“Are you going to stay on the phone with me all the way back to the estate?”
“That’s the plan.”
“No. I need to concentrate on driving. I’m wigging out enough without adding holding your hand to the mix. Save your minutes, Brit.”
“Okay. Just wave frantically if you need me.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror to see the Jaguar a car length or so behind her. “Will do,” she said, and hung up.
None of the photos had been of her on the estate; apparently Peeping Tom was okay only when she was in public. Either that or he didn’t think he could beat the estate security. Anyway, she’d never felt more…safe than when those gates opened and the SLK and the Jaguar traveled through them and onto the palm-shrouded drive. Rick was absolutely right; Toombs needed to be prevented from ever taking another picture of her. How to go about that without opening herself to blackmail or arrest or something, though, could be a little stickier.
Chapter 21
Saturday, 1:32 p.m.
Samantha stood with her arms folded, looking through the window of the Solano Dorado library down at the chaos on the pool deck. It was way too early to see anything resembling the plans she’d put together for the area, but it didn’t look the way it had this morning, either.
“They certainly seem enthusiastic, don’t they?” Rick observed, coming up to lean against the window frame beside her.
“What exactly did you say to them when you signed the contract?”
“Only something about how much value I place on people adhering to the schedule they agree on.”
“You didn’t bare your teeth or anything?”
“Only in a smile.”
“Nice.”
He was taking the Toombs room of ick better than she expected, at least on the outside, though that was probably for her sake. She knew him well enough to recognize that he’d put on his calm, business face and hadn’t taken it off since they’d left that turret room. Whatever he felt, he wasn’t going to let anybody, even her, see. Not until he was ready, or he’d done whatever it was he thought he needed to do to correct the situation—which since he’d said would include burning Wild Bill’s house down, it just might.
The intercom buzzed, and Rick went to see to it. At his query she heard Reinaldo announcing that Mr. Aubrey Pendleton had arrived. “Do you want to meet him in here?” Rick asked, muting the intercom.
“Here’s good.”
“Bring him up to the library, if you please.”
“Right away, Mr. Rick.”
“How well did you say Aubrey knows Toombs?” Rick asked as he returned to her side.
She recognized that tone, too. “I know you want to punch somebody,” she said, turning from the view to watch the door, “but keep a lid on it. Aubrey’s on our side.”
He caught her arm, turning her to face him. “You have no idea what I want to do, Samantha.”
The glimpse of pure rage in his eyes before he let her go and went to greet Aubrey startled her. She knew he was angry and that Toombs’s actions had messed with his male ego, but oh, boy. Her Sir Galahad was armored up and ready to rumble.
Quickly she pushed past him and took Aubrey’s hand. “Thanks for coming,” she said, maneuvering him around Rick to the big work table in the middle of the room.
“My pleasure,” Aubrey drawled. “Did you find the armor and swords?”
“No. Not exactly.”
Rick took the seat opposite him. “How well do you know Toombs?” he asked, his tone clipped.
Aubrey looked from him to Samantha, his tanned brow furrowing. “Is something amiss?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Rick, stop it.” Samantha sat down beside Aubrey, as much to protect him as to show that they were all friends here, whatever Rick might be thinking. “Has Toombs ever been married?”
“Once, I believe,” Aubrey answered, looking from one of them to the other. “I’m beginning to feel rather alarmed.”
“What happened to her?”
“They divorced, according to rumor. It was before I met him, so at least twelve years ago. Why?”
“Does he date?”
“On occasion he’ll attend an event with some young thing, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with the same lady more than once. He talks about women a great deal, and likes pretty, young ones.”
“Okay.” Samantha glanced at Rick, but he was still bottled up tight. “Has he ever…talked about me? Before we all met for lunch at the Sailfish Club, I mean.”
Aubrey sat back. “I’d like to know what’s going on. I think you know by now that I’ll tell you anything that might help, but obviously something serious has happened.” He looked directly at Rick. “But I will not be bullied or threatened.”
Rick placed his palms flat on the table. The two men started a stare-down, and Samantha rolled her eyes. Men. In a way this typical male behavior was actually a little comforting. At least she could predict and understand this.
“Rick went into the house with me,” she said, noting both that a couple of months ago she would never have willingly confessed to anything, and that neither man seemed willing to give her credit for her honesty. “We got into the locked room.”
“So I assumed,” Aubrey said, his attention still obviously on Rick. “You said you didn’t find the shogun armor.”
“We found a room covered with framed pictures of me. Candid photos, magazine prints, everything.” She intentionally left out the theft articles; Aubrey knew some things about her past, but confessing for no reason just wasn’t her style.
Pendleton turned from his staring contest to look at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“It was a fucking shrine,” Rick finally contributed.
At least he was speaking again. “I’m trying to figure out if it’s a crush, or something creepier or scarier,” she added on to that.
“Holy Hannah,” Aubrey muttered.
