“We’ve set up rooms in the east wing for you,” Rick said from directly behind her. “You’re sleeping in your old room, Reg.”
With her arm still around his, Reggie Addison headed to the right as they topped the stairs. He knew at least the basic layout of the castle, then, but that didn’t surprise her. In fact, she didn’t know that it mattered one way or the other, except that she’d long ago developed the habit of learning about people from what they did, how they acted, rather than by what they said. Because people lied.
“I remember this place being old,” he said conversationally, reaching over to run a finger across the surface of an old oak hall table, “and the west wing sagging, but it’s definitely taken on a shabby sheen.”
“I’ve neglected it,” Rick returned, a sharper edge touching his voice. But then he didn’t like being criticized. “I’ve already begun taking steps to make some repairs.”
“Honestly, Richard,” his uncle took up, “I don’t know that Canniebrae is salvageable. You might consider turning it over to the National Trust and letting them sink their funds into the place.”
She didn’t need to see Rick’s face to know how that had gone over. Receiving unasked-for advice came in just above criticism in his book or irritants. “I asked him if I could take a look at it, first,” she cut in smoothly. “Restoring old classics is kind of my thing.” There. She was an asset. Not a disorderly bump to his proper Britishness.
“Well, you’ve worked wonders with Ricky,” Reggie offered, grinning. “Turning the stable at Rawley Park into a museum? For the public? I nearly fainted when I read about it.”
“It’s a lovely idea,” his mother countered. “The Addisons have such a long line of collectors in the family, it’s a shame to leave Gainsboroughs in the attic when they could be displayed.”
“Thank you, Aunt Mercia. I much prefer being referred to as a collector than a hoarder.”
Reggie snorted. “I don’t think you’d qualify as a hoarder – can you have too many Rembrandts, for example?”
“You’d have to ask Mrs. Rembrandt about that.” Samantha smiled, gesturing Reggie into the room on her right. “This is yours, Reggie.” She leaned a breath closer. “Will Eerika need her own?”
“No,” he whispered back. “I remember this room being bigger,” he continued in a normal voice.
Rick came up beside them to grip her free hand. He’d managed to extricate himself from the Viking, who swirled into the room ahead of the rest of them. “We have no wi-fi, at least until Thursday, but the phone in the kitchen and the one in my office both work, except for the hold buttons. There’s a torch in the lavatory and another one in the nightstand, because the power hasn’t been reliable. I’m working on that, as well.”
“Oh, a rustic holiday,” Eerika chirped. “How delightful!”
They showed Reggie’s parents to the room across the hallway, and then invited the lot of them down to the morning room when they’d settled in. With that Rick practically dragged her back to the stairs and the ground floor. Samantha put up with it mainly because he looked genuinely unsettled, and partly because she wanted to ask him a few more questions to help with her assessment of the people who were on the verge of – cripes almighty – becoming her in-laws.
“They seem nice,” she ventured, when he finally released her in the morning room doorway.
“’A rustic holiday,’” he echoed, doing a fair impression of the Viking’s smooth, honey-dripping voice. “’How delightful’.”
“What did you expect?” she asked, dropping into a chair that gave her a view out the front of the house and the rain outside. “You’re the rich relation. Reggie’s probably trying to show off for his girlfriend. They were hoping for opulence. Or at least a telly that receives the BBC.”
“It does, when the wind is southerly.” With a sigh, Rick sat on the arm of the chair beside her. “Don’t think I dislike them. We all used to be fairly close.” Standing again, he wandered over to the hearth and squatted to toss another piece of wood onto the fire. “I could do without a stranger.”
“The Viking goddess? Norway?”
He snorted. “She has a handshake like a rag doll, if that makes a difference.”
It did, though she didn’t exactly want to admit that. She didn’t like jealousy, in herself or anyone else. It wasn’t as if Rick would be smitten by Eerika’s Scandinavian blue eyes and run off with her. Before she’d broken into his house in Florida, he’d dated actresses, reporters, all sorts of professionally gorgeous women, and he’d become bored by the succession of pretty faces and empty heads.
