever his supposed statement.

“I can’t do it on the wall,” she complained, standing with her nose almost touching it. “Can we take it down?”

“I’ll call Clark and have him deactivate the alarm,” Rick said, straightening from the banister, where he’d been leaning behind her.

He went down the half flight of stairs and into the study, where she could hear him briefly on the phone. “Okay,” he said, emerging to give her the thumbs-up.

“This is so much like cheating,” she grumbled, lifting the bottom of the painting away from the wall and unhooking the pair of wires that connected it to the alarm system. She did the same with the top two, then lifted the thing off its fastenings.

“Too easy?” Rick asked, taking it from her. “We may as well do this in the library. The light’s better there, anyway.”

Rick had decided he was perfectly satisfied to abide by her assessment of the artworks. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable admitting it, but the level of trust he showed both in her and her abilities surprised and pleased her. At the same time, it felt very strange. What he’d asked her to do was completely legitimate and completely enjoyable.

She’d parlayed her skill into jobs at museums, but that had mostly been to pass the time between robberies. Until now, she’d simply thought thievery was all she knew how to do, and the only thing she truly enjoyed. Her father had taught her how to pick pockets in Rio when she’d been five. Both her days and evenings had been filled with school as she grew up; whatever she could scramble together of mathematics and history and language during the day, and breaking and entering at night.

“Rick?” she asked, following him into the library.

“Yes?”

“Did you always want to do this?”

He looked at her as he set the painting down on the work table. “Check to see if my four-and-a-half-million-dollar Picasso is a forgery? No.”

“No, I mean what you do. Buying companies and property and selling them again.”

“Not specifically. I majored in business in college,” he said, sitting opposite her. “Everything just seemed to…fall into place. I enjoy it, thankfully.”

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be doing it nearly as well as you do.” Sam snapped on the table light and redirected it over the painting.

“A compliment—which I won’t return,” he said with a slight smile, meeting her gaze, “except to say that you are a remarkable woman.”

“Thanks.” They’d opened the file with its photographs, but Samantha didn’t think she needed them. “It’s too neat,” she said after a moment, ducking down to rest her chin on the
table so she could look across the surface of the paint. “Nothing overlaps.”

“Like somebody knew what they were painting before they started,” Rick supplied, pulling out a photo and examining it before switching his attention back to the canvas.

“It’s faster; you don’t have to let a layer dry before you brush on the next one. People don’t realize that sometimes artists change their minds in midcreation.” She straightened, glancing at him. “Is this the same frame you purchased it in?”

“I’m sure it is,” he said, checking the photo again for comparison.

“Let’s turn it over for a second,” she said, “but don’t let the surface touch the table, just in case we’re wrong. Reinaldo’s a little too liberal with the furniture polish.”

Sure enough, two little indentations marked the top inside corner of the frame. To her it screamed that someone had used a tool to carefully lever the original painting out of its frame and replace it with this one. She pointed the markings out to him, and he began to swear.

Laying the painting carefully faceup again, she took the photo from Rick just to make sure that she was right about this. It was a fairly good fake—probably worth a few dollars itself, and enough to fool anyone who had no reason to suspect that it was anything but the original.

“Selling a fake is harder than just replacing something in the middle of ownership,” she said, half to herself. “When you’re buying, you’re naturally suspicious, and for a painting worth this much, it’s expected that you’ll have it examined by someone who knows what they’re doing. Forgeries and fakes do get by sometimes; some of them are actually better than the artist’s real work. But after the painting’s passed inspection and it’s been hanging on the wall for a while, who’s going to notice if one day it looks a tiny bit brighter or neater or sloppier?”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?” he asked in a low voice, his gray eyes flat with anger.

“I’m just saying it’s a smart way of doing business.”

“It’s not business,” he snapped. “It’s damned bloody thievery.”

He had every right to be angry. If every folder here on the table meant a forgery now sat in place of an original, he’d been taken for millions. For someone of his arrogance and ego, that had to smart.

“You should still have an expert look at this,” she said quietly. “I came in thinking it was fake. I’m looking for things to justify that.”

