A Touch of Minx

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Your acquaintances have money. Somebody wanted the armor and swords of Japan’s first shogun. That’s not a random snatch-and-run. This is somebody who places a lot of importance on this stuff.”

  “Mm hm. Let’s discuss it over dinner, shall we? And then I’ll show you my sword.”

  With a chuckle she looped her arm through his, guiding him back toward the main staircase. “I’ve seen your sword. Very impressive.”

  “Saucy,” he returned. At the top of the stairs he pulled her to a stop, took her chin in his fingers, and leaned down to kiss her softly on the mouth.

  Her toes practically curled. “What was that for?” she asked, after she cleared her throat.

  Blue eyes regarded her. “Because I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He smiled. “Good. I am very charming.”

  “And full of it. Take me to the spaghetti, or lose me forever.”

  Well, he’d put one past her, which didn’t happen often. Tom had agreed to admit to a loss on the golf course, and if anyone asked her, Katie had spent the afternoon at home relaxing. Now all he needed to do was wait for Harry Winston to call and tell him that the ring he’d commissioned was ready, and hope that the company valued him enough as a customer that they wouldn’t leak any information to the press about Rick Addison ordering a custom-made five-million-dollar diamond ring. And then he needed to decide how and when. How and when, and whether proposing to her would destroy what they’d managed to find over the past year.

  “What are we watching tonight?” she asked, walking into the spacious sitting area of their master bedroom suite and holding a bowl of popcorn and two sodas cradled in her arms.

  “Something in honor of your latest gig, as you call it.”

  “Godzilla: Tokyo S.O.S.?” she suggested, plopping herself onto the couch.

  Richard shook his head. “The Seven Samurai.”

  “Kurosawa? You rock.”

  Grabbing up the remote, he sank back beside her. “I’ve been thinking about what you said regarding collections and collectors,” he said as he turned on the plasma television and the DVD player. “What if the thief was just some fan of Shogun and happened to grab two crates that coincidentally both had Yoritomo items in them?”

  “According to Viscanti the crates were on two separate pallets. Whoever took them would’ve had to find them on the bills of lading and then locate each box in a stack with nineteen others.”

  “Very well. A professional, and therefore probably hired for those particular items.”

  Samantha tossed a piece of popcorn in the air and caught it in her mouth. “So who do you know besides you who collects samurai stuff? Somebody here in the States.”

  Richard helped himself to a handful of the popped kernels. “Tell me again why you think it’s somebody I might know?”

  “Ten years ago the exhibit had stops in Tokyo, Hamburg, Paris, London, New York, Chicago, and San Francisco,” she returned, snuggling against his shoulder. “The stuff went missing in New York, which to me says that’s when somebody decided they couldn’t live without it—so that’s where they got a good look at it. So East Coast residence and rich is my guess.”

  Remarkable. “I suppose I could be considered a suspect, then,” he mused.

  She shook her head. “I’ve already cleared you,” she said between mouthfuls. “Only one thief allowed in the house.”

  “Oh, so there are rules now?”

  “Ha ha, funny man. Who else collects?”

  It was a good question. He did know most of the legitimate collectors around, mostly because he’d bid against them on items. Japanese collectibles had a small but fierce following—his two pieces of armor and half dozen daitu and wakizashi swords had mostly been to round out his ancient warrior collection, but there were people who collected nothing else.

  “Okay,” he mused, ticking off the names on his fingers, “Ron Mosley collects, and—”

  “Not Mosley,” she interrupted. “I saw his spread in Fabulous Homes. He doesn’t own anything even close to the value of that armor.”

  “Okay. There’s Yvette and August Picault, Gabriel Toombs, and Pascale Hasan.”

  Beneath his arm, Samantha stiffened a little. “Gabriel Toombs and the Picaults both have houses here in Palm Beach.”

  “Yes, they do. And we all have townhouses in Manhattan. And I’m certain there are a couple of others.”

