Billionaires Prefer Blondes

by Suzanne Enoch

  Shrugging into his blue cotton robe, he left the bedroom and headed two doors down toward the back of the house. The door was closed, but not locked—a good sign, he hoped.

  “Samantha?” he said quietly, pushing open the door.

  The light on the nightstand was still on, but she wasn’t reading by it. The papers and books seemed to have multiplied, and they covered the bed except for where Samantha lay sprawled across the pillows. Auburn hair straggled across her closed eyes, and she still wore her jeans and T-shirt with the open shirt over it.

  If he wanted an assurance that he didn’t merely claim to love her but truly did, the tremendous relief at seeing her there and the overwhelming sense of…tenderness, of wanting to hold her and to protect her, answered the question clearly enough for him.

  Moving silently, he gathered the scattered papers together. Every take-advantage-of-the-opponent instinct in his business-hardened body wanted to read through them and see what she was up to, and he just as strongly resisted. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him. He set the things on the floor, picked up the soft throw lying across the foot of the bed, and covered her gently.

  She blearily opened her eyes. “I’m cold without you,” she mumbled, and closed them again.

  With a faint smile he climbed crossways onto the bed along the headboard to lie down beside her. Eyes still closed, she flipped the throw so it covered him, as well.

  “I love you,” he whispered, sliding an arm across her shoulders.

  “I love you,” she murmured back, curling against him.

  And abruptly the world was right again. What did he care about a bloody hotel when he had his own semi-retired cat burglar? And to think, two hundred and fifty years ago as a member of the peerage he would have been obligated to have her hanged. Thank God and the devil that this wasn’t a romance of a historical bent. Because come hell or high water, if she was going to commit even grander larceny than last night, he meant to help her do it.

  Richard groaned and opened his eyes as somebody nudged him hard in the shoulder. Samantha. “What?”

  “It’s eight o’clock,” she said, shimmying off the guest room bed. “You said before that you were holding a strategy thingy at nine thirty.”

  She’d changed clothes, he noticed, into jeans shorts and a red tank top—her staying-around-the-house clothes. Abruptly he wanted to cancel his meeting thingy and have a naked thingy with Samantha.

  “Thanks. Could I get some cof—”

  “Coffee?” she broke in, handing him a steaming cup as he sat up. “And Vilseau’s making some toast.”

  “After last night I thought you might be throwing this in my face,” he said, inhaling the vanilla-nut aroma. Tea was definitely more civilized, but thank God for coffee.

  “It was weird,” she said, hauling up her papers and dumping them on the bed again. “It occurred to me that I’m usually the one who gets all crazy, and you logic me out of it, or you stand back so I can vent.” She shrugged. “So I was the responsible one last night, and I figured you needed to vent.”

  “I suppose I did.”

  “Could I ask why?” Samantha plunked herself back, catlike, on the bed.

  “No,” he returned, sipping the blissfully hot coffee.

  “No?”

  “Because last night it made sense, and this morning you’ll laugh. And I’m far too important to be laughed at.”

  She gave her quicksilver grin. “Then you should tell me, because my story’s not as funny.”

  He drew a breath. After last night, he supposed he owed her some sort of explanation. “Fine. I own a lot of things. I employ a great many people. They do as I ask, and everything runs smoothly. One of the reasons I’m successful is because I usually know what’s coming next, what the next move is going to be, so I can take the appropriate counterstep. And day before yesterday when we sat in the cafeteria and you told me that you were going to participate in some big robbery and needed to commit a smaller one just for some cove’s amusement, I realized I was absolutely clueless about what to do next. And at Locke’s party, I knew you were looking for marks.”

  “Rick, you—”

  “And then I toddled off to dinner while you had to wait for a phone call and a visit from someone whom I presume to be a very dangerous man.”

  “Negotiating an eighty-seven-million-dollar deal is not toddling, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with Veittsreig, either. I’m not going back to being Ma Barker full-time. I was doing the least bad thing I could think of until we—we—could figure something out.”

