“Are you sure they didn’t follow you, then?” The ex-fence looked over his shoulder for what seemed like the hundredth time.
She smirked at him. “Give me a break. Let’s head for the European Impressionists.”
“Works for me.” He fell into step beside her. “I’ve been thinking. If Martin’s telling the truth, then Interpol will probably recover the Hogarth and get it back to your guy. That puts Addison back out of the picture, and you out of trouble with the cops. The end.”
“Like you care about the Hogarth. You’re just looking for something that’ll keep me from telling Rick what’s going on.”
“And you’re trying to convince yourself to let him in on this. Big mistake, honey. Trust me. Huge mistake.”
“He can’t blame me for Martin being alive. I didn’t know.” She wrapped her arm through Stoney’s so she could lower her voice. “But if Martin’s only requirement to get in with this crew was to arrange for a painting to go missing, he didn’t have to pick the Hogarth. I can’t help thinking that he chose it because of me. He sure didn’t not choose it because of me. And that’s what Rick’ll start worrying about—that whether I’m straight or not, the piranhas are going to come around nibbling, just because I’m there. And I’m not all that sure he’d be wrong.”
“I’m telling you, lie to him, Sam.”
She slowed in front of one of the Monets. That should have been the logical solution—she used to lie all the time, about who she was, about what she was doing at a particular party or event. Not to Rick, though. She didn’t like lying to Rick. Maybe it was guilt, or fear of being caught at it later, but she didn’t think so. Rick was new; that life was new. And she didn’t want to wreck it. Which brought her back to lying again. “I owe him enough that I don’t think I can.”
“You’re happy with Addison, and if you tell him all this, he won’t be happy with you. And then I won’t be happy. Don’t do it.”
She shook her head. “It’s a question of loyalty. And until Martin showed up again, I knew I would stand up for you, and I’d stand up for Rick. So now I’m wondering why…. What do I owe him? Martin, I mean?”
“He’s your dad, honey. You shouldn’t even be talking like that. Just because he’s not a grocer or a pilot or something, he raised you with what he knew. And you’re the best damned cat I’ve ever seen. Ever.”
“Thanks, Stoney.” She gripped his arm hard. “But I’m not so sure that…what I like about myself—what Rick likes about me—is because of Martin.” She cleared her throat. “So is your advice really that I should just stand back and do nothing? Do you really think I should lie to Rick?”
“Shit,” he muttered, turning away to look across the room for a long moment. “I don’t know.”
Man, they were both becoming a pair of saps. Who would have thought? “I’m going to tell him,” she decided, realizing that she’d probably made that decision the moment Martin had appeared in the pizzeria. “I might have to move in with you back in Palm Beach, though.”
“You can have the spare bedroom. Unless you think we should try living in Paris. We could make a ton of money in Paris.”
Samantha shook her head, smiling. “We already have a ton of money. And I don’t think you should be talking about robberies in the middle of an art museum.”
“Right. My bad.” He took a deep breath. “So what do you want to do with your last day of being in the spotlight?”
She suppressed a shudder. She could do without the spotlight. Just not the reason for it. “Let’s go see the French Masters.”
“Cool.”
“Let me make something clear, Detective,” Richard said, pacing to his office window and back. Anger clipped his words; Samantha said the emotion made him sound even more British, which he didn’t consider to be possible, since he was already one hundred percent British. “Samantha Jellicoe did not take my painting. I did not take my painting. And you know that, or you would have gotten that warrant and searched my home again.”
“I’m not going to tell you how my investigation is go—”
“Considering that you have absolutely no evidence other than some theory that Samantha must be involved in something underhanded because her father was a thief, I’m beginning to see a situation where I might bring charges against you for dereliction of duty.”
