Samantha leaned up to Richard’s ear, the caress of her breath warm and intoxicating. “Or for those unwilling to reveal their identities to the IRS or to any cat burglars who might be seated in the audience,” she finished.
Yes, she was definitely enjoying herself. “Shh.”
“And one further announcement,” Ian continued. “We are very excited to report that while our experts were evaluating the Hogarth painting listed in the sales catalog as number 32501, a second Hogarth was discovered stretched on the same frame beneath the first one. After consulting with the owners, Sotheby’s is pleased to announce that they have decided to place the second Hogarth up for sale, as well. The piece will be available for viewing at intermission, and will be designated as item number 32501A.”
From the sudden chattering and excited murmurings of the crowd, Richard wasn’t the only one surprised by the news. Samantha snatched the sale catalog from his lap and flipped to the appropriate page.
“The Fishing Fleet,” she said, gazing at the photo of the known Hogarth. “This one’s pretty famous. Do you know who the owner is?”
Richard shook his head. “Obviously it hasn’t changed hands recently, or someone would have realized there was a second painting tucked behind the first one well before now. The theme of The Fishing Fleet is unusual in itself—William Hogarth’s usual focus was on satirical social commentary. This one’s just…lovely.”
“That is so cool,” she breathed, handing him back the glossy catalog. “While I was working at the Norton Museum doing restoration, we—”
“Your legitimate job,” he broke in with a slow smile.
“Yes, one of the few. Anyway, we discovered a second canvas behind a Magritte, but it was just an unsigned mess, like his kid had been doodling with the paints and he just didn’t bother to take it off the frame before he put up a new canvas.”
“It does happen, rarely. If I kept the Hogarth under wraps until our gallery at Rawley House opens, it would get us a great deal of free publicity. He is an English artist, after all.”
Samantha lifted an eyebrow. “Jump the gun much? You kind of have to own it before you can exploit it.”
Taking her hand, Richard lifted it to kiss her knuckles. “If I like it, I’ll own it.”
“Mm-hm.” She pulled her hand free none too gently. “Watch that bragging, Brit. I’m here due to a coincidence of mutual insanity. Not ownership.”
Dammit. Eventually he’d remember that she didn’t need to be impressed by his power and wealth. In fact, their frequent mention was probably the surest way to drive her away. “Apologies, Samantha,” he murmured. “I just meant that you shouldn’t doubt my resolve.”
She snorted. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. You’re one resolved guy. Bid away. I’m just here for the view.”
Thankfully Ian Smythe banged his gavel and opened the auction before Rick could start protesting that he’d never tried to influence her with his money. Samantha sat back a little and blew out her breath. Rick made life easy and safe and comfortable, and the part of her that had been looking over her shoulder for most of her life just wanted to fall into the goose-down pillows and pull the satin sheets over her head.
Thankfully the other part of her—the one that could count to seven (the number of years before a statute of limitations for a nonlethal crime expired)—knew that she still had about six years to go before she could truly begin to relax. And that same part of her remained deathly afraid that “comfortable” might equal “boring.” It certainly had when she’d talked with Boyden Locke today. And when she’d consulted with the other dozen clients she’d advised over the past two months. The money was good, but compared with the way she used to earn a living, it just felt too…easy.
Of course, the excitement of her old life had its own drawbacks, too. She’d gotten a couple of hard looks from the more senior of Sotheby’s security staff, but she’d been right that Rick Addison provided a hell of a security blanket. Pressing a little closer against his side, she settled into the exciting rhythm of bids and nodding and the outbursts of applause and commentary. Funny, the last time she’d done this, her heart had been going a million miles an hour while she waited for somebody to make the winning bid on a particularly valuable Degas so the staff would return it to its secure location in the basement. And then she’d gone to work.