  “Yes, but then during dinner I started trying to imagine Miazaki Hoshido breaking into someone’s house and using peanut butter to subdue their dog. And I tried to imagine Patricia doing that. They would have made a complete muck of it. Out of everyone I know in the world, you are the only one I could picture doing what you do. And I got angry at myself, because I was proud of you.”

  “Did you start drinking before or after you realized you were proud of me?”

  “After. That’s why I started drinking.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “So you do have a weakness. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not always as together as I let on, either.”

  Richard nearly choked on his coffee as he laughed. “On that note, what’s your news? Did Veittsreig call?”

  “Yes, but that’s only part of my story.”

  He took another, more careful swallow of coffee, reminding himself that she wasn’t being deliberately difficult. She was being Samantha, looking for angles and opportunities, for the best way to approach…anything. Everything. “And?” he finally prompted.

  “Okay.” She bent down to sniff his coffee. “If that tasted as good as it smelled, I wouldn’t badmouth it so much. But me, I like Diet Coke. I guess that’s why Detective Gorstein brought me one when he came by last night.”

  “He what?” The cup in his hand jumped, and he set it on the nightstand.

  “Apparently they’ve pretty much cleared me, and somebody called him and suggested that if he would be a little more civil, I might lend him some of my tremendous insight.”

  “Hm.” Gorstein’s tunnel vision hadn’t been as unalterable as he’d feared. “You talked with him, then?”

  “After I hid the diamonds under a pillow. I think he’d already come to pretty much the same conclusions, but at least I could point out that I had an alibi for yesterday morning. And he asked about the hotel, so they were definitely paying attention to where I was on Friday night.”

  Richard stopped halfway to the edge of the bed. “Yesterday morning?”

  “Boyden Locke lost a Picasso. Luckily we were checking out of the Manhattan and heading back here with cops tailing us, but we both know I could have slipped out and pulled another robbery without them knowing a thing.”

  Obviously her story was going to get worse. She hadn’t even mentioned Veittsreig yet. Holding up a hand to stop her, he picked up the guest room phone and dialed downstairs. “Wilder, please tell Ben I’m pushing back my schedule. I’ll need him at half nine.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “No, make that ten.”

  “I’ll inform him.”

  Richard took Samantha’s hand, twining his fingers with hers. “What else?”

  With a sigh she leaned her head against his shoulder. “While Gorstein was here, Veittsreig called. He wanted to know why the cops were at the house. I pretended he was you and told him to call me back. Instead he told me he’d be here in five minutes, and to get rid of Gorstein or else.”

  “Or else.” His muscles tensed, even though he’d obviously arrived far too late to be of any use. If he had arrived in time, drunk, he might have gotten one or both of them killed. Way to save the day, Rick.

  “I got Gorstein out the door in time. But guess what the gig is?”

  “Sam.”

  “Okay, okay. We’re hitting the Met. On Tuesday. You might want to clear your schedule.”


  She told him what she knew, up through the second call she’d gotten two hours later detailing where they were meeting and what her role would be. By the time she finished, they were both on their stomachs lying across the bed and looking at the floor plans of the museum she’d dug up in one of his art books. She hoped Nicholas or Martin had the wiring plans, or they weren’t going to get very far.

  “One thing that doesn’t make sense to me,” Rick said, pulling over a photo of Venus and Adonis, “is that if this gang knows—”

  “Crew,” she corrected.

  “If this crew knows your reputation, they also know that you don’t hit museums.”

  “I don’t think they much care about my personal preferences.”

  He scowled, sexy as hell in his morning beard stubble, crazy black bed hair, and the blue bathrobe he’d worn all night. “What does Walter think of all this?”

  “I haven’t told him yet. This affects you—us—more than it does me and Stoney. I thought you should know first.”

