Billionaires Prefer Blondes

by Suzanne Enoch

  Samantha was almost tempted to give him a straight answer. This guy was pretty slick himself, and she needed to remember that. “Probably not,” she mused, “unless you gave me some information and brought me a soda so we could go through the facts together.”

  “So you would help me.”

  She smiled, not amused. “If you hadn’t arrested me. That kind of thing can put a real damper on a relationship.”

  “You’re a Jellicoe. In my book, that’s reason enough for a lot of things.”

  “Well, your book is stupid. And where’s my damned soda?”

  Gorstein looked toward the wall-sized mirror. “Get her a soda, will you?”

  “A cold one. A Diet Coke,” she put in, facing the same direction.

  “You may think you’re cute,” he grunted, standing to pace around her again, “but I’m running your prints. If you have as much as an unpaid traffic ticket, I’m holding you.”

  She’d only had a driver’s license for three weeks, so the odds of her having a ticket were pretty slim. As for the rest, she didn’t think she’d ever left a clue behind. This would be the test, though. “While you’re at it, why don’t you call Detective Frank Castillo in Palm Beach? He’s Homicide, but don’t be jealous. I help him out sometimes.”

  He bristled, actually looking physically larger. “Listen, Jellicoe, I am not—”

  “Touched a nerve, did I?”

  Gorstein narrowed his eyes. “You don’t talk like somebody who lives in a townhouse on the East Side.”

  “I can get snooty if you want me to, but I still didn’t take the painting.”

  “How about an alibi? Can you at least give me that?”

  She probably could, actually, if she wanted to confirm that she’d been riding in a taxi at 1:35 and then at 3:10. Balto was too close to the townhouse to make it worth bringing in the cabbies, though; she could have ridden out, walked back, stolen the Hogarth, walked back to the park again, and gotten a ride home. “How about you start looking at people who might want to steal a painting instead of somebody who practically lives in an art gallery?”

  Growling, he slammed a chair back into the table. “If you’d be straight with me and actually answer a damned question, maybe I could.”

  Samantha tilted her head at him. “I’m sorry, Detective, are you saying that you don’t think I really did it? I’m getting confused now. Am I helping you find the thief, or am I the thief?”

  “What you are is—”

  The door to the interrogation room opened, and an older guy with crazy white tufts of hair sticking out over his ears walked in. “Let her go, Detective.”

  Gorstein straightened. “What?”

  “This little chat is finished,” a tall, balding man in an Armani suit snapped, pushing past Mr. Crazy Hair. “That’s what. Unless you’d like to face a lawsuit for wrongful imprisonment.”

  Samantha didn’t even try to hide her grin as Rick moved past the other two. “Sir Galahad,” she murmured, standing.

  He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with a flannel gray shirt over that, and still looked like the most powerful guy in the room. “Are you well?” Slowly he pulled her into his arms.

  I am now. “Well enough,” she said, beginning to realize just how tense she’d been over the past hour or so. Still, she wasn’t going to admit any such thing in front of the cops, and they both knew it. “You made it by breakfast.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Come on, Captain,” Gorstein was growling, “this is ridiculous. She’s got no alibi, and her dad was—”

  “Before you come after her again,” Expensive Suit Guy said, “you’d best have more than her father’s occupation as a reason. Good day.”

  With Rick keeping an arm over her shoulder, they trooped out of the interrogation room. As they left, Samantha couldn’t resist a parting shot. She turned to face the glowering detective. “You still owe me a Diet Coke, Gorstein.”

  The hallway was lined with cops, none of them looking very happy to see her walking. So be it. She wasn’t trying to make friends with any of them. And now that they were leaving, she really wanted to get out of there.

  Armani stopped in front of them, handing over a paper bag that held her purse and phone. “Make sure your limo’s here, Rick,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “We don’t want to have to wait around out there.”

  With a nod Rick pulled his phone from his pocket. “Samantha, this is Phil Ripton,” he indicated as he dialed. “Phil, my Samantha.”