“She doesn’t have an alibi, Mr. Add—”
“And you no longer have a crime. I’ve already put in a call to my insurance people to drop the Hogarth from their coverage. And I’m not pressing charges. If you do enjoy wasting time, I can certainly accommodate you by suing you and your department for harassment. I don’t even care if I win. What I care about is that you will spend your every waking hour defending yourself. All because you wouldn’t do your job today. Think about that.”
He slammed down the phone.
So he’d lost himself twelve million dollars and hopefully stopped the police from tailing Samantha, but that didn’t keep him from wanting to do so. He had some hunches, and some clues, but he wanted facts. In business, his people presented him with facts—profit margins, overhead costs, location, economy—and he decided on a strategy and made a decision based on that information. No official crime might exist any longer, but he still wanted his bloody painting back.
What did he know for certain? Samantha was fiercely uneasy about something. Walter Barstone had left Florida on what amounted to the first flight after Samantha’s release from jail. The person or persons who had stolen the Hogarth had broken in exactly the same way that Samantha had twelve hours earlier. With the abundance of other art and antiques in the townhouse, only the Hogarth had been taken. Therefore, it had been the specific target. And Samantha had tried to talk him out of buying it.
Richard slowed his pacing. He’d forgotten about the way she’d tried to cajole him into leaving the auction early. And she’d thought she’d recognized someone.
His phone intercom buzzed. “Mr. Addison? I have Sam Jellicoe in reception to see you, and Mr. Hoshido on the line.”
Think of the devil. “Please send Samantha in, and put Matsuo through.”
The phone clicked. “Richard? You are giving my people heart attacks,” came Matsuo Hoshido’s low, Japanese-accented voice.
Richard lifted the receiver as his door opened. “You’re the one who keeps changing the price and the conditions,” he said, motioning Samantha to come in. “I’m buying a building in an old, established neighborhood, not a tank of gas.”
“Ah, but when circumstances change, prices change.”
“Circumstances. Allow me to put it in perspective, then, Matsuo-san. I’m in the process of locating a missing painting. It’s worth less than one percent of my net value. If you think I’ve been damaged or weakened by the theft, you are in error. If you think it makes me willing to pay more than what we’ve been negotiating, you’re being foolish. And I know you’re not a fool.”
“Then I suppose the negotiations will continue. Have a good day.”
“And you, Matsuo-san.”
Richard hung up. “Hello,” he said, watching Samantha as she wandered the length of the room’s windows. She’d worn slim black jeans and a cute green T-shirt with a glittery heart over the bosom. New York casual—designed to fit in just about anywhere.
“Hi. That was your hotel guy, I presume?”
“Yes. Matsuo Hoshido.”
“You were pretty forceful with him.”
She hadn’t yet met his gaze. Low tension ran through his muscles. “I suppose so. Any police adventures this morning?”
“It’s hardly an adventure anymore. They give up way too easy.”
“I can’t really blame them. You’re pretty good at what you do.”
“Thanks.”
He waited until she finally faced him, her long, slender fingers knotted into fists. “I’m going to tell you something.”
“Is this the thing you were thinking over last evening?”
Samantha nodded. “I didn’t pla
n for any of it, and I didn’t know, but I do now. And you need to know, because…because it’s about both of us.”
Richard swallowed, his vision swimming. Quickly he reached for the chair behind him. “Are you…are you pregnant?” he asked, his voice shaking a little. Elation, abject terror—he did his best to hold it all back. He’d thought this conversation would be about the painting, but…this…could explain her distraction of the past few days. Facts. He wanted some bloody facts.
“What? Why—” She flushed. “No. Christ, no.” Scowling, she finally emitted a small snort. “It did sound like it, didn’t it?”
“Kind of, yes.” The odd sensation in his heart—was it disappointment?—he would review later. “Go on, then.”
“Okay. And I’m sorry in advance, since we probably won’t be speaking by the time I’m finished.”
That did not sound good. “As I’ve said before, you can tell me anything.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
Walter Barstone paced in the reception area of New York’s Addisco headquarters. He couldn’t believe he was in the damn building in the first place.
