Billionaires Prefer Blondes

by Suzanne Enoch

  “What the hell is that?” Rick tossed his tuxedo jacket over a chair and yanked the tie free. “And how do you know it’s meant for you?”

  “You think it’s from one of your old girlfriends?” she retorted, covering her sudden panic as she realized who must have left it there. “It’s on my side of the bed.” Samantha opened it. “It’s from Nicholas,” she said, for the moment putting aside how dismayed she was at the thought that Veittsreig had been in her bedroom—again. And of course he knew which side of the bed was hers; he’d seen Rick sleeping there.

  Dammit, she should have arranged to rewire the security system here the second they landed at the airport. Most thieves weren’t as skilled as her or Martin or Nicholas, but obviously it could happen. Or rather it had happened, and it wouldn’t happen again.

  Rick grabbed the paper from her, batting her hand away when she dove after it. “‘I hope you enjoyed your party tonight,’” he read, his voice ice-cold. “‘You look very nice in black. I only wanted to remind you that you have work to do, and that I can get to you and your British boyfriend anytime I want.’” He looked at her. “That’s fairly direct.”

  “What do you expect? Death and dismemberment threats are just job lingo for me.”

  “They used to be job lingo for you. We need to call Gorstein.”

  “No, no, no.” For one thing, it wasn’t only her death that Nicholas was threatening. If she messed up, Rick would be in very real danger, too. “You don’t even know about this. You can’t. I haven’t told you anything, remember?” She took the note back from him. “I’m not even surprised. Look at it from his point of view.”

  “Please, enlighten me.”

  “Okay. I’m living with a rich guy, I’m in a cushy position, and he’s trying to get me to do something that could cause me a lot of trouble. He has to threaten me; otherwise, what’s my incentive?”

  “I’m glad you can be so circumspect about this,” he growled, yanking off his waistcoat and shirt.

  She had to be, or he would go even more ballistic than he already was. “Nothing’s changed. We stick to the plan until we find out what they want.”

  He sat on the bed next to her. “And what’s your plan for this evening?”

  “A little B and E. What do you think?”

  He grabbed her near elbow. “You are not going to steal anything from anyone.”

  “You are not the boss of me.”

  “I’m fucking serious, Samantha. I told you before, you will not use my house as a sanctuary while you rob people. Not for any reason.”

  For a long moment she looked at him. Since she’d already run through her options a hundred times, she’d half thought this part would be a little easier than it was turning out to be. “Okay,” she said quietly.

  “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, I won’t use your home as a base of operations.”

  Rick closed his eyes. “Fuck,” he murmured, opening them again. “You’d leave, just like that?”

  “You’re the one who threw in the ultimatum. What am I supposed to do? Let Martin get killed? Let you get killed? Not to mention me. And don’t tell me I should go to the cops, because you know what would happen then. Once I have something to trade with, something besides innuendoes from a couple of guys who’d lie to their own mothers, then we can reconsider. But in order for me to get where I need to be with Nicholas and his crew, I have to jump through his hoops.”

  “So who did you have in mind to rob?”

  “I was thinking that nice older couple with the secret cookie recipe. The Hodgeses. They live on West Sixty-sixth at Columbus. And they own a Pekingese named Puffy.”

  “You spent half an hour chatting with the owners of Mrs. Hodges’ Famous Cookies, and now you’re going to break into their house. How can you do that?”

  “Because I’m a thief. And this is the best reason I’ve ever had to pull a job. Remember, I used to do this just for the money.”

  He didn’t say anything, just stared at her. Since he hadn’t rescinded his ultimatum, either, she pretended her muscles weren’t shaking with tension and worry and instead stood up to grab the clothes resting under the nightstand. Setting them on the bed, she went to the closet and pulled out her backpack. The rumpled, innocuous-looking gray thing went with her everywhere; inside it she kept everything she needed for day-to-day living. With it in her possession, she wouldn’t need anything else from the house, or from him.

