Flirting With Danger (25 page)

Monday, 6:25 p.m.

Castillo called in three cops and a U-Haul to help cart off the fakes. After some discussion he agreed to question Partino and his attorney about the forgeries in the morning, and not to contact the FBI until after he’d called Donner with whatever information he could divulge. Samantha knew he wasn’t precisely following regulations, and to her great surprise she found herself liking him.

This little jaunt of hers was becoming stranger and stranger. First she’d found friendship with someone she would have previously dismissed as a mark, then at least a respectful understanding with a lawyer, and now a similar situation with a cop. What was next, a priest?

“This had better be good,” Richard said, joining her in the foyer. “I don’t normally do shorts under anything less than dire circumstances.”

“Those are nice,” she said, grinning as he approached. He’d worn them, loose and gray and tasteful. He’d also put on the black T-shirt that made her want to jump him and for
get all about dinner. And she’d intended for the attire to put
him
off-balance. She’d tried to convince herself that this had been a clever test of how far he would bend at her request, but she’d never been much for self-deception. This was about whether she could be normal, leave her world behind for a night.

“If this is your idea of a joke, you’re going to be very sorry.”

Sam rolled her shoulders.
Get back in the game
. “Do you have a cheesy car?”

“By cheesy I’m going to assume that you mean cheap, in which case the answer is no.”

She gave an exaggerated sigh, enjoying the look of increasing trepidation on his face. “Okay, I guess we can take the Benz.”

“Which one?” he asked distinctly.

“The SLK. It’s a small target.”

“Crikey,” he muttered. “I’m driving, in case I need to make a fast getaway.”

If that was the strongest demand he made all evening, she’d be surprised. “Fair enough. Let’s go, then.”

When they reached downtown Palm Beach she finally told him where they were going. “Harold and Chuck’s,” he repeated. “I’ve heard of that, haven’t I?”

“The Fabulous Baker Boys used to play there. They have great seafood. And dancing.”

“Dancing. Do we like to dance?”

She nodded. “We do.”

“In shorts?”

“We have to look like tourists.”

He turned up Royal Poinciana Way and slid the Mercedes up against the curb with a precision she couldn’t help but admire—especially considering that he’d grown up in a country where they drove on the wrong side of the street. “Why do we have to look like tourists?” he asked, putting the retracted hard top back up.

“Because mostly tourists come here.”

Rick touched her cheek. “As you’ve pointed out before, I don’t blend very well,” he murmured, stroking a strand of hair behind her ear, “but I’ll try.”

He didn’t blend very well at all; but if he’d come wearing his rich guy shirt and slacks, they probably wouldn’t have made it through the door without some paparazzi snapping their photo. This way, any interested parties would at least have to look twice. Besides, he had nice legs.

“Sidewalk or garden room?” the hostess asked as they strolled inside. Rick, of course, had her hand, and as the hordes of tourist women inside turned to look at the dark-haired god with the deep gray eyes, Sam couldn’t help but feel a little smug.

“You’re the date,” she told him. “It’s your choice.”

“Garden room,” he decided.

She would have preferred the sidewalk seating, so she could keep her eyes on the street. That, however, would not do anything to forward her experiment in normalcy. She followed the hostess, allowing Rick to pull her chair out for her as they arrived at their seats.

“Okay, I’ll admit,” he said, sitting forward to be heard over the jazz music the live band played behind them, “most everybody is wearing shorts.”

“Told ya.”

“Now, my dear, since you asked me out, may I assume that you’ll be paying?”

“Yes, you may.” One night wouldn’t break her Retirement-in-Milan bank account. “Indulge yourself.”

His smile deepened, warming the gray of his eyes. Her heart did a weird little flip-flop in response, and she quickly grabbed her glass of water and gulped down a swallow.

“Anything to drink, folks?” the waitress asked, her name tag proclaiming her as Candy. Sure she was.

“Do you have a wine list?” Rick asked smoothly, lifting an eyebrow at Sam, obviously hoping to make her regret the “indulge yourself” crack.

“Basically we have colors. Red and white.”