  When Ripton stuck out his hand, Samantha shook it. Warm, firm grip—no sweat, no hesitation, no over-masculine power play. Great. Another good-guy attorney. Until Tom Donner, she’d thought no such animal existed. “Under the circumstances,” she said, smiling, “I’m very happy to meet you.”

  He nodded. “We’re not quite finished untangling all this yet, but getting you out of here was Rick’s first priority.”

  Rick snapped the phone closed. “He’s waiting for us. Let’s get the bloody hell out of this place.”

  “Amen,” Samantha said feelingly, accepting his hand when he offered it for her to hold.

  With a frown he twisted her wrist around, palm up. “They fingerprinted you,” he said, his Caribbean-blue eyes lifting to meet hers.

  He knew what that could mean, just as well as she did. “Yes,” she whispered, starting to shake as reaction finally began to seep in.

  “Can we get her fingerprints expunged?” Rick asked, taking the lead at Ripton’s motion.

  Shit. Rick was taking his cues from somebody else. By being a Jellicoe she’d brought this to his doorstep, and whether she deserved to be in jail or not, he was relinquishing his precious control because of her. Dammit, everything was going to hell, and she needed some fucking answers.

  “I’ll put together a motion as soon as I get to the office.”

  When Samantha had entered the police station, she’d done so from the back where only the crooks and cops had access. Now they were leaving out the front; and as Rick shouldered open the door, she realized why they’d wanted Ben there, waiting.

  “Christ,” she muttered, moving closer to him. “They’re all here because of me?”

  “We made the morning news,” he murmured back, donning his steel-plated expression.

  There must have been a hundred TV and news reporters, cameramen, sound guys, paparazzi, and groupies jammed onto the sidewalk in front of the station. As she and Rick emerged, they rushed forward.

  “Mr. Addison, can you give us details about what was stolen from your home?”

  “Have you been charged in the theft, Miss Jellicoe?”

  “How many…”

  “What are the…”

  She spied Ben and the limousine parked on the street, and headed in that direction. If Rick wasn’t going to answer any questions, she damned well wasn’t. Whatever he’d had to tell Ripton about her past, the attorney wasn’t talking, either. Not even a “no comment” crossed anybody’s lips. Ha. Let the reporters show that on the news.

  The quiet inside the limo seemed almost deafening. Samantha reached into the refrigerator under the seat and pulled out a Diet Coke. “Apparently you can’t get these in the slam,” she said, popping the tab and taking a long swallow.

  “So where were you last night?” Rick asked quietly, watching her.

  Crap. “Sightseeing,” she answered.

  “Don’t you bloody lie to me, Sam. When I woke—”

  “Can anyone confirm that?” Ripton broke in from his seat opposite them. “A witness, or an alibi?”

  With difficulty she turned her gaze from Rick. Problem numero uno was to get herself out of trouble with the cops. “Nope. Not anybody who could help.”

  “Tell me you didn’t just go walking around Manhattan at two o’clock in the morning, Sam.”

  “Okay, I took a cab. A couple of cabs. With enough walking in between that they don’t make much of an alibi.” She eyed him. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this,
do you?”

  “Of course not. But my insurance company isn’t going to pay out twelve million dollars without conducting an investigation. Apparently I’m as much a suspect as you are.”

  “No,” she gasped, horrified. “That’s stupid! You’re worth like twenty billion dollars. Why would you—”

  “Rumors could be as destructive as a conviction,” he cut in. “I want to know who did this.” He faced Ripton. “Considering the way they bungled with Samantha, do you think you could get your hands on a copy of any evidence reports?”

  Ripton pushed up his glasses again. “I think you should refrain from interfering in a police investigation. They aren’t your fans right now as it is.”

  “I want Samantha to look at what they’ve got. She’s a security expert, and she knows more than most professionals do about breaking and entering. She might see something they’ll miss.”