  As for B and E gear, for this simple a job she would find what she needed at Delroy’s. Slinging the backpack over her shoulder, she picked up her clothes and headed for the bedroom door. She would change downstairs, where she wouldn’t have to feel his angry, stubborn gaze on her. She had a job to do, and if she was going to be successful, she needed to concentrate.

  She heard Rick stand as she pulled open the door. If she turned around, though, she would cry, and she wasn’t going to let him see that. Nope. She was Sam Jellicoe, thief, dammit. And he could think whatever he wanted about her, because as far as she was concerned, what she was doing was as much to protect him as it was to protect her and Martin.

  The backpack yanked backward off her shoulder with enough force to make her stagger. “Hey!” she snapped, whipping around.

  Rick stood directly in front of her, his jaw tight and his blue eyes narrow and burning. The hand that clutched her pack shook a little, his knuckles white with the force of his hold. For a second he stood frozen that way. Then he hurled the bundle back into the closet.

  “I’m going with you,” he rasped, his voice low and furious. “And don’t even…think about trying to talk me out of it.”

  Samantha weighed what she needed to do against what she wanted to have. That decision should have been even more difficult, but it wasn’t. “Okay.”

  Chapter 13

  Saturday, 1:09 a.m.

  Obviously his presence on Samantha’s job was causing more difficulties than he’d foreseen. Richard stood next to her at the front desk of the Manhattan Hotel and handed over one of his credit cards. “Yes, the best you’ve got.”

  “That would be the Skyline Suite on the thirty-fifth floor, at eleven hundred dollars per night,” the clerk said.

  Either he didn’t know with whom he was speaking, or he didn’t know the hotel was for sale. Richard nodded. “That’s fine. We’re tired, and we’d like to go up now.”

  “Yes, Mr…. Addison.” The clerk’s expression tightened as he read the name on the platinum card. “Oh. The, um, the kitchen is closed, but if there’s anything you require, we would be very happy to—”

  “We’d like to not be disturbed. No phone calls, no interruptions,” Rick broke in. “And we’ll carry our own bags.”

  “Yes. Of course.” His fingers shaking a little, the clerk handed over a pair of pass cards. “There’s a complimentary Continental breakfast beginning at seven in the Park Café. The—”

  “We’ll read the brochure,” Samantha cut in, snagging the cards and picking up her overnight bag in the same motion.

  Neither of them spoke on the ride up to the thirty-fifth floor. He knew she would rather be doing this on her own, just as he knew the situation had flown completely out of his control. Accompanying her felt like the only way to at least keep some idea of what was happening.

  At their suite door she slid in the key card and pushed open the door. “Keep it open,” she muttered, taking his bag and tossing it with hers onto the bed. She returned to the door and took the “Do Not Disturb” sign, hanging it on the outside handle. “Let’s go.”

  “Why keep the door open?” he asked, as they traipsed toward the service elevator.

  “Because some hotels keep tabs on how many times the doors are opened in their big suites. As far as they know, we’re inside.”

  “What about cameras?”

  “Elevators only. Not the service elevator. Guests on these floors like their privacy.”

  “So you’ve done this before.”

  “Not with a compa
nion,” she said shortly, stepping into the elevator as it opened and punching the basement button.

  Once in the basement they made their way out the service entrance and onto the street. They walked a block, then hailed a cab. All of the subterfuge might have been unnecessary if she’d gone by herself, since she would simply have climbed out the back window of their townhouse and vanished, but she’d demanded that he, at least, have a verifiable alibi. Hence the ride to the hotel. With both the police and Veittsreig’s crew probably following them there, Richard had felt like he was leading a parade.

  Delroy lived off 133rd Street in an apartment building that looked like it had seen better days. As they climbed out of the cab, Richard moved in close to Samantha. As angry at this entire expedition as he was, he wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her.

  “Quit crowding me,” she muttered, walking straight to the sixth door on the left on the ground floor. She knocked three times, waited, and knocked twice more.