Rick flashed his famous smile, and Candy nearly swallowed her gum. “What’s your best red wine, then?”

She named off a French Merlot, and Rick asked for a bottle. “Sure. I’ll be back in a minute to take your order.”

“Humph. She didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink,” Sam noted.

“Well, she probably assumes that you’re
my
date, and that I was ordering for both of us. Shall I snap and have her return?”

“Shut up, Brit. Merlot’s fine.”

With another chuckle, Rick opened the menu. “You’ve eaten here before, yes? What’s good here?”

“The side salads are nice. And the breadsticks.”

“Excuse me,” a breathy female voice came from beside her, and she lifted her head. A stunning blonde in a dress cut down to her belly button and up to her crotch hovered beside the table.

“Yes?” she asked, not certain whether to scream or laugh.

“Are you Richard Addison?” the woman breathed, ignoring Sam.

Rick blinked. “Oh, me. I thought you were talking to her. Yes, I am.”

“Could I have your autograph?”

“Certainly. Do you have a pen?” The woman held out a napkin and a pen, and Rick signed his name. “There you go.”

“How about your phone number?” The woman gave a low giggle, but pressed the napkin back into Rick’s hand.

Sam would have stood, but Rick kicked her under the table. “Ouch,” she grumbled, glaring at him.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t give out my phone number.”

“Are you sure?” Belly Button Girl licked her lips.

“If I might make a comment,” Rick continued, granting her a warm smile, though Sam noted that his eyes remained cool and untouched, “I’m a bit occupied right now, enjoying the company of a very lovely young lady with whom I enjoy spending my every spare moment.” He straightened further, lowering his voice to a bare murmur. “So I thank you for your
interest, but I am never in a million years going to give you my phone number. Good evening.”

Her face turning scarlet under its inch of makeup, the woman turned away, departing with a sway of her perfect hips. “You’re so cool,” Sam breathed.

“You could at least pretend to be jealous,” he said, pulling her hand across the table to kiss her knuckle.

She
had
been jealous, but no way was she going to tell him that. Not until she could figure out for herself what the hell it meant. At least she hadn’t panicked and tried to belt a near-naked woman for sneaking up behind her. “She’s not your type.”

“And what precisely is my ‘type’?” he asked.

“The kind who could have handed you a comeback instead of just stomping away.”

With an uncharacteristic snort he sipped his own glass of water. “You’re probably right. So what should I order?”

“Not in the mood for a side salad?” She grinned at his pained expression. A little annoyance served him right for being so gorgeous. “Okay, okay. The Alaska King Crab Claws are great. I’m getting the Macadamia Nut Encrusted Mahi.”

He trusted her enough to order the crab, and she had to admit that the fish with the Merlot was much better than the beer she had been about to order. They’d retracted the garden room canopy roof, and moon and starlight shown down on the dance floor. She hadn’t realized it would be so…romantic inside the garden room, with the jazz band playing and the couples beginning to swirl about the floor.

Finally, he set his fork and claw-cracker down on his plate. “You were right. That was great.”

Sam realized she was drifting, and she lifted up her napkin. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Do you want to dance, my dear?”

“I—”

He stood, holding his hand down to her. Well, she’d suggested it first. Sighing, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

“I have a confession to make,” he said in a low voice, sliding both hands around her waist.

“What?”

“That woman could have been naked, and I still wouldn’t have been able to keep my eyes off you.”

They swayed together, touching at arms, chest, hips, and thighs. “She practically was naked.”

“Was she? I supposed that proves my point, then.”

He’d thought Samantha meant to take him to some hole-in-the-wall restaurant in a demilitarized zone. Chuck and Harold’s, however, was nice, lively, and even romantic with its open-air dance floor. He generally preferred more exclusive restaurants, because people there were less likely to approach him for autographs or investment advice, but he liked it here well enough that he would join her again.

It did feel a little silly to be slow dancing in shorts, and he didn’t object when after twenty minutes or so she suggested they return to the estate to go over the gallery again. Their bill, somewhere around a hundred dollars, waited for them at the table, but Samantha wouldn’t let him pay. Instead she pulled a healthy roll of cash out of her purse and put it on the table. He didn’t want to know where she’d gotten the money.