Sam had gone through the third door down the hall on the left, and he kept his eyes on it. She was an idiot, risking a good thing over something as changeable as the truth. In her own way, though, he supposed she’d always been the honest type. She had her own code, anyway.
The muttering of distant voices grew louder. Oh, boy. Next things would start breaking, and then somebody would probably end up pitched out the window. Since they were on the fiftieth floor, that couldn’t be good.
On the other side of the door, something crashed. Walter rolled his shoulders. Okay, time for an intervention. He started forward.
The receptionist stood. “I’m sorry, sir, but you need to wait here. Sir! You can’t go in there!”
“It’s all right; I’m family,” he said, and shoved open the office door. He heard her calling for security, but ignored it as he closed the door behind him. “Wow. Nice office, Addison,” he said, stepping over the platter of broken drinking glasses.
Rick spun around to face him. “Walter. I see you were included in the Jellicoe family reunion.”
“I was as surprised two days ago as you are now. Nobody asked for this.”
Addison’s eyes were stone cold. “Apparently I asked for it. And now all the bloody Jellicoe family and friends have carte blanche to steal from me. You can imagine how delighted I am to finally be informed of my abject stupidity.” Precise, icy, and vicious. Sam really knew how to pick ’em.
At the far end of the room Sam stood glaring at Addison, her shoulders heaving and the expression on her face one that Walter knew as hurt fury. Great. Two volcanic eruptions—with him in the middle. “Since I wasn’t in here for the party,” he said, “I’ll just sum up for my own sake.”
“Why don’t you do that somewhere else?” Addison suggested, his British at full force. “This is a private conversation.”
“Nah. I think I’ll stay for a minute. So you told him that Martin showed up and said he was trading for a life sentence in prison by working for Interpol, right?”
“Don’t bother, Stoney,” Sam finally grumbled, her attention staying on Addison. “I came clean, and Mr. Lord of the Manor flipped out. Let’s get out of here.”
“No,” Addison broke in, before Walter could. “I’d like to know what other items Miss Take It If It’s Not Nailed Down has offered to her friends.”
“What friends? How can I have friends when I’m around you?”
“You—”
“Oh, give me a fucking break,” Walter said loudly. “Don’t you get it, Addison? If she takes the painting back, the crew figures Martin ratted them out, and he’s dead. Probably Sam is, too. If she—”
The door shoved open, a pair of armed security guards moving through and fanning out on either side. “Don’t move!”
Addison stepped forward. “It’s all right. Just a family disagreement. Thanks, lads.”
They holstered their weapons and backed out. “Okay, Mr. Addison. Sorry about that.”
“You missed your big chance to have me hauled off in cuffs again, Rick,” Sam taunted.
“Shut up, will you?” Addison faced Walter again. “You were saying?”
“Yeah. If Sam doesn’t try to get the painting back and instead turns the story over to the cops, Interpol misses its big bust, and Martin goes back to jail. I told her not to say anything at all to you, and it would blow over. Sam’s got this thing, though, where she doesn’t like to lie to you.”
For a minute Sam and Addison glared at each other, the unstoppable force against the immovable object. At least he’d shut them both up for a minute.
“I was already a target for thieves once,” the Brit finally said in a quieter voice. “I didn’t tolerate it then. If I do now, then I may as well hang out a ‘Kick Me’ sign. None of your other former associates will care if there were extenuating circumstances this time.”
“You mean they’ll associate me living with you as a welcome sign for them,” Sam put in. “After this they will, anyway. I know that.”
“You install security, honey,” Walter broke in.
“No, Rick’s right,” she countered, her voice dropping further. “I knew this would happen, as soon as I saw Martin. I’m just terrific at security.” She lowered her head. “Dammit.”
“Your job is not to protect my things.”
“It’s not to get them stolen, either.”
Addison closed his eyes briefly. “Walter, will you excuse us for a moment?”