Richard slammed to his feet, making her jump. “I’m calling Tom. He’ll know somebody we can use.”

“Actually, I was thinking of my boss at the museum, Dr. Irving Troust. He’s got the training, and a good instinct for this kind of thing.”

“I’ve met him,” Rick said, pacing to the wall of windows and back. “Where does he think you’ve been this last week, anyway?”

“Visiting a cousin in California.”

“Hm. What if he’s been reading the paper?”

Sam flushed. Shit. If he’d been reading the paper, he would have seen a photo of her having dinner with one of the world’s premiere citizens. “Crap,” she said aloud.

“Well, at least you have something you can fall back on if you get fired from the museum. That whole criminal underworld thing, right?”

“Hey. Don’t be mad at me, rich guy. I wasn’t trying to fool you with anything.”

He glared at her for a moment. “No, you were trying to steal from me.”

“And I’ve been trying to make that up to you.”

“I have this feeling,” he snapped, dragging fingers through his dark hair, “that every time someone I know says he was robbed, I’m going to think of you.”

“That’s
your
problem, isn’t it?”

“How do you do it? Just walk in and take something?”

Samantha frowned. “It’s what I do. Back off. Be mad at Danté, not me. I didn’t betray you.”

“Not yet.”

She pushed to her feet. “So that’s what this is about? I promised I wouldn’t steal anything from you.”

“I’d prefer a promise that you won’t take anything from anyone.”

Sam stared at him for a moment, her insides clenching. “Fuck this. You don’t
ever
get to tell me what to do. I am what I am. Deal with it.”

He was pacing, pausing only to snap retorts back at her. “And if I choose not to?”

Shaking her head, she turned on her heel. “Then deal with this.” She strode for the door.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he bellowed, pushing aside a chair and charging after her.

She slammed the door as he hit it, and wedged one of the Roman spears between the handle and the doorframe. “I’m calling a cab! And if you open the door, you’ll break one of your stupid
B
.
C
. spears!”

“Sam!”

Taking the stairs in two jumps over the banister, she ran to her room and dialed information, then had them put her call through to a cab company. Addison could pay the additional fee involved for the automatic connection. That done, she stuffed her things into her knapsack, grabbed her duffel bag, her case, and her purse.

“Shit, you have a lot of crap, Sam,” she growled, kicking open the veranda door and dragging her things down the steps to the pool deck.

She’d known it would happen, eventually. Damn, damn, damn. Richard Addison thought he could control everything—including her. If she’d stayed any longer, he’d have her in a straitjacket. No one got to use her talents, then criticize her for having them. As if he didn’t get off on what she did. Hell, if she hadn’t been a thief, he probably wouldn’t have looked
twice at her. Hypocrite. Stupid hypocrite. “Hypocrite!” she yelled back at the house.

He hit her from the side. Before she could do more than shove her duffel backward, they both went into the pool.

The cold water sent a jolt of shock through her. She barely had a breath of air, and her first thought was to get to the surface. As she broke through, gasping, her second thought was to kill Rick Addison.

“You fuck!” she yelled, taking a punch at him.

He dodged it, dragging her arms around behind her. “Stop it, Samantha!”

“Let me go!”

Rick dunked her. She surfaced again, coughing. Oh, that was enough of that. Sam took a deep breath and went under on her own. Arching her back, she pulled him forward, off-balance, then pushed up underneath him. He went over and down again, headfirst. Her arms came free, and she kicked to the edge of the pool.

She snagged her knapsack with one foot, but her heavy, hard-sided case had slid into the deep end. Shit. Maybe she could drag it out with the pool net. However furious she was, she was not leaving without her stuff.

“Samantha, get back into this pool,” Rick growled, grabbing her foot as she hopped up to the edge.

“How many teeth do you want to lose?” she asked, bracing her hands on the hard flagstone.

“Back in the pool,” he repeated, making a quick tug.

She slid back in, fisting her hand to let him have it in the jaw. Before she could connect, he swept her up against him and kissed her.