“You charm strangers all the time, Mr. Bond. What’s different about this?”
“Because this is my place,” he said, then sighed. “No, that’s not it. I don’t know. We should have had them over to the flat in London. One evening, dinner and drinks, and done with.”
Rick Addison, uncertain of himself. Just the idea of him not knowing what he wanted to say or how he felt fascinated her. The guy had bought a local Florida cable television station just so they would show monster movies for her. The fact that it had since become the highest-rated non-syndicated station in the Southeast had only been a happy coincidence. God, she hoped it wasn’t about her. She could adopt a blue-blood heritage, but it wouldn’t fool the one guy who mattered.
“We’ll manage,” she said, wrapping her arm around his waist. “I’ll give you plenty of things to worry over, and you’ll hardly remember they’re here.”
“Thanks for that.”
Great. She’d wanted a bit of reassurance. Either he was focused on his own thing, though, or whatever bothered him wasn’t anywhere near her torches and pitchfork thinking. She hoped it was that. “You’re welcome.”
A gust of wind sent the lights flickering, and rain spattering against the window before them. “When my father died,” he said into the silence, “Uncle Rowland decided he should become my advisor in all things financial, spiritual, and personal. I was still at Oxford, but I did not appreciate the interference. I’m certain he was only trying to help, but…”
“You didn’t want anyone dictating where your life should go?” she suggested, trying not to put any additional meaning into the words – even though that was precisely what he continued to try with her.
He shot her a glance, one eyebrow lifting. “I didn’t want to live his life,” he countered. “And certainly not so he could live mine vicariously.”
“I get that. Nobody wants to walk out of one shadow and into another.”
“Precisely.”
Straightening again, he made his way over to the window. Once he’d shoved open the heavy forest-green curtains as far as they would go, Samantha went to join him. Maybe she was being shallow, but she was really glad this was about his issues, and not hers. Rain-streaked glass gave way to a gray haze beyond, a pine tree branch here or there emerging like crooked, creepy hands. So far Scotland was pretty damn awesome.
“And I’m not trying to dictate where your life should go, Samantha,” he continued. “I’m trying to ensure that you remain in my life. I don’t want you absent for five to ten.”
“More likely fifty to life,” she countered. “That’s a worst-case scenario, of course.” It was pretty accurate, too. Rick knew about a lot of the jobs she’d pulled, but she hadn’t told him everything. Not yet, anyway.
After all, she’d been stealing shit from people since she’d turned six, and had pulled her first solo million-dollar cat burglary at fifteen. Yeah, she’d slowed down beginning about four years ago, and had stopped completely when she’d met Rick, but for those six years between fifteen and twenty-one she’d been freakin’ notorious. And obscenely successful.
Rick faced her. “How often do prisons allow conjugal visits?”
“Not often enough for you. I can pretty much guarantee that.”
He stuck a finger into the belt of her jeans and tugged her closer. “Then let’s avoid that, shall we?”
“That’
s the plan, man.” With a smile she leaned up along his chest and gave him a peck on the lips. “This was your idea. If you don’t want ‘em here, make up a trip to London or something.”
“I wanted you to meet them,” he repeated. “And honestly, you’d make mincemeat of them over one dinner. I’m forcing you to run a marathon.”
“And you forgot you’d have to run it right along with me? So, this is all about making me pick a persona?”
His shoulders tensed. “Nonsense. Well, partly nonsense. I separated myself from them. You’ve been without family for a very long time. I thought…what’s mine is yours. I suppose we can all be more honest in private, out in the middle of the Highlands.” Slowly he relaxed again. “I didn’t plan on sharing this with someone I don’t know. Especially with some rough water that isn’t quite under the bridge, yet.”
Samantha nodded. “I’ll be good. I’m not even crossing my fingers.” She held up one hand, demonstrating the Vulcan salute. “See?”