  “Don’t get all high-and-mighty on me. You’d be surprised how many of your acquaintances have sent work my way. In my old line of work, that is.”

  “Close to the same number you’ve stolen from?”

  “Probably,” she returned, surprisingly without heat. “Somebody wants something, somebody else loses something. It kind of has to work that way.”

  He gazed at her profile. In those clothes, in this house, she looked like she belonged here. She blended in anywhere; that was part of why she was—had been—so successful. But in this setting it would have been easy to forget that until a year ago she’d been a high-class cat burglar and had made an exceptional living at it.

  “Have you worked for or against anybody I just mentioned?”

  “Toombs,” she returned after a moment. “He wanted a Japanese war horse’s bridle, of all things. I tracked one down for him and made fifty grand.”

  Alarm sped his heart. “So he knows you’re a thief?”

  “No. He knows that Stoney’s a procurement agent.”

  “Was a procurement agent, now retired.”

  “Well, now working in security. Like me.” With a sigh she sank back again. “Looks like I’ll be checking out Toombs.”

  “Checking him out legally,” he said carefully.

  “Mm hm.”

  “Samantha, Toombs acquires weapons because he thinks he’s some sort of Spartacus reincarnation or the Japanese equivalent thereof.”

  He felt her shoulders shake as she laughed silently. “‘Spartacus’?”

  “It was the first name that came to mind.”

  “I don’t know if I’d admit to that, Sparky. Maybe he thinks he’s the reincarnation of Minamoto Yoritomo.”

  “Which doesn’t say much for his mental stabil—”

  “Look, I’m going with what I know. Toombs spends most of his time here in Palm Beach. If he’s got the armor, he’ll have it here with him so he can admire it. Whoever has it, it’s going to be where they spend the most time. That’s just…human nature, I guess. You don’t take that huge a risk and spend that much money without being able to enjoy the results.”

  “So thieves are predictable?”

  “Everybody’s predictable, once you learn their habits. Except for you, of course.”

  He gave a half grin. “You’re just trying to flatter me, now.”

  “Is it working?”

  “It always works. Sam—”

  “Shh,” she interrupted, holding the popcorn bowl up for him. “I like this part.”

  Richard ate popcorn and watched the movie with her. Only later did it occur to him that she’d never actually given her word to do her investigating legally. She had good instincts, but she also had a very deep craving for danger and excitement. Until he knew which Sam would win out, he needed to keep an eye on her—something that wasn’t easy even under the best of circumstances. Thankfully he enjoyed a challenge.

  When Samantha opened her eyes to look at the clock beside the bed, the time read nearly three o’clock in the morning. Stifling a groan, she slowly and silently rolled out of bed, grabbed up her emergency clothes from under the night stand, and slipped into the bathroom to dress in the dark. That done, she leaned back into the sleeping area to see Rick on his back, his chest moving slowly up and down, his face relaxed. So far, so good.

  Given that it was the weekend, she could probably go by Olivia’s school any time she wanted. With the climate of suspicion right now concerning people who hung around elementary schools, though, middle of the night seemed better.

  Hal
fway out the suite’s door, though, she paused. If Rick woke up to find her gone he would freak, and while there were instances that were worth the trouble, this really wasn’t one of them. “Shit,” she muttered, and went back into the bedroom.

  “Rick,” she murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  He woke up with a start. “What?” he asked, sitting up in an explosion of sheets. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m going to look around Olivia’s school, just to see how easy it would be for a hack to get in.”

  Rick rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I thought you said it was probably an inside job.”

  “It probably is. I’m just going to confirm that.”

  “Hold on. I’ll go with you.”

  “No, you won’t. This is the easiest thing I’ve done in a year, even with being retired. I’ll be back in like half an hour.” Samantha leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

  For a second he looked at her, and she wondered whether he would demand that he go along anyway, either because he was Sir Galahad and needed to protect her, or because he didn’t trust her judgment or abilities. Finally, though, he lay back again. “Don’t blow up anything, then.”