  The door opened, and Walter gazed out at them. “Sam, you’re crazy,” he grunted, stepping aside so they could enter. “You can’t bring a novice on an occupied.”

  “What’s an occupied?” Richard asked, stopping as a second, very large black man came into the small living area.

  “It means a break-in when the residents are home,” Samantha explained, moving past him to stand in front of the mountain. “Hey, Delroy,” she said, and hugged him. “You didn’t bring any of those triple-chocolate muffins home with you, I don’t suppose.”

  The big man grinned. “If I’d a known you were coming by, baby, you know I would have.”

  Walter scowled. “Those things’ll kill you.”

  “So this is your guy, huh?” Delroy continued, sending Richard an appraising glance.

  Rick had the unusual sensation that he was being evaluated. He kept his expression neutral. “Rick,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Right. Sorry,” Sam cut in. “Delroy Barstone, Rick Addison. Rick, Stoney’s baby brother, Delroy.”

  They shook hands as Walter disappeared into a side room. He came out a moment later with two black backpacks. “I didn’t know exactly what you’d need, so I put in the standards, plus what you asked for when you called.”

  With a nod, Samantha took the two packs, hefted them in her hands, and tossed one at Richard. He caught it, surprised at the weight. “Thanks, Stoney,” she said. “We’ll be back in about forty minutes, if everything goes like it should.”

  Walter was frowning. “Are you two fighting? Because that is not good when you’re about to—”

  “Stay out of it,” Samantha interrupted. “We’re just having a philosophical disagreement. We’ll be fine.”

  Walter lifted his hands. “Okay. None of my business. See you in forty.”

  Richard followed her back into the hallway and out to the street, where she hailed another cab. “Samantha, the—”

  “Don’t use names,” she said quietly, stepping back as he pulled open the cab’s door for her. “If anybody overhears, we’re—”

  “Gotcha,” he returned, covering his own accent as he took a seat.

  “Okay.”

  She had the taxi drop them off two blocks from their destination. At this point he’d been awake for twenty-one hours, but as he eyed her tight, clenched profile it felt like longer. Yes, she was angry, but she wasn’t the only one. He’d had a hell of a lot dumped on his lap since yesterday morning.

  She would have left. She’d decided that protecting her little family was more important than being with him. The fact that he was part of that family hardly felt like any sort of consolation. As mad as he was at her for making that choice, however, he was even more furious at himself for not leaving her any alternative.

  Brilliant businessman that he was, he’d made a nearly fatal mistake. Veittsreig had left Samantha with two choices—death for her and those closest to her, or cooperation. And instead of coming up with a third alternative or a livable compromise, he’d put his foot down and basically ordered her to put both him and her newly rediscovered father in peril.

  “Idiot,” he muttered, hefting his borrowed backpack.

  “Keep your commentary to yourself,” Samantha returned, lowering her baseball cap over her eyes as she looked up at the set of darkened windows on their left. They both kept walking; no doubt she meant to make an alley entrance rather than risk being seen by the traffic rolling along West 66th.

  “I was talking about me,” he said.

  “You wanted to come. Go back to the hotel if you can’t deal.”

  “That’s not what…” Richard blew out his breath. He needed to collect himself, get his head in the game, before he got both of them caught or killed. “You’re certain everyone thinks we’re still at the Manhattan.”

  “Yep.”

  He supposed if she wanted to be all business tonight, it was probably for the best. A truce would have been easier on her, but if she hadn’t been a thief to begin with, none of this would have happened.

  They stopped at the entrance of the alley as though waiting for the chance to jaywalk across the street. As soon as traffic cleared, Samantha turned around and led the way into the dark alley.

  “How do you know which townhouse is—”

  “Shh,” she returned in a low murmur. “I’m counting windows.”