Rick elbowed her in the ribs. “I’m not worried about you. Except for your opinion. I do want you to like them, though I’m not entirely certain why. Keep in mind that where my uncle is concerned I’m still nineteen,” he said, throwing an arm around her shoulders, “but don’t let that sway your opinion.”
It already had, but she nodded. “Gotcha. I mean, hell, you’ve met my dad and you’re still here, so fair is fair.”
Of course where Rick’s Uncle Rowland was too handsy-onnie, her dad was a convicted cat burglar who had nearly gotten her killed a few months ago in New York, was presumed dead by law enforcement in general, and was now apparently working with Interpol. Or letting Interpol think he was working with them, more likely. Compared to that, Uncle Rowland could be a poo-throwing circus monkey and would still be a few rungs above Martin Jellicoe in a humanity contest.
“What’s fair?” Reggie’s voice came from the doorway.
“All’s fair, in love and war,” Samantha said promptly, sliding gracefully from beneath Richard’s arm to claim a corner of the long sofa at one end of the room.
So far Samantha had more or less been herself, which Richard decided to take as a good sign. She’d only spent fifteen minutes with his relations, of course, but he knew very well that six or seven months ago she would never have stuck around long enough even to meet them. Entanglements. That was what she called relationships. Even some friendships. Luckily for him, she’d evidently cast most of the pages of her rulebook aside where he was concerned.
Reg started toward the couch. For a bare second Richard weighed moving in to take the seat beside Samantha before his cousin could do so. He wanted to. He treasured his possessions, and Samantha Jellicoe was the rarest and most precious of them all. As he’d said, though, he’d arranged all of this, and better to see them acquainted here, where there were both plenty of places for her to hide out, and where he was the undisputed master of his realm.
“Where’s your Miss Nyland?” he asked, because it never hurt to remind someone of obligations they had elsewhere.
“Hanging up clothes. She’ll be down shortly, I imagine.”
Richard damned well hoped so, but he settled for nodding. He wanted more information about Norway the Viking, as Samantha called her; like Sam, the nuances of what drove people interested him. For her it was more about truth and a genuine curiosity and occasionally looking for a good mark to fleece, while he tended to look for vulnerability, chinks in the armor. A side effect of being in the business of businesses, he supposed. No one could argue that it hadn’t served him bloody well.
“So, you restore paintings?” his cousin asked, sitting a breath too close to Samantha and flinging an arm across the back of the couch behind her.
“I did. Not so much, anymore. I recover artwork, mostly. I also advise on security for exhibits and museums, and help track down things that go missing.”
Rather than edge away from him, she turned in, putting on her brightest smile. Richard knew that to be a warning, even if Reginald didn’t recognize it as such. Samantha didn’t like being caged in. Hmm. This might be amusing, after all. He moved over to the chair she’d vacated by the fire and turned it to face his cousin and fiancée.
“That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?” Reg pursued, now wearing his famously charming smile. Good God, it was a pleasantry contest. “From artist to…what, bounty hunter?”
“Not really a leap at all,” she said smoothly, shrugging. “I like puzzles. Taking them apart and putting them together.” Samantha settled in a little closer to Reg. “I didn’t get a chance to ask Rick: What do you do?”
“My dear, aristocrats don’t do anything. Don’t you know that?” Reg returned, chuckling at his own humor.
“I knew that during Pride and Prejudice. That’s a long time, though, for a family not to have a job. Rick works.”
“I have to disagree. Ricky commands. There’s a difference.”
They’d had this argument before. As long as Samantha remained cool, though, Richard would attempt to do so, as well. “You’re changing the subject,” she noted.
Reg’s smile deepened. “Am I?”
This conversation was a bit like watching a fencing match. Slick as Reg was, he was in way over his head, and he had no idea. “If I command, then I command you to tell her what you do for a living. Or I can tell her.”
Reg flipped his free hand at the air. “Heaven forfend. You’ll say something gauche, like ‘he sells cars’. What I do, my dear Sam, is match a particular driver with the perfect car. It takes skill, patience, and sometimes a great deal of flattery.”
