“Yes. She’s a professional shopper.” Reggie sent him a sideways glance, chuckling. “I was waiting for that expression. She purchases for some of those ‘I’m secretly shagging my flatmate’s partner’ reality shows. She’s even been talking to a producer about getting her own show. They’re still working on a concept.”
Ah, reality shows. He’d never been a fan, but Samantha liked to study some of the so-called “real” housewives. Apparently Eerika Nyland didn’t shy away from publicity, and that set his teeth on edge. Thank God for no cell service, after all.
“How did you meet?” Richard asked.
“She contacted me four months ago about a car. Ended up passing on it, but here we are.” He uncrossed his legs. “She confessed last week that she’d seen me about and asked me to find her a car as an excuse to meet me. Best sale I ever lost.”
The meet was so stereotypically cute that Richard almost expected his cousin to finish his sentence with, “the saucy minx”. Perhaps he had no right to sarcasm or cynicism where the meet-cute was concerned, because while he remained fairly certain very few people could match a bomb or Samantha dropping in through his skylight, he could also never tell anyone else about it.
“Mum and dad seem to like her, which puts her several rungs above the previous three girls I brought home.”
Shaking himself free of the considerable tangles of his life, Richard glanced toward the open door. “Your first mistake might have been referring to them as ‘girls’,” he commented. If his aunt and uncle liked the Viking, perhaps she wasn’t all that bad.
“A figure of speech between cousins,” Reg said dismissively. “At least I’m not dating my own employee.”
And this was one of the bloody lies he would have to live with. “Contracted consultant,” he amended, anyway. “And another crack like that might make me reconsider chatting with you about the new Bentley EXP 10 Speed 6.”
His cousin blinked. “You are aware that’s just a concept car at this point.”
“And?” Richard prompted. He’d bought cars through Reggie before – not out of necessity, but because it would look bad if a man who bought as many cars as he did, didn’t deal with his cousin who brokered them.
“If you’re serious, I’ll see what I can do. Don’t mention it to Dad, though, if you don’t mind. He sees you coming to me as charity.”
No, Uncle Rowland didn’t like charity. He preferred to make his money the old-fashioned way – by inheriting it. That was perfectly acceptable. “No worries.”
“By the way, he’s going to ask you about investing in his leatherworks company. Again.”
Ah, finely-tooled leather wallets, purses, boots, and jackets. A nineteenth-century business in a twenty-first-century world. The very fact that it was old-fashioned made it acceptable for an aristocrat to own it. Stifling a sigh, Richard nodded. “Thank you for the warning.”
“You’re welcome.” Reggie stood to give a mock bow, then strolled over to the liquor table in the corner. “Tell me you have the good Scotch.”
“This is Scotland. Of course I have the good Scotch. Pour me one, will you?”
A moment later his cousin handed over a brimming glass of amber and settled into the chair opposite him across the hearth. “Is the west wing really that bad off? I’d love to go exploring through our old haunts. There may be some antiques in there that should be moved to safety.”
“Don’t worry about the antiques. It didn’t just begin falling apart yesterday. We should never have been allowed to play in there as children, in fact.” The entire wing needed to be surveyed – and he knew who was best suited to do it, even if he preferred that she remain well away from any rotted ceiling beams and crumbling mortar. Apparently he needed to secure some hard hats.
“If you say so. I’d still like to see it.”
“Why?”
Reg downed half his Scotch. “Memories, my dear cousin. I’m certain I hid away a handful of those old lead soldiers. They’re worth their weight in gold, these days.”
Scavenging. He was accustomed to it. There was an entire industry of scavengers who followed him about in business, picking up his leftovers and remains and rejects. For as long as he’d known him, Reg had been…an opportunist, he supposed it was. That characteristic made him a perfect car salesman – or broker, as Reg preferred – but it made him feel a bit greasy at parties.
“I’ll see what I can arrange,” he said aloud. “Are your parents going to join us?”