His warm mouth on her cool lips was startlingly arousing, and she lingered against him for a moment before shoving away. “I am not kissing you,” she snapped, backing toward the edge again. “I am mad, and I am leaving.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sam scowled. “You tackled me into the pool!”

“It stopped you, didn’t it?” He backed away a little, treading water. “I thought we needed to cool off a little.”

“Jerk.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He shook dark hair out of his eyes. “You were right. I don’t like what you do, but what you do is why we met. I’m sorry.”

She took a deep breath. “I am a thief, Rick. I was raised to be one, and honestly, I enjoy the challenge of it. Pretending I have a ‘real’ job somewhere else isn’t going to change what I do. This”—and she gestured with her dripping hand between the two of them—“is ridiculous.”

Rick stroked back to her. “Are you enjoying being here?” he asked, gripping the edge of the pool beside her head. His eyes, lashes thick with water, were serious. “Other than the bits with the explosives, of course.”

“Of course I like it here. You have a beautiful home.”

“And do you enjoy being with me?” His voice was softer, now. A cool hand cupped her cheek, and she leaned into it without thinking.

“You’re okay,” she hedged.

“You’re okay, as well,” he returned. “Stay. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“Rick—”

He shook his head. “You can’t leave before we figure out this theft mess, anyway. Not solving it will drive you mad, and you know it.”

Rick leaned in again, stopping with his mouth an inch from hers. She could feel the pull between them. His hands on her body, his weight on her, the deep satisfaction in his eyes when he came inside her—she craved him. And that scared her.

What he’d said had been right. She couldn’t be a thief and be with him. She didn’t know how to stop being one, and she wasn’t ready to give up the other. The walls were closing in around her. Sam closed her eyes. Shit. She could put off deciding anything for today—for a week. That was fair. She could do that.

“Samantha?”

Slowly, feeling his breath on her skin, she closed the distance between them and kissed him.

Nibbling on her lower lip, Rick drew her into his arms. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” he murmured, kissing her again.

When he slipped a hand down the back of her shorts, though, she snapped open her eyes again. “Cameras.”

He scowled. “Shit. I hate security.”

“So do I,” she murmured, deciding it was fair to push him a little.

“Cease and desist,” he returned, his frown deepening. “I apologized.”

“You also threw my case into the deep end,” Samantha accused.

“I’ll get it.” Rick turned and kicked off, diving down to retrieve the heavy case. For a moment she wondered whether he’d be able to lift it with him or not, but he managed to make it to the surface along the back wall. “Jesus, this is heavy,” he gasped.

Clambering out of the pool, Sam padded over to help him pull the case, then himself, out of the water. “Serves you right,” she said without heat, “for throwing me in the pool. Dr. Klemm said no swimming for ten days.”

“Oh, so him you listen to,” Rick said, hefting up her duffel and soaking-wet knapsack and carrying them back up to her room himself.

“I like him.” The case felt twice as heavy as it had before when she drew the handle over her shoulder. “Man, now I have to dry all this stuff off. I hope you didn’t ruin any of it.”

Richard wondered if she expected him to say that he would replace anything the water had wrecked. He would—as long as the items were personal ones, and not saws or knives or whatever it was she used to break into homes.

That had been close. The Roman spear had suffered for it, but thankfully they were fairly common. He probably should have let her leave; she’d pointed him in the direction he
needed to go with the investigation, and, strictly speaking, he didn’t need her active assistance to turn the information over to the police. Except that he didn’t want to turn everything over to Castillo yet—not until he had enough evidence to provide answers, at least for himself. For that, he needed Samantha Jellicoe.

Aside from that, he didn’t want her to leave. For the last day or so, he’d sensed that she was being herself—Sam Jellicoe, imaginative, quick, humorous, surprisingly intelligent, and definitely mercurial in her moods and thoughts—and that he was in way over his head. He was used to being in control, of knowing where people stood. She made him insane—and he enjoyed the sensation as much as he hated it. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You explain to me what they are, and I’ll help you dry them off.”