With a slight smile at the memory, she returned to gazing at New York’s uppermost upper crust. Some of them were definitely old money, but even if they weren’t regular newsmakers, she knew who they were. She’d relieved at least a dozen of them of some valuable or other in the course of her career. Halfway back on the far side of the room her eyes found a figure standing in the shadow of one of the modern sculptures up for bid. Medium height, thin, wiry build, light brown hair running to gray, and an expensive-looking, tasteful suit, he fit the room as well as anyone else did—except for his hands.
Long fingers twiddled, tapping his thighs in a rhythm that had more to do with nerves than with Ian Smythe’s melodious, cajoling voice or the bang of the auctioneer’s gavel. As though sensing her gaze, he turned and looked straight at her, brown eyes into her green ones, then faced forward again.
She’d known those eyes for all but the last six years of her life. Martin Reese Jellicoe.
Samantha lurched forward, gasping forcefully enough that she could hear the ragged shake of her own breath. Her heart just stopped. Her fingers abruptly went ice-cold, and her purse clattered to the floor at her feet. Even in the drone of noise from the large room, it seemed loud.
“Samantha?” Richard murmured, glancing sideways at her before he bent down to collect her handbag and return it to her lap. “Sam? What is it?”
Get it together, get it together. Just because a ghost stood thirty feet from her and she’d lost her mind and she needed to scream and throw up and run away to somewhere quiet where she could think, didn’t mean she had to let anyone else know. “Sorry,” she drawled back. “All these dollar figures are making me giddy.”
He chuckled softly. “Wait till you hear me get going.”
Samantha barely noted what he said. She took a slower breath. Waiting long enough so no one would notice that her attention was focused on a particular someone in the audience rather than on the auction, she looked back into the shadow again. She’d more than half thought she’d be gazing at empty space, but he was still standing there.
Holy fucking shit. Her father—her father—was at Sotheby’s. Her dead father. The one who’d died in a Florida prison three years ago, and whose cheap prison-grounds burial she’d watched through binoculars from a half mile away. Martin Jellicoe might have been a hell of a cat burglar at one time, but even at his peak he couldn’t have faked his own death. Escape, sure—that was how he’d ended up at the Okeechobee Correctional Institution, the third and highest-security prison that had attempted to hold him.
Trying to keep her breathing steady and her heart from pounding right through her rib cage, Samantha reached into her purse and fingered her cell phone. Who was she supposed to call, though? The Florida State Board of Corrections? The Ghostbusters? Stoney? If Stoney had known about this…She couldn’t imagine that he could know and not tell her. Not after all that they’d been through together. But then her father knew, obviously, and he’d been somewhere other than six feet under for the past three years. And for the past five months she’d had a very public address. If he’d bothered to contact her, she probably would have remembered.
“Here we go,” Rick said beside her.
She jumped. “What?”
“The Rodin.” He sent her a half-annoyed look. “Do try to stay awake. I, at the least, find this to be rather exciting.”
“So do I,” she countered, shaking herself again. It would be so damned much simpler if she could just walk over and ask Martin where he’d been and what he was up to, but every instinct she possessed screamed that it’d be a very bad idea. “I was just thinking about the Hogarth,” she lied. “I wonder wh
en they actually discovered the second painting.”
“I’ll ask at intermission.” He lifted the catalog in his hand, easy and casual, and Ian Smythe added another ten thousand dollars to the going price of the statue. A minute later, the price started jumping in fifty-, then hundred-thousand-dollar increments.
Intermission. Maybe she could arrange to talk with Martin then. As she sat and tried to match her expression to Rick’s calm, mildly amused and interested one, yet another thought joined the others crashing through her brain: the why of Martin Jellicoe—the why here and why now.
If she’d been the reason, he could have made his appearance anytime before now. Even not counting the past three years, there had been shopping for two hours earlier today, and the morning run she’d taken through Central Park several hours before that. Sotheby’s wasn’t a logical place to spring his non-death on his daughter, which meant he wasn’t there tonight for her. Which left the other option—theft. But of what?