  “I won’t.” Probably not, anyway.

  Chapter 6

  Sunday, 8:22 a.m.

  When Richard awoke in the morning Samantha was asleep beside him. For several minutes he lay there with his head resting on his crooked arm and watched her sleep, her auburn hair half obscuring her face and one hand curled into her pillow. Had he ever sat and just gazed at Patricia like that? He couldn’t recall doing so; more likely he’d been too focused on the day’s schedule to think of lazing about anywhere.

  If not for Samantha, he would probably be doing the same thing today. She’d brought his world to a grinding halt and then had sent it off in an entirely new direction. The ride scared the bloody hell out of him, but he was definitely enjoying it. Last night she’d gone out hunting for clues to help a ten-year-old, and with the same zeal that she pursued four million dollars’ worth of missing Japanese antiquities. Remarkable.

  Silently he climbed out of bed and dressed, then went into his office to check his e-mail and faxes and to call Hans downstairs and make certain breakfast would be served out by the pool at nine o’clock. If Samantha backed out of their garden discussion, it wasn’t going to be because he’d forgotten and made other arrangements.

  When he headed down to the pool Reinaldo was setting one of the tables for breakfast, so he took a stroll around the perimeter of the rough slate patio area, taking in the well-manicured native-Florida plants interspersed with boulders in the substantial grounds, all of it set up to leave the pool private from the other areas of the estate.

  He’d bought Solano Dorado, nearly ninety years old and one of the Palm Beach estates designed by the famous Addison Mizner, seven years earlier. Since then he’d done some major renovations, changes that Architectural Digest seemed to universally approve, but while he’d had the pool itself resurfaced, he hadn’t touched the surrounding landscaping.

  Once Samantha had arrived and confessed that she’d never had a garden, he’d given it to her. And nine months later, it still hadn’t been touched. She’d brought clothes into the house, her Godzilla movies, and various toiletry items. Other than that, she hadn’t seemed to own much of a personal nature. Before their meeting she’d been pretending to be the niece of a deceased homeowner in Pompano Beach and had been basically squatting on the property until she’d been forced to flee.

  She’d moved in with him, though she could probably pack up all of her belongings in ten minutes. She even kept a folded set of clothes under the night stand in case of emergency, and in the closet a backpack with spare cash, skeleton keys, and various other items cat burglars probably found useful when they had to make a run for it.

  Richard wanted to see her work on the garden, put her bloody clothes in a drawer, and unpack that backpack. Then he would know that she meant to stick around, and then maybe he could stop worrying that she would be able to vanish into the night where he would never find her.

  “Good morning, stud muffin,” she drawled from halfway down one of the two flights of stairs that descended into the pool area. Her arms were crammed with books and pads of paper, which he automatically went forward to take from her.

  “Good morning,” he said, kissing her. “You remembered our date.”

  “Like I’d want to hear about it if I forgot.”

  “Diet Coke, Miss Sam?” Reinaldo asked. “And coffee, Mr. Rick?”

  “Yes, thank you,” he returned, as Samantha gave the housekeeper a thumbs-up. “How was the school?” he asked after Reinaldo left.

  “Locked up tight. Easy to get into for most jobbers, even hacks, but a hack wouldn’t take Anatomy Man and leave the computers and cables and shit. It had to be a kid.”

  “How will you figure out which kid?”

  “I have a couple of ideas. Don’t worry; I’ll keep you posted.” Samantha took a deep breath. “It’s nice this morning,” she noted, taking a seat at the table. “Just think, if we were in England we’d be wearing woollies or jumpers or whatever you call them, and instead we get short sleeves and flip-flops.”

  He put the stack of magazines and papers on the table between them. “Yes, but in a few months we could have a white Christmas in Devon. You won’t see that here unless a cargo plane dumps a shipment of cocaine.”