“I doubt it. That helicopter flight had Mum clutching her handbag hard enough to leave claw marks. They’ll make an appearance for dinner. You’d best tell your American girl that we Addisons dress for dinner with the family. Eerika already knows – hence the mountain of luggage.”
“Samantha’s not even distantly related to hillbillies, Reg.” At least he didn’t think she was. “And West Palm Beach isn’t exactly Blackpool in the summer.”
His cousin laughed. “I saw her, Ricky. That girl has got some class. And ass.”
Well, that was enough of that. “Leave rhyming to the poets, Reg. Do try to keep in mind that I’m marrying Samantha.”
“Right. I keep forgetting she’s not one of your Victoria’s Secret girls.”
For God’s sake. Ask one – or three – models out to charity events, and suddenly no one remembered that he’d ever dated anyone else. No one remembered but Samantha, that was, since she had a nearly photographic memory and delighted in googling him. “She’s like no one you’ve ever met, Reg. And when you fall in love with her – which you will, despite Eerika – just keep in mind that she’s mine. She’s more than you could handle, anyway.”
Reg lifted both eyebrows. “That almost sounds like a challenge.” He finished off the Scotch and stood. “But considering that I know what you did to Patricia and Peter when you caught them shagging, I’ll decline. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go find my girlfriend and occupy myself until dinner.”
“Mi casa, su casa, as they say in Florida.”
“God, you’ve been away for too damned long, Ricky.”
Once he was alone again, Richard finished off his own Scotch and then rang for Yule to request a half dozen hard hats, portable lights, and generators to power them. This would have been an easier holiday if the castle wasn’t practically begging to be dug through, but it had been his bloody idea to come here. Hopefully Samantha would decide that mice and rot wasn’t her style after all, and they would have an excuse to go to London before long. Fingers crossed.
Because as well and thoroughly as he generally planned, he’d begun to realize that he’d overlooked a few rather important things. Things he didn’t want anyone digging through. Not even Samantha. Especially not Samantha, because she would likely figure them out.
6
Thursday, 7:18 a.m.
Samantha reached out to push the curtain open a little, then sank back down again with a shivering sigh. “The sun’s up,” she panted, lifting and lowering herself over Rick again.
He continued playing with her boobs, pinching her nipples in a way that had her on the verge of coming for the second time that morning. “Breakfast will wait,” he returned, his own voice more of a hard grunt than his usual smooth British tones.
“I mean, it’s not raining.” Sinking down, she favored him with a hot, openmouthed kiss and sped her pace. She usually preferred it when he was on top, but so did he. A little loss of control was good for him. It felt damned good for her, too.
Rick shifted his hands to her hips, lifting up beneath her and holding her down hard against him. “Hold, please,” he rasped, growling as he came.
That sent her over the edge again, and with a keening sigh she flopped down over him. Good gravy. A year after they’d first done it – in the back of one of his cars, as she recalled – and it only got better. He knew damned well what set her off, and vice versa. “That was my line,” she mumbled against his ear, tugging her hair out of her eyes.
She could feel his laug
h all the way inside her. “You broke my brain there for a moment,” he breathed, wrapping his arms around her back. “I vote we stay here in bed all day.”
“Dude, what would your relatives say?” Samantha nipped at his ear. “It’s weird enough trying to imagine that Aunt Mercia and Uncle Rowland had sex at least once to end up with Reggie. I’m pretty sure they think no one else does it at all.”
“I am not having this conversation. Ever.”
Chuckling, she shifted to kiss him again. His warm mouth molded with hers, familiar and comforting and arousing and exotic all at the same time. This guy, the one that hundreds of women wanted, wanted her. For keeps. And hell, she certainly didn’t have a better plan than that – because there wasn’t one.