“You’re my date, remember?” she said, taking his arm as they went back to the SLK.

“Do you want to drive?”

“Really? I’d love to.”

She put the roof back down and shifted the car into drive, then shoved it into park again.

“What is it?” he asked, noting the frown on her face.

“I just want you to know that I don’t like you for this,” she said, tapping the steering wheel.

“No?”

“No. I like you for…this.” She reached over and tapped his head, drawing a strand of his hair through her fingers, and then put a hand over his chest. “And this. And because you wore shorts to a restaurant when I asked you to. Are we clear?”

He smiled at her. “We’re clear.”

“Good. Hang on.”

As soon as they got back he threw on a pair of jeans and sneakers and met her in the gallery. She was standing at the opposite end of the hall from where she’d been the first time he saw her, her eyes closed and her hands loose at her sides. He watched her, knowing that in her mind she would be climbing down the back wall, slipping across the corner of the garden and the lawn.

“Are we in the house yet?” he asked after a moment.

Samantha jumped. “No. We’re right outside.” With a slight frown she turned her back, heading toward the stairs at the rear of the house. “Come on.”

“How did we get in?” he asked, following her to the ground floor.

She slipped out through the back patio door, ending up in the deep shadows beneath a stand of cypress trees at the west side of the house. “The problem with this,” she said, gauging the distance from the nearest camera, “is that I’m speculating based on something that might not be correct. So I’m either all right, or all wrong.”

“It’s worth a try,” he offered, realizing for perhaps the first time what she meant when she said his security was crap. A rugby squad could have held a scrum where they were and not been noticed. “And I happen to think you have very good instincts.”

“Hm. Flattery will get you whatever you want,” she said with a quick grin, most of her attention still clearly on their surroundings.

A low energy ran up his spine, like the night they’d broken into Danté’s. She’d mentioned the rush she got from being somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. He understood what she meant, though his focus remained on the petite figure beside him. “Shall we?”

“Okay. Here’s my theory: Etienne came from this direction because it’s the most protected route from where we found the footprint to the house.”

“Why bother being sneaky if he’s got Danté shutting down all the outside video?” Richard asked.

“I have a theory, but let’s wait a minute.” She slid her hand along the rough plaster wall, slipping farther into the shadows. “What’s in here?” she asked, tapping on a window.

He adjusted his perspective. “That would be storage. Extra chairs and table extensions for big parties. That kind of thing.”

She flicked on a flashlight he hadn’t realized she carried. “There it is.” With her fingertip she brushed at a faint scratch in the paint, running in toward the sill. “He slipped in a flat crow and pushed the latch open.”

“So it wasn’t just the outside cameras and sensors that were shut down.”

“I don’t think anything outside was shut down,” she muttered, “or Etienne wouldn’t have bothered with sneaking. If I’m right, Partino probably shut down all the internal house sensors and alarms; that’s easier, especially when he might not have known exactly what kind of security you had around the door in the gallery. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s go back in.”

“In?”

“Through the door, unless you want to climb through the window,” she said, her teeth a faint upward-curved white in the darkness.

“Let’s go in.”

They went back in through the patio door and headed down the maze of hallways to the storage room. The door was locked, but Samantha had it open before he could produce the key.

“The window latch is broken,” she said, moving through the sheeted stacks of extra furniture. “See?” Using the back end of the flashlight, she tapped on the latch. It looked locked, but at her light touch it slipped sideways.

“DeVore broke it so he could make it look locked when he left through the same window.”

“Yep.”

“All right, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why was DeVore in the house if Danté was going to switch the tablets on his own?”

“That, my dear, is the bazillion-dollar question,” she said, leaving the room again. “Okay, we’re Etienne. We know where the gallery is, because we have blueprints. We also know the safe room camera won’t be recording, the same way we knew it would be safe to break in through the window.”

“So we go up the back stairs to the third floor,” he said, as they did so, “being careful to avoid that Addison guy’s crappy security until we’re safely in the gallery.”