  Because she used to be one of those professionals. “If possible, I’d like to take a look,” she seconded. “I didn’t do it, but maybe I can help figure out who did.” Except that she already had a good idea about that.

  If it did turn out to be Martin, Rick would never trust her again. He would never believe that she hadn’t known her father to be alive. And he would never believe that she hadn’t somehow helped, consciously or not, to set up the burglary. He wouldn’t be wrong, either. Yes, she was definitely up shit’s creek, whatever happened next.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday, 11:15 a.m.

  Richard closed himself in the drawing room with Samantha. She looked over her shoulder at him as she clicked on the television. “What did you do with Phil?”

  “He’s making some calls in the office.”

  “You’re letting him take charge?”

  He clenched his jaw. “This is still a legal matter. I want that dealt with first.”

  “What about the hotel? Don’t you have a meeting this morning?”

  “That doesn’t matter at the moment. I’ve rescheduled.” Shifting a pillow onto the floor, he sank onto the couch beside her. “I’m starting to think I could use an assistant.”

  “You have one.”

  “Sarah’s in London. I’m not spending as much time there as I used to.”

  Samantha curled a foot beneath her, graceful as a feline, so she could face him. “You are so pissed off you can barely see straight, aren’t you?”

  Usually he would have commented about the different meanings of pissed in Britain and the U.S., but today he wasn’t in the mood. “Someone stole from me. Again. Yes, I’m very angry.”

  “But you’re madder at me.”

  “Don’t assume you know what I’m thinking.”

  She gazed at him for a long moment, while the television in front of them blared the theme of one of her ubiquitous Godzilla movies. She had a bloody radar for them; if one was on, she knew it.

  “Come on, Rick. You may as well say it. I went out, you don’t know where, and you’re pissed about it.”

  “Last night,” he began slowly, keeping as tight a rein on his temper as he could—not because he was worried that he would injure her, but because he didn’t know what her reaction would be—“at Sotheby’s, you were jumpy. Something was bothering you, and you tried to talk me out of buying the paintings. And then five hours later, one of them goes missing.”

  “I’m not going to tell you again that I didn’t do it,” she retorted.

  “You said you recognized someone there. Who was it?”

  “So now I’m an accomplice? Why don’t you decide whether I’m guilty or not, and we’ll take it from there?” She folded her arms over her pert breasts. “Well?”

  Richard ground his jaw. “I am not having this conversation right now,” he growled, standing. “Watch your bloody movie and stay in the house until we get all the paperwork filed and put out a press release.”

  Halfway to the door, a pillow hit him squarely between the shoulder blades. Richard froze.

  “You didn’t just do that,” he said, still unmoving.

  “The next thing I throw is going to hurt.”

  He turned around. “What are you, five?”

  “Maybe. You’re the one who just sent me to my room.” Samantha stood up. “You think you’re mad? I used to be able to go wherever I wanted, do anything, be anybody. And cops were never fucking waiting for me at my front door, because nobody knew where I lived! Now they all know who I am and where I am.”

  Christ. Usually he loved her unpredictability. “They know because of me, you mean.”

  Her jaw snapped closed. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Samantha turned her back on him and stalked to the television, punching the power button and turning it off. “Shut up, will you?” she grumbled. “I’m having a good yell. They put me in damn handcuffs, Rick.”

  “I know.”

  “At first when I saw all the cops, I thought maybe something had happened to you. I was worried. For you. I was in cuffs, and I was worried about you. What kind of fucking professional does that make me?”

  “It makes you a retired professional,” he said, moving back toward her. “And you weren’t the only worried one. Of course I knew you didn’t take the painting, but I didn’t know where you were. The alarm tripped and the police appeared, and I didn’t even know what to say to them. And as you may have noticed, I always know what to say.”

  Samantha blew out her breath. “I’m going to take a shower.” She edged around him and pulled open the door.

  “We’re not finished yet.”

  “I am.”