That, though, was what worried her a little. Okay, a lot. Good stuff, luck, she had in spades with her chosen profession. It was her personal life that was messed up. No attachments, no strings, no one knowing enough about her to get her in trouble when she left. This guy, though, knew it all. Well, most of it, anyway. Eventually he’d know everything about her. Just as she knew almost everything about him. Every so often, though, he surprised her. Like he had with Canniebrae Castle. She’d known he had property in Scotland, but this place was stunning. Rough, more than a little crumbly and creaky in places, but amazing.
“I have someone flying in from Inverness to run wire and give me an internet connection, by the way,” Rick commented, rolling her onto her back and running his fingers through her hair while he kissed her.
“Good luck with that,” she returned, reaching over her head to grip the wooden headboard. Rick’s kisses trailed down her neck to her tits, and she let out a breath in a shivery moan. God, he felt good.
“No luck required,” he said, his voice a little muffled. “Just the proper application of money.”
“Snob.”
He lifted his head again, resting his chin on her sternum. “That reminds me. Reg and Uncle Rowland will likely want to go shooting.”
Ugh. “Shooting what? Pheasants? Deer? Rabbits?”
“Grouse, pheasants, partridges. Birds, for certain.”
“Are you going?”
“That depends. Are you going to make that face if I do?”
“I promise nothing.” She shrugged as best she could with her arms over her head and his hands on her breasts. “I get the whole cultural heritage blue-blood thing, Brit. But it would be more fair if the birds were armed, too.”
“That would change the circumstances a bit, wouldn’t it?”
She grinned up at him. “Yep.”
“I’ll go with them,” Rick said slowly. “I won’t kill any birds – unless they are armed and shoot first.”
“Deal.” Tugging his arm to bring him up over her, she kissed him again, in that feathery way he claimed drove him crazy. “And I appreciate it, Rick. Really.”
“Well, we can’t have it getting out that one of the board members of S.P.E.R.M. advocated pheasant shooting.”
It wasn’t a big deal, really. No, she didn’t like the idea of anyone shooting something they didn’t require for food, but if he really wanted to participate, she wouldn’t have given him a hard time about it. Probably. But he’d known she didn’t approve, and rather than countering her argument by pointing out some wackiness about how he didn’t approve of someone breaking into other peoples’ homes and taking their shit, either, he grinned and gave in.
“You’re kind of a nice guy,” she said aloud, brushing his black hair out of his eyes. “Have I mentioned that lately?”
Running his hands up along her arms to grip her fingers with his, he kissed her back, slow and deep. “I’m not a nice guy. While I’m out shooting, you’ll have to entertain my aunt and Miss Nyland.”
“Well, sh—”
The door rattled as someone thumped at it.
“Fuck,” Rick muttered. “We’re asleep!”
“M’laird, ye wanted to know… That is, I… I require a word with ye.”
Rick buried his face between her tits, then scooted backward off the bed. Snagging a robe off a chair, he pulled it around his shoulders and walked to the door. “What is it, Yule?” he asked, then to Samantha’s surprise slipped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.
She lay spread-eagled where she was for a moment, then sat up and made her way into the tiny shower. It was barely big enough to turn around in, and halfway through the shower the hot water vanished. Yelping, she reached for the handle – which came off in her hand. Samantha hit the door with her haunch and sprang out of the stall.
Yep, that was her, using all her awesome cat burglar skills to escape a cold shower. “Dammit,” she said aloud, shivering, and with a breath stuck her head back in to finish washing shampoo out of her hair.
Whatever Rick hadn’t wanted to discuss in front of her had best not have been about the lack of hot water, or somebody was going to get their ass kicked for not telling her. On the other hand, she was definitely wide awake now. After she wrapped herself up in the other bathrobe she crawled under the sink and turned off the water to the room. The shower spit and farted in protest, but slowed to a bare trickle.
What had Rick not wanted her to overhear? Something stupid, probably, like the west wing collapsing entirely and he didn’t want to be embarrassed by admitting in front of her that the castle truly was a wreck. On the other hand it could be a surprise, the last one of which had ended with her staying in an old Scottish castle instead of a much warmer and more modern estate in Devon.