“The bid on the phone is twelve million four hundred thousand. Do I have twelve-five?” Ian Smythe’s voice interrupted her thoughts again.
Rick raised the catalog.
“Twelve-five. Twelve-six anywhere?”
“Rick,” Samantha whispered, “can I see the catalog?”
“Now?” he mouthed.
“Yes.”
“I’m using it.”
“I need to look at something.” For a clue about what might have enticed her father to suddenly reappear after three years.
He signaled with it again. “Look in a minute.”
Samantha drew in a breath. “Fine.” Wrestling him for it wouldn’t do her much good. Anxious, nervous as she was for answers, another five minutes would hardly change anything.
“The bid is now thirteen million dollars with Mr. Addison,” Smythe said, twirling the gavel in his hand. “Do I hear thirteen two-fifty?”
The room around them buzzed, but no one blinked, nodded, scratched, or lifted a hand. Samantha held her breath, too. Rick wanted the Rodin, but he was also a keen businessman who wouldn’t pay more than something was worth. Whatever his limit was, they had to be close to it. His expression, though, remained calm and unconcerned. Despite her nerves, anticipation coursed through her. And she was only a damned interested bystander. He was amazing. No wonder he owned a good portion of the world.
“No one? Thirteen-two, perhaps? Mrs. Quay? No? All right, then, going, going, gone”—and the mallet struck the desk—“to Richard Addison for thirteen million dollars.” Smythe smiled. “Congratulations, sir. Or should I say, my lord?”
The room burst into applause, which Samantha belatedly echoed, as Rick waved away the question. He was so low-key about his blue blood that most people—unless they were a part of his fan club—probably had no idea that he was the Marquis of Rawley, a real, genuine aristocrat. “You’re so cool,” she breathed at Rick, sliding over to give him a kiss on the lips.
“Thank you, my love.” He had the good manners to pretend that she made such gestures of affection in public all the time, and broke the kiss before she could do so. Then he handed her the catalog. “Now, what did you want to look at?”
“Just some—”
“Rick, congratulations.” Thankfully one of the other bidders interrupted before Samantha had to make up something that would hopefully sound less confused than she felt.
While Rick chatted with well-wishers and handlers brought in the next piece, Samantha flipped through the catalog. If Martin was here to make off with something, it would have to be a painting—none of the sculptures tonight were small or light enough for a snatch-and-run. But which painting?
She paused at the photo of the Hogarth again. The second Hogarth, the one nobody here had set eyes on yet, wouldn’t be the most expensive sale of the night, but it would probably be the most noteworthy. If her dad had learned about it at the same moment the rest of the room had, though, it probably wasn’t what he was after.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Rick asked, bending sideways to look down at the page with her. “The Hogarth again? You do hate mysteries, don’t you?”
“I like them when they’re solved,” she returned. “When’s intermission?”
“After the Manet.” He gazed full at her, dark blue eyes curious. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged, refusing to let her eyes stray toward the figure in the shadows. “Okay, maybe I’m used to being more occupied at events like this.”
“Do you want to bid on the new Hogarth for me?”
Samantha blinked. “Christ, no. But are you sure you want to bid on it, sight unseen? What if you hate the look? Or what if it’s a scam?”
“I generally like Hogarth’s works. And don’t worry, I’m going to get a verified provenance for the other painting before I do anything.” He took her fingers in his. “Would you look at it, too? You’re faster and more accurate at spotting fakes than anyone else I’ve ever met.”
“Thanks, I think. Sure, I’ll take a look at it.” Crap. So much for spending the intermission talking with her dead father.
Rick brushed his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “Relax, Samantha. The only thing you have to worry about tonight is me. Have I mentioned that I find auctions rather arousing?” He kissed her earlobe.
Despite her distraction, she shivered. No matter what else might be on her mind, Rick Addison had the ability to make her hot and horny every time she set eyes on him. When he was actually trying to turn her on, Jesus, everybody just get out of the way. “You made me wet,” she whispered, arching her neck to his mouth.