  Dark blue eyes met hers. “I apologize again for being such a bastard last night. You know I don’t normally do that.”

  “I know.” What he’d said had hurt, mostly because it had been true. “And I’m trying,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. Long-fingered thief’s hands, Martin had always said, as if her fingers somehow proved that she was meant to be what she’d become. “Being good is hard.”

  “It’s only hard if you mean it,” he whispered, brushing her hair back from her face. “It would be easy if you were pretending.”

  She looked up, smiling at him, wondering if her expression looked as sappy as it felt. “You are a very nice man.”

  “No, I’m not.” He pulled her arm, flipping her onto her back.

  Before she could roll out he kissed her, his mouth tasting of coffee and the remnants of toothpaste. Slow and soft, his lips teased at hers, his tongue joining and then retreating from the pursuit. She moaned, slipping her arms around his shoulders as he sank down over her. His beard stubble scratched her cheeks a little, but she liked the sensation.

  This was what nobody in her old circle understood. That she wasn’t hanging around Rick to look for any and every opportunity to rob him when he turned his back. She liked being in his presence, sharing conversations with him, knowing that she aroused him as much as he excited her. Still kissing her softly, he slowly pushed her tank top up around her shoulders. Slipping agile fingers under her bra, he pushed it up, as well, and then slid down to brush his lips over one breast and then the other.

  Samantha moaned, pulling her body up against his. His robe was easy to tug off, but he covered her hands when she started to unzip her shorts. “It’s Sunday,” he murmured, kissing her mouth again. “Our day of rest.” Rick ran his free hand down her spine, firming his grip as he rolled, pulling her over him.

  “This doesn’t feel like resting,” she breathed, chuckling. “And you still have a meeting.” Beneath the arousal of her body, she felt relief. After his deep anger at her for deciding to break into the Hodgeses’, and then what she’d read as disappointment in him last night, it felt good—and safe—to be in his arms again, to feel his desire for her.

  “I imagine they’ll wait for me.”

  She slid down, kissing his chest and nipples, feeling his hard muscles quiver beneath his skin. So he’d said he was proud of her—for being good at her chosen profession, she assumed—but she wasn’t convinced. People didn’t come home drunk and yelling when they were happy.

  “What if it happens again?” she whispered, lifting to run her lips along his jawline.

  “What if what happens again?”

  “What if circumstances cause me to choose a break-in over death and dismemberment?”

  “We’ll make certain it doesn’t happen,” he rumbled, his hands grasping her bottom and sliding down her thighs.

  “We can’t do that.”

  “Not now, Sam.” Before she could protest that, he pulled her down over him and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe. “You are the smartest person I know,” he said finally, shifting his attention to unfastening her shorts. “You are honorable, and kind, and devastatingly beautiful, and I love you. Anything else is secondary.”

  She smiled as he rolled them again. “I’m kind?”

  Rick sat up to scoot her shorts and her blue thongs off. He did seem to like the thongs even over the frilly panties—if she could get over the feeling of having a permanent wedgie, she’d make the switch.

  “You fed Puffy peanut butter. Somehow I can’t imagine some of your former confederates taking the trouble to make friends with the mark’s dog.”

  That was true; but jeez, she didn’t even like killing spiders. “He was cute,” she returned, then gasped as he trailed a hand between her thighs.

  He lifted his azure blue eyes to hers. “You’re wet.”

  She jumped at the motion of his fingers. “I want you, Brit.”

  “I love you, Yank.” Rick settled over her again, brushing her hair back to expose her throat, and licking and nipping at her sensitive skin. With his hand he caressed her again, and she groaned.

  When she couldn’t stand the buildup any longer, Samantha arched her hips, pulling him to her. “Please,” she murmured.

  “As you wish,” he breathed, and slowly, deeply sank into her.

  She came immediately, hard, clinging to him as he began pumping his hips. Digging the pads of her fingers into his back, Samantha threw her head back, gasping. She loved having him inside her; whatever mess they were making of their relationship, this spoke more loudly. They fit together. Their hearts fit together.