“Instead of commiserating,” Rick put in again, his voice still hard, “how about some of that assistance you volunteered?”
“That must have been quite a room,” Aubrey said quietly. “I recall that Wild Bill knew I had taken at job at your security firm; I don’t have your memory so I don’t recollect the exact words we exchanged, but he definitely knew we’d begun working together.”
“He’d already started taking photos of me by then,” Samantha commented, beginning to wish that Rick would leave the room if all he was going to do was threaten and glower. “Did he ask to meet me or anything?”
“He did mention that he might be interested in consulting with you on some security matters. I gave him your business card, but didn’t press anything.”
“Why not?” Rick asked.
“I socialize with Wild Bill, play golf, attend banquets and parties, and he’s one of the few year-round residents here. I have never referred to our relationship as a friendship, though, and I never will. Especially now.”
“You told me to be careful around Toombs,” Samantha pressed. “Was that just a general warning, or did you mean because of those possible mob connections you mentioned?”
“‘Mob connections’?” Rick snapped, coming to attention again. “What the bloody—”
“Rumored connections,” she broke in before he could start a tirade. “And Aubrey’s the one who told me about it.”
“How long has he been…pursuing you?” Aubrey asked.
“At least the last three years.” She didn’t say how she knew that, and thankfully Aubrey didn’t ask. The statute of limitations for those four items in Toombs’s possession was still valid.
“Three years,” he repeated. “You know, about three years ago, Wild Bill left town for about three months. I believe he went to Europe on an extended vacation. I don’t know if there’s any connection to you or not, but it’s the only thing that comes to mind.”
It might, but she had the feeling she would have to ask Toombs if she wanted any more answers. At the
moment she wasn’t sure she was ready for that. “Thanks, Aubrey.”
“If I’d known about the contents of that room, Miss Samantha, I would not have kept it from you.”
“I know that. I just wanted to know if you had any inside information that maybe might not have seemed like anything at the time.”
“Samantha still wants to attend the Mallorey party tonight, and the Picault dinner tomorrow.” Rick pushed away from the table and stalked over to the window again.
“Are you sure that’s wise? Wild Bill will be at both events.”
“I’m not hiding under the bed, guys. I have a job to do. And, and, the armor’s either with the Picaults or my whole theory falls apart and I fail at this retrieval crap. So I’m going to dinner. To both dinners. You two can do what you want.”
It sounded good, anyway. In truth she wanted both of them there with her just so she wouldn’t have to talk to Toombs on her own. That was scaredy-cat thinking, though, reserved for people with dull, normal lives. If she’d ever hesitated to do something because she was scared, she probably would have been in jail or dead a long time ago.
“Nonsense, my dear,” Aubrey drawled in his best antebellum accent yet. “I, at the least, intend to remain close by until this is resolved.”
“I’m not even replying to that, Samantha.” Rick kept his back to them, his shoulders straight and rigid.
“In that case, I’m going to sketch the layout of the Picaults’ house. Will you two help me with that?”
“I’m not finished discussing Toombs,” Rick said succinctly.
“Then you and I can do that later. Aubrey, have you been to visit August and Yvette?”
“Once.”
“Rick?”
He shifted a little. “No.”
This was her fault. She’d focused her attention on Toombs because of the one known theft he’d commissioned. So now she was left with a short time frame and only her quick top-floor jaunt into the Picaults’ house to go by. Walking over to the supply cabinet, she pulled out a pencil and a large sheet of graph paper.
“You actually want to plan another break-in? Right now?”
“That is exactly what I want to do right now.” It was better than sitting around and thinking about what Toombs might be doing alone with her pictures in that locked room.
For the next hour she and Aubrey put together a layout of the Picaults’ house. There were more holes than she felt comfortable with—under normal circumstances she would have obtained city-approved blueprints and done some surveillance to get detailed information about alarms and locks and the schedule of the occupants.
Under those circumstances, going in with a gimmick rather than by stealth would be easier, but she had no idea how to pull that off in four days. Not without Stoney to help her set it up.
Rick disappeared somewhere twenty minutes in. Fine. This was her gig, her job, her call, and those were her pictures on Toombs’s damned wall. When the layout was as good as she and Aubrey could make it, she walked him out to the drive where his ’62 El Dorado waited for him. “Thanks again. And I’m sorry Rick tried to pummel you.”
“He’s protective,” Aubrey answered, sliding behind the wheel. “I can’t fault him for that.”
“I guess in this case I can’t, either,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll see you tonight. And I forgot to ask—who’s the lucky gal?”
“Mrs. Agnes Pendaway. Her husband’s at Betty Ford, and she hates to attend parties alone.”
She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful there, Aubrey. For a minute your accent almost slipped.”
He smiled. “You do make me forget myself sometimes, Miss Samantha,” he drawled easily, and started the car.
As he set off down the drive, she felt Rick come up beside her before she saw him. “Hey.”
“I told you he’s not gay,” he observed, taking her hand as they returned to the house.