Dammit, she couldn’t help being curious. It was in her nature. On the other hand, Rick’s business was Rick’s. She wasn’t a hoverer or a prier, unless she figured the secret somehow involved her – or their safety. But she had no reason to think there was anything nefarious going on behind her back.
After she dressed in a loose sweater, jeans, and some Nikes, she trotted downstairs to the breakfast room. Yule was the only one there, so she helped herself to some scrambled eggs and an English muffin-looking thing and took a seat where she could look out the window toward the white-shouldered mountains. “Yule, I just wanted to let you know that the hot water went out earlier,” she said conversationally. She wasn’t his boss, and he wasn’t her servant, so she’d decided on friendly ease. To most of the staff at Rick’s estates in both England and Palm Beach she’d become simply Miss Sam, and while she could have done without the “Miss” part, it seemed to make them all nervous not to use it.
“Just the hot?” he asked in his warm brogue.
“Yes. The cold water’s fine.”
“Bloody hell. The laird and his ladyship will be rising soon, and I’ll damned well nae hear the end of it from Mr. Reginald, either. Will ye excuse me, bonny lass?”
“Sure. Oh, and I shut the water off in my bathroom, because the shower handle came loose.”
“Och, this poor old pile doesnae remember how to behave with guests,” he muttered, slapping the doorframe in apparent rebuke as he hurried out toward the kitchen.
Once she was alone, Samantha stretched her hand across the corner of the table for the London Times, which had been placed so it would be at Rick’s elbow when he sat down. It used to be that she perused newspapers looking to see when auctions were going to be held or some high-profile work of art was about to change hands. She still did it, but now it was more out of curiosity than to plan a heist.
“Anything interesting?” Rick asked, as he strolled into the room.
“Nah. Dorothy’s ruby slippers are going up for auction again.”
He piled breakfast on his plate from the sideboard and then sat at the head of the table on her left. “And what did you do to the shower?”
“Hulk angry,” she said with a grin. “I turned off the water in there, too.”
“Yes, I noticed right when I tried to brush my teeth. You might have left a note.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know where you went or when you’d be back. You used bottled water, I assume.”
&nbs
p; “I borrowed the bathroom next door to ours. By the way, Reg was determined to dive into the west wing this morning, and I went and told him to wait for us. Nobody goes in there alone. It was dangerous enough when we were kids sneaking about in there.” He glanced toward the door. “And between you and me,” he continued in a lower voice, “I don’t want him picking the place clean of Richard Addison souvenirs he can auction off on eBay.”
Wow. “That’s kind of harsh, isn’t it?” she whispered back at him.
“Perhaps. A few photos of Patricia and me showed up on news shows after the story about our break-up broke. They didn’t come from me.”
Like there weren’t a hundred other people out there willing to sell pictures of Rick Addison if the price was right. But she knew how private he was, and how few unofficial photos of him were out there. “At the risk of repeating myself, then, why are they here if you don’t trust them?”
“They’re family. And…I’m not one hundred percent certain. So, I’m willing to give Reg the benefit of the doubt.” He reached out and gripped her fingers. “Which doesn’t mean I’m not going to be watching.”
Samantha snorted. “You know, this makes me feel a little better. Because I thought my screwed-up family relationships were an exception to the rule. If yours are messed up, too, then you’re messed up, too. Just like me.”
A soft chuckle erupted from his chest. “You make a good point.”
“I do, don’t I?”
Rick took her elbow and pulled her toward him across the corner of the table. “Smart ass,” he murmured, and kissed her.
“Shocking,” Reggie commented, strolling into the breakfast room, the Viking on his arm. “Mum and Dad won’t approve.” He glanced at Yule. “A pair of eggs, over easy. Eerika?”
“The same.”
“You think they wouldn’t?” Rick returned smoothly. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not eighteen and living under their roof, I suppose.” Only the grip of his fingers on her elbow told her that he didn’t find the conversation amusing.
Barefoot in the Dark Page 8