  Rick looked down at her. “You amaze me, you know,” he panted, kissing her again.

  “I know.”

  With a chuckle he pushed forward, grunting, then slowly sank down on top of her. “I wish I didn’t have that bloody meeting,” he said when he had some breath back, “because I think I could kill the both of us with the sex today.”

  Laughing, still feeling him inside her, she patted him on the head. “Next time, dear.”

  “Come with me,” he said abruptly, lifting his face to look down at her.

  “I just did.”

  “Smart ass. I meant to my meeting.” He kissed her again, even more gently this time. “I’m a bit worried about you right now.”

  “I can’t go. I need to find a way to lose the cops and the crooks, meet up with Stoney, and go shopping. Since I didn’t bring my B and E gear with me to New York, I’m going to need some things. More than Delroy has lying around.”

  That wasn’t entirely true; she did have her lock picks and a couple of the more innocent-looking tools of the trade, but nothing that was up to the standards required by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And she wanted to try to track down Veittsreig and his crew. Knowing where they were working from could make things easier, especially if she could use them to find out who had wanted the Hogarth and the Picasso—and probably all or most of the items currently located at the museum. And finding the two missing paintings—as well as recovering the Hodges diamonds—was of paramount importance.

  “May I say that it bothers me that your father seems to want you involved in this when he’s made a deal to hand Veittsreig and his crew over to Interpol? How do you fit in with that?”

  “I have a hunch, but whatever happens, I still have to be able to play my part up to that point.” She gave him a fast, tight hug, breathing in the familiar and still-intoxicating scent of his skin. “Get off me and go to your meeting.”

  Clear reluctance on his face, he moved out and off of her. “Sometimes I wish I could just keep you here with me forever, Samantha Elizabeth.”

  Forever was a frighteningly long time, though the idea didn’t scare her quite as much as it used to, these days. “We’d get hungry,” she said with a quick grin, and went to find her thongs.

  Wearing them and her tank top, her bra readjusted to the proper position, she headed back to the master
bedroom to find a pair of jeans. As she crossed the next door, the opening to Rick’s office, a shadow moved toward her.

  Shrieking, she grabbed the half-open door and yanked it closed. That was enough. Too many damn people were breaking into this house. “Rick!”

  Whoever was on the other side had a strong grip. The knob turned in her hands, and she hauled backward with all of her weight as the door inched open. As Rick charged into the hallway behind her, she shifted her weight and shoved. Hard.

  The door flew open, whoever’d been pulling on it falling backward over one of the conference table chairs. Rick on her heels, she flew after him, yanking him by one ankle down to the floor. The man squealed as she knelt across his throat.

  “Who the fuck do you work for?” she snarled, grabbing his tie off and slipping it around his flailing hands.

  “He works for me, actually,” Rick said in an even tone, humor dripping from his voice. “Samantha, please get off my new assistant.”

  Chapter 16

  Sunday, 10:18 a.m.

  “This is nice work,” Richard said, flipping through the three reports as the limousine rumbled toward his downtown office.

  John Stillwell was still fiddling with the tie Samantha had returned to him. “Thank you, sir.” He cleared his throat. “I do apologize for my actions earlier. I didn’t—”

  “Wilder told you to wait in the office. And you didn’t take any inappropriate action.” He hadn’t taken any action, actually, but Samantha could be hard to handle under the best of circumstances. At least Stillwell hadn’t wet himself, being jumped by a woman in a tank top and thong underwear.

  “It wasn’t the first impression I wanted to make.”

  Rick rattled the papers. “I’ll consider these as your first impression.” He glanced at the younger man seated across from him. They’d actually met on several occasions, and while they’d dealt in different areas of Addisco, he’d seen the fellow’s work, and he’d never heard anything but praise from Stillwell’s superiors. “When did you get in to New York, anyway?”