“Yes, he is. He’s just not as flamboyant as he lets on.”
She wanted to wind down for an hour or so before she had to put on her game face, but she had no intention of relaxing if Rick was still on the warpath. Tentatively she tucked herself against his shoulder, and he shifted to wrap his arm around her waist. Ah. This was good.
“I love you,” he said into her hair.
“I love you back. Do you have it under control now?”
“If you do, then I do.”
“Mm hm. Why don’t I believe you?”
He turned them toward the stairs. “Just because I want to beat Toombs into paste doesn’t mean I’ll do it,” he said in a low voice. “Not tonight. Unless he gives me a reason.”
“And what would that reason be—blinking?”
“Perhaps.”
She wrapped the fingers of her free hand into the front of his shirt. “I have a job to do. Don’t screw it up for me because he’s a creep. He’ll still be a creep tomorrow, and the day after. The only difference will be that I won’t have to pretend to like him anymore.”
“Except that that’s not quite true, is it?” he countered. “The bit of him that makes him dangerous is in his head—what he knows, and thinks he knows.”
“So what do you propose, an assassination?”
He didn’t answer.
That didn’t bode well. She’d seen him nearly shoot a man’s ear off for threatening her life, and he’d thrown more than one punch. She’d thrown a few herself, but there was a difference between self-defense and defending someone else. Maybe. Every time she thought about what she would do when she saw Toombs tonight, she just wanted to grab Rick and climb under the bedcovers and listen to his heartbeat.
And she didn’t approach trouble that way. She faced it straight on. “I’ll tell you what,” she said as they reached the master bedroom suite. “You play it cool with him for the next two nights, stick with our plan, and we’ll go back in and sanitize his playroom. Then he’ll know that we know, and that we have proof that he has stolen items in his house.”
“I like punching better.”
“Rick—”
“We’ll try it that way. No promises.”
She probably wouldn’t get anything better than that out of him. “I’m not used to being the reasonable one, you know,” she said aloud. “You think I don’t want to kick him in the face the next time I see him?”
“I’m glad to hear that. I know it shook you up to see that, Samantha. You don’t have to pretend otherwise.”
He took her arms and drew her up against his chest, then leaned down and kissed her. She slipped her arms around his shoulders, kissing him back, slow and deep. “Thanks,” she whispered against his mouth.
“For anything in particular?”
“No. And yes.”
The Mallorey soiree was an annual event, a charity for the homeless with none of the homeless invited. Richard doubted Lewis or Gwyneth Mallorey saw the irony in that, especially since the invitees were the fairly small number of the year-round upper-crust residents of Palm Beach. Less expense for entertaining fewer people, and less competition for media attention.
If Samantha hadn’t done the security upgrades for the Malloreys’ residence, Casa Palomas, he probably wouldn’t have bothered to attend. Not only was he generally out of town at this time of year, but he preferred to choose his charities based on their works rather than the quality of the filet mignon served by their honorary chairpersons.
He felt especially conflicted tonight; on the one hand, he would rather have kept Samantha at home where no sick wankers could take photos of her for their own private use. And on the other hand, he wanted to look Gabriel Toombs squarely in the eyes before he throttled the bastard.
The stretched Mercedes stopped at the curb, and Ben climbed out to come around and open the door for them. Beyond the wall of paparazzi lining the sidewalk the windows of the three-story Casa Palomas were all thrown open, lights and music spewing forth into the deepening twilight. “Ready?” he asked, offering his hand to Samantha.
“Ready,” she said, and wrapped her fingers around his.
Cameras flashed as he helped her out of the car. Usually he barely noticed them; he’d long ago become used to being photographed at every public event he attended. This evening, though, he felt hyper-aware of every click, every jostling movement in the crowd.
Samantha tilted her head toward him, and the flashes increased in intensity. “You’re going to break my hand,” she murmured.
Immediately he loosened his grip a little. “Apologies,” he returned in the same low tone.
“You were the one who used to tease me about being skittish in front of the press.” To his surprise she flashed her quicksilver grin. The paparazzi started a supernova.
“That was before I realized that some people might use the photos in their private collections.”
“I bet your pictures are in some bedrooms, Bond.”
“Do not tell me that.” He ignored the Bond bit for once; she called him that every time he wore a tuxedo. Tonight he had a little more in common with James Bond than she probably realized, since he carried a Glock .44 in his inside pocket.
Upscale events like this generally didn’t use metal detectors; the sheer volume of gold and silver and platinum being worn by the guests made it both rude and impractical. The security guards on either side of the drive and the wide doorway were most likely there to keep the press at bay.
“Rick, welcome,” Gwyneth Mallorey said, greeting him with a warm smile, her neck, ears, and wrists so encrusted with glittering gems that he wondered how she could stay on her feet. If she’d wanted to, Samantha could have her stripped bare in about five seconds, and it would be another two minutes before Mrs. Mallorey even realized it.
A Touch of Minx Page 24