  Of course she was. With Samantha’s attention on the building, he kept his on the alley. Toward the far end he could make out a pair of figures beside a trash bin. They were either getting high, or, from the faint sounds, having sex. Whatever it was, at least they didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything else around them.

  “Okay.” She stopped and opened her borrowed backpack. “Are you going in, or waiting here?”

  “In.”

  “Put on your gloves.” Finally she faced him, the first time in better than an hour that she’d looked directly at him. “And promise that you’ll do exactly what I say.”

  “I have gone in with you before,” he said, fighting down his annoyance at being dictated to. He pulled the gloves out of his own backpack.

  “Yes, but these people are home, and they’re innocent. It’s a bad thing we’ll—I’ll—be doing.” She unwound the length of rope Walter had provided and tied one end around a heavy rubber dog bone.

  “Will these people get their things back when we finish with this?”

  “That’s my plan. But it might not be my friends’ plan.”

  “Okay. I’ll wrestle with my own conscience on my own time.” For a second he watched her, wondering if she was doing the same. “Why the dog toy?”

  “It’s rubber, so it’ll make less noise when it hits the fire escape.” Samantha glanced at him again. “You can’t go in halfway. You have to be committed.”

  “I’m committed to you.”

  She stepped in to give him a quick, surprising kiss on the mouth. “I’ll make this right. For everybody.”

  Christ. There went his Sam, taking everyone else’s sins onto her own shoulders. And he’d thought she’d been too quick to decide on robbery, on choosing a course of action that allowed her to do something she enjoyed. Samantha had worked it through well past that point—and he needed to catch up unless he wanted to get left behind. Permanently.

  She swung the rope back and forth, then flipped it up toward the lowest landing of the fire escape. The dog chew sailed over the railing and swung up to hit the underside of the landing with a dull thud. Slowly she let out more rope until he could grab the rubber bone on the far side, free the rope, and tie it off around the wheel of another trash bin. Straightening, he gave Samantha a nod.

  With a jump she grabbed the opposite end of the rope and swarmed up to the landing. The metal escape gave a few protesting creaks and groans, but the sounds blended nearly undetectably with the engines and horns on the street.

  For a second she crouched where she was, motionless, before she gestured at him to join her. Sending up a quick prayer that he wouldn’t embarrass
himself or get the two of them caught, he started up the rope.

  By the time he reached the landing he had a new appreciation both for her athletic ability and for how much she was willing to risk just by letting him come along. He was no slouch by any means, but she moved with such confidence, skill, and grace—in her world she was as unmatched as he was in his.

  “Okay?” she mouthed, helping him over the railing.

  Richard nodded, refusing to rub the burning muscles of his upper arms. With her in the lead, they climbed the fire escape stairs to the upper landing. To his surprise the window there was open by about two inches.

  Samantha reached in, drawing the curtains sideways with her fingers. For a moment she gazed into the darkened hallway beyond, then sank back again. On her face she wore an absent half smile, and probably wasn’t even aware of the expression.

  He had a difficult time not grinning, himself. Despite knowing they were in the process of robbing two innocent, elderly people, and despite the anger at Samantha for having a past which allowed her to be manipulated into doing this, he could see the attraction. He could feel the adrenaline flooding his muscles, anticipating the combat of wits and nerves and luck.

  “What are you waiting for?” he breathed.

  With a slight frown in his direction she gestured toward the top of the window. As he looked, he dimly made out a wooden dowel shoved diagonally between the top of the movable part of the window and the inside top of the sill.

  She leaned up to his ear. “Cheap but effective,” she murmured, her breath warm against his cheek. Digging into her backpack, she pulled out a glass cutter and some duct tape. Swiftly she taped a small circle bisected by the dowel, then motioned him for the suction cup he carried in his pack. “Hold on to it,” she instructed. “Don’t push it in, or we’re screwed.”

  Whether she’d given him a token job to keep him from feeling left out or not, he had no intention of screwing up. Silently he attached the suction cup to the center of the circle, braced himself, and held on.