  Samantha snorted. “You are so cynical. Which is why I’m giving you one last chance to take back your garden here before I mess it up and offend Jorge and Ignacio and Joe.”

  Richard hadn’t even known those were his gardeners’ names. “I’ll risk it,” he said. “I want to see what you come up with.”

  “Okay, you asked for it.” As Reinaldo reappeared with a rolling tray holding their drinks and two plates of pancakes, she pulled one of the magazines out of the stack and opened it. “I was thinking of something like this, only with big pieces of Mediterranean-style pottery and fake Greek ruins scattered around instead of the fallen tree thing. Then it would coordinate with the style of the house.”

  For something she’d put off for nine months, she seemed completely at ease with finally discussing it. It could be an act, but at least she’d truly been thinking about it. With a smile he couldn’t help, Rick leaned forward to look at the photos. “I like it.”

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  She gazed at him critically for a moment. “Okay. I suppose not. Look at these sketches I made, then. I’m thinking a lot of green foliage, and mostly reds and yellows for the flowers, with a sprinkling of white to tie in with the Greek pillars.”

  “Amazing.” Finally. Now only half a hundred steps to go, and he’d give himself a fifty-fifty chance of not sending her screaming for the hills when he produced a ring for her finger.

  “No, Toombs,” Samantha said, exaggerating her pronunciation as she swiveled in the newest of her succession of office chairs. “This would be much easier if you’d let me take a look at the files myself.”

  “Not for me, it wouldn’t be,” Stoney returned, the sound of rattling papers in the background. “I’ll take another look.”

  “It was in March of ’03,” she said, clenching her office phone in her hand. “I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

  “What was the combination of Captain Kirk’s safe?”

  She grimaced. “There wasn’t one. That’s an urban legend. His safe had buttons that weren’t numbered.”

  “That proves you’re a freak, and that you shouldn’t be allowed to question any normal person’s memory. I’ll call you.”

  “Why are you stalling me?” she asked, frowning.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Jeez, Sam, I can’t think why I have concerns about giving you my client information just because people you go up against tend to get arrested or dead.”

  Sam
antha frowned at the phone. “You’re picking the money guys over me? We’re family.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe family shouldn’t screw shit up like you are.”

  “Sto—”

  The phone clicked off. With a sigh Samantha hung the phone up again. Man, he was testy. And mean. The Kirk answer wasn’t all that impressive; he should have asked her about the combination to the gold safe in the remake of The Italian Job. She loved that movie.

  Her phone buzzed, and she jumped about a foot. “Holy heart attack, Batman.” Hitting the intercom button, she leaned forward over the telephone. “What is it, Aubrey?”

  “You don’t have to be so close to the phone, Miss Samantha,” his soft drawl returned. “It makes that pretty voice of yours all fuzzy. And you have a call on line two.”

  Okay, so she didn’t know speakerphone etiquette. “Who is it?” she asked, sitting back again and hoping it wasn’t Olivia Donner. She needed to look into a few more things before she relayed any information on that subject.

  “That’s better. It’s Dr. Joseph Viscanti.”

  Great. “Thanks.” Picking up the receiver, she hit the blinking red button. “Joseph. What can I do for you?”

  “You received the package I sent you?” the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art asked in his mild librarian voice.

  “Yes, it came Saturday afternoon.”

  “Good, good.” His voice trailed into silence.

  “What’s up?” she ventured after ten or so seconds.

  “Ah. Any leads yet?”

  “A couple of ideas, but it’s too soon for leads.” Especially any she would share. She was way too close to being a black hat herself to start throwing around names of potentially guilty people. As it was, she was going to have to be really sure before she repeated anything to anybody.

  “Very good. You’ll keep me posted, yes?”

  Samantha frowned. “Sure. Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No, no. It’s just that, well, if we can’t produce the stolen items by the end of business the Wednesday after next, the exhibition will accept the proposal from the Smithsonian. New York will be bypassed entirely.”