“Christ,” he muttered back. “Let’s forget the Hogarths and get out of here. I want to be inside you.”
Oh, God, she wanted to. But if they left now, she might never catch up to Martin again. And she needed some damned answers. “Keep your pants on, Brit,” she ordered in a barely audible tone. “You can have me later.”
“I intend to. Now give me the booklet back so I can cover my lap and keep some dignity.”
Samantha snorted. No, he wasn’t distracting at all. She handed him the catalog. “You’re so easy.”
“Only where you’re concerned.”
The Manet went for seven million and change, and as Ian Smythe called for a twenty-minute break, half the audience rose and headed for the covered display to one side of the room. Rick wasn’t the only one interested in a newly discovered Hogarth. As he took her hand and led her over to join the crowd, Samantha couldn’t help glancing in Martin’s direction once more. Her father hadn’t moved.
If not for the tapping of his fingers, he might have been another piece of modern art. It was an old, effective trick, though. Stand still in an inconspicuous place, and people tended not to notice you. And then if you suddenly weren’t there any longer, those same people thought they’d probably been mistaken about seeing you in the first place. Or at least they thought so until the alarms started going off and the cops showed up. You were long gone by then, of course.
Shock and disbelief still pushed at the back of her mind, but she shoved them out of the way. The how’s and what’s could wait until she had time to consider them. The why’s were what mattered at the moment.
“Yes,” one of the Sotheby’s painting experts was saying, obvious excitement running just beneath the smooth saleswoman pitch in her voice, “it was about two weeks ago. Before auction we verify the authenticity and ownership of every item, and it was during that inspection that we discovered a second canvas tacked beneath the first. The first Hogarth had been passed down as an inheritance, and likely hadn’t been closely examined for better than fifty years.”
With a flamboyant twitch, she pulled off the sheet that covered the canvas. Samantha looked at it with the same interest as everyone else—with one exception. In addition to admiring the sure strokes and the pastels of an ocean at sunrise, a fishing fleet frothing across its surface, she also noted size and framing and deduced probable weight. Sotheby’s had k
nown for two weeks. It would have been discovered after the sales catalog went out, which explained the lack of publicity, but she doubted everyone involved had kept quiet about it. The auction house could use some positive publicity, and hell, they made a percentage on every sale.
Two weeks. In her experience that was more than enough time for someone to learn about it, decide he or she wanted to own what almost no one else even knew about, and make an arrangement for a delivery. Dammit. Martin had to be here for the Hogarth.
“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” Rick murmured from her shoulder. “Better than the one that covered it.”
“I like the rendering,” she admitted. “They had to be companion pieces.”
He nodded. “I agree. Looks as though I’ll be acquiring both of them. They shouldn’t be separated.”
The expert started to cover the painting again. Samantha knew where it would go from there—back into a safe holding area until its turn for bidding. And she knew just how safe it was likely to be there. “Excuse me,” she said, using her naive, breathy voice, “would it be all right to leave it in view? I’d like a few more minutes to look at it.”
The crowd agreed with her, and after a quick conversation two employees carried the painting and stand over to one corner of the auction podium. When Samantha turned with Rick to take her seat again, she found Martin gazing at her. That answered that. He was after the Hogarth. And so was Rick. Fuck.
This was one nightmare she’d never expected to have. And she only had the space of three paintings to figure it out. After that the first Hogarth would go up for bids.
Okay. She was used to figuring things out quickly. Important things. Life-or-death things. What did she have, then, three options? One, tell Rick that Martin was not dead, that he was in New York, and that he was apparently looking to steal one or both of the paintings Rick had his eye on. Two, approach Martin, tell him hello and to lay off the Hogarths because her boyfriend wanted to buy them. Or three, get Rick to pass on the paintings, go home, and have sex with him until they both passed out and she could wake up and realize she’d just been dreaming about Martin.
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