  When she continued down the hall to their bedroom, he followed her, only stopping for a moment at the office door. “We’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, Phil.”

  The attorney looked up from his phone call and nodded.

  She’d already stripped by the time he pushed open the bathroom door. “You’re not invited,” she shot, stepping into the shower.

  “I’m not exactly in the mood,” he retorted, folding his arms. “Why won’t you tell me where the fuck you were? I thought you trusted me.”

  “And I thought you trusted me.”

  “I didn’t vanish during the middle of a robbery.”

  The shower door clicked open, and she stuck her head out. “You’re a jerk,” she said, and closed the door again.

  “And you’re still retreating. First your movie, and now the shower. I’m going to stand here until you tell me what you know. Or at least explain to me why you won’t say anything.”

  For a long moment he heard no sound but the water running in the shower. He supposed she could outlast him in a standoff, particularly since they needed to go to Ripton’s office for the press statement. Dammit. He would not apologize or back down. He’d certainly done nothing wrong.

  “I’m sorry that my being here has caused trouble for you,” she finally said.

  “I’m not,” he shot back. “All I want is an explanation. Not an apology.” He turned his wrist to look at his watch. “We have to leave for Ripton’s office in ten minutes so he can read our statement to the press.”

  The water shut off, and the shower door opened again. “I’m not doing a Q and A with the press,” she stated, stepping out and grabbing a towel.

  “Neither of us is. We’re showing a united front. Whether we have one in private, or not.”

  “A united front against what, then?”

  “‘Against what’?” he repeated incredulously. “You were arrested, Samantha. And if the police can’t come up with a viable lead elsewhere, I may well be charged with insurance fraud.”

  She ran the towel over her hair. “Like you’d risk prison over twelve mil.”

  “People do stupid things for stupid reasons.”

  “Maybe the reasons aren’t stupid. Maybe you just don’t understand them.”

  Torn between astonishment and anger, Richard grabbed the towel away from her. “Are you trying to tell me something? Just say it, for God’s sa
ke!”

  Samantha put her hands on her bare hips. “Okay, yes. I did it. I took the Hogarth and stashed it in a bus locker in Union Station. Patricia’s in on it with me. That’s right, your ex-wife and I have joined forces.”

  “You—”

  “What do you think I’m saying? Whoever did it, I used to be one of them. And a year ago, it could have been me. So excuse me if I’m not all ‘stupid this and stupid that.’ Obviously somebody wanted the Hogarth, and somebody stole it for that reason. If you think I had fun spending my morning being handcuffed and stuffed in the back of a police car, then fuck you.” She grabbed the towel back and stomped past him into the bedroom.

  Richard watched her swaying bare bottom for a moment, then followed her. The first day of their odd alliance, Detective Castillo had tried to handcuff her. He still remembered the sheer terror in her eyes as she thought she’d been caught. This morning she’d sat in that police car and gone into the interrogation room because he’d told her that he would get her out. They both knew that she could have escaped if she’d wanted to. But she’d stayed.

  “Samantha,” he said, turning her to face him and lifting her chin in his fingers, “I apologize. I think it’s fair to say that we’re both out of our comfort zone at the moment. Come with me to Ripton’s office, and then we can stop and pick up some Chinese food.” Very aware that she was naked and that he wanted to put his hands all over her, Richard kept his gaze on her face. “Truce?”

  “Do you think I would let you take the blame for this even if I was the one who stole the painting?” she asked, green eyes narrowed.

  She probably would find a way to prove him innocent even if he’d been the one to steal that painting. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then stop with the ‘I’m madder than you’ shit. Because trust me, I’m way madder than you are, Rick. Whoever knew you had the Hogarth knew that I live here with you. This was a slap, and I’m slapping back.”

  “The first step you make that could be the least bit incriminating will have Gorstein all over you, Samantha.”

  She slipped her chin free of his fingers and pulled on her panties. “Only if he knows about it. You buy your hotel, and I’ll take care of the painting.”