“Sam?” The reinforcements didn’t leave unless the Indians had the Cowboys surrounded.
She looked up. “I’m going for a walk. You two do whatever you want.” Pushing away from the wall, she headed for the door.
“Go, as long as you’re coming back.” Addison took a step toward the door.
“Stop bossing me around, Addison,” she shot.
“Stop being so defensive, Jellicoe. I’ll meet you at the café in the lobby in half an hour.”
“You’re buying. And invite Stoney. He’s been sleeping on a couch.” She stepped through the door and closed it behind her.
Richard faced the ex-fence. “What the hell are you doing in New York, exactly?”
“She called me, told me she’d seen a ghost, and wanted me to come and verify whether she was crazy or not.”
“If you hadn’t come, she might have confided in me. Did that ever occur to you?” Still trying to absorb the conversation of the last twenty minutes, Richard felt very tempted for a moment to beat the hell out of Barstone, just out of convenience. Christ. Of all the things he’d expected to hear from Samantha, learning that her father was alive and well and apparently still in the business hadn’t been one of them.
“No, it really didn’t. She called; I came. We’re family.”
“And what am I, then?”
Barstone grimaced. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.”
“Certainly I do.” Walter was bulkier than he was, but they were about the same height. Considering that he was about twenty years younger and worked out, he’d give himself the advantage. “Indulge me, Walter.”
“Fine. You’re a rich guy hanging on to a novelty until she starts impacting your business—like now. That’s why you’re mad, isn’t it? Because now having her around is a liability?”
“Bullshit,” Richard shot back, pacing to the window. “Bull shit. I’m mad because she decided that I would just…throw my hands up and walk away because her past showed up at the door. She didn’t even tell me; she just assumed. And you told her to leave me out of it. You told her to lie to me. This isn’t my fault, as much as it’s yours.”
“Me? Why the hell are you putting me into the middle of this?”
“Because as long as you’re around she can go back,” he said flatly. “You give her somewhere to go besides forward.”
“No, I give her a choice. You’re pretty c
ool, but if she wants to stay with you there’s only one way she can go. The difference between us is that I’ll back her up whichever direction she chooses. If you make her happy, then I retire so she won’t feel like she has to worry about me. If you back her into a corner and make her feel like she has to prove herself, then you’re damn right I’m going to step in and try to keep her safe.”
Richard took a deep breath, closing his jaw against the retort he wanted to make. The only thing that terrified him more than Samantha going back to her old life was her doing it alone. “Do you think she’ll stay out of this?” he asked finally.
“No, I don’t. You made it pretty clear that you aren’t happy being used. She isn’t, either.” He shook his head. “You know, this is typical Martin. Vanish for three years, let his little girl think he’s dead, and then reappear just so he can twist her up into one of his schemes and tell her it’s a learning experience.” Walter blew out his breath. “He’s always got to be the teacher. I mean, some of his ‘lessons’ are lifesavers, but he’s closer to being Fagin than Howard Cunningham.”
“Apparently,” Richard said slowly, approaching Barstone again, “I misjudged you. A little.”
“Yeah, well, thanks.”
“My main concern is Samantha’s happiness and her well-being. You may not believe me, but I do love her. Very much. I don’t want to lose her.”
“Let’s say that maybe I believe you.”
“That’s good enough for now.” Richard offered his hand. “How about a truce, at least until we figure a way out of this?”
After a hesitation Walter’s large black hand gripped his. “Truce.”
Chapter 11
Friday, 12:12 p.m.
Samantha wished she’d worn jogging shoes instead of the five-hundred-dollar Ferragamo sandals she had on. The low heels were comfortable enough, but at the moment she wanted to run. And run, and run, and run.
Maybe she’d approached Rick the wrong way, apologizing in advance and offering to go away. It wasn’t her fault that she was Martin’s kid, and even if she had followed in his footsteps for most of her life, she wasn’t doing so any longer. At least she was trying not to.
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