“Love connections between man and Mercedes?” she queried, real amusement touching her voice.
“Or between man and Porsche. Or man and Maserati. Or woman and Jaguar. You get the picture.”
“Ah. I do.”
“I’m very good at it, too.” He half-lidded his eyes, studying her closely. “For instance, I would say you’re a…Lamborghini Aventador woman. In red. Or custom pink. Am I right?”
Richard snorted, then tried to turn the sound into a cough. In England Samantha drove a blue Mini-Cooper. In Florida, she generally used his yellow ’67 Mustang – unless she was on a job. Then it was the ’15 Honda Civic he’d bought her. He knew her motto as well as she did: Never stand out. A pink Lamborghini was about as far away from Sam’s style as it was possible to get.
“Something amusing, Ricky?”
“He’s just laughing because I keep trying to borrow his Lambo, and he won’t let me. I actually drive a Tesla, these days.”
“Ah. Environmentally conscious, are you?”
Samantha’s smiled deepened, though Richard wasn’t certain how she managed that. And now he was going to have to buy her a Tesla. “I’m on the S.P.E.R.M. committee,” she said smoothly. “I have to be environmentally aware.”
Reginald’s cheeks darkened. “I beg your pardon?”
“S.P.E.R.M.,” she repeated. “The Society for the Protection of the Environment and Range of Manatees. Manatees are very big in Florida.”
“Well. Thank goodness. I wasn’t certain what you were about to say.” Reg laughed, putting his free hand on Samantha’s knee as he did so.
That, as far as Richard was concerned, was poaching. He stood, walked over, and pulled Samantha to her feet. The odds were about fifty-fifty that she would be angry at him for stepping in, but since she was already beginning to spin tales about automobiles, he decided to risk it. “Don’t let Reg charm you,” he drawled, pasting a smile on his own face. “He’s notorious for that.”
She sent him a quick frown as if to say, “please, dude”. The fact that she was puzzled by his concern reassured him to a ridiculous degree – and left him annoyed at his own lack of restraint. They were engaged. Samantha had agreed that marrying him was what she wanted. He knew damned well it was what he wanted. The sight of his charming cousin putting a hand on her leg was… Hell, Reggie had brought someone with him, as well. The fact that the gesture had troubled h
im was, as Sam would say, so Pride and Prejudice of him.
When he released her hand, she leaned up to catch him with a quick kiss. “If you thick-blooded Brits don’t mind, I’m going to go find a jacket. This is not Florida weather.”
Hmm. Was that her, fleeing? More likely it was him, unable to help reading significance into every damned second right now, because he’d introduced her to the three people in the world he couldn’t dismiss from his life – his relatives. “My blood’s thinned a bit, as well,” he said to her back. “I think my jacket’s over the bedpost.”
Samantha nodded without turning around. “Ten-four.”
“Where in God’s green Earth did you find her?” Reg asked the moment she left the room, sitting back and crossing one ankle over the other.
“A museum event,” Richard returned. That was what he and Samantha had agreed on, since neither of them was about to admit that she’d tried to rob him and then ended up saving him from a bomb. “Then when my house was burglarized, I brought her in to help with the investigation. I asked her to stay, and she stayed.” The negotiations had been far more complicated than that, but Reg didn’t need to know that. He paused. “Why?”
Reg cracked a grin. “That’s the Ricky Addison I know. ‘My word is law.’ Does she always do what you tell her to? Patricia did. Until she didn’t, of course.”
“So, this is the segment of the conversation where you remind me that my ex-wife slept with my college roommate? I do remember, so I suppose it’s meant to make you feel better. It’s very gauche, you know, to have your sense of self-esteem based on the misfortunes of others.” Richard opened his mouth to continue; God knew he’d had both sides of this conversation memorized for weeks. What was the point of it, though? He had Samantha. He was happy. Damned happy. Grinding Reg into paste didn’t serve any purpose. He took a breath. “Tell me about yours. Eerika, yes?”
Barefoot in the Dark Page 7
