Billionaires Prefer Blondes

by Suzanne Enoch

  He shook his head. “Douglas. And I had to pay him, so you owe me four thousand bucks.”

  She sat at the library table, her tools spread around her, to pry the back off the first of the units. “I’m good for it.” Shaking herself out of her pre-job concentration, she patted the chair beside her. “That’s my fault, isn’t it? That you had to pay cash.”

  “You made me retire, so yeah, it’s your fault. All these guys are catching on that you can’t barter with somebody who won’t be taking in anything worth trading for.”

  “I’m not going to apologize. This life is safer for both of us.”

  He snorted. “Oh, I can see that.”

  Samantha frowned. “Well, it’s supposed to be.” She went to work with the soldering iron. “You know, this would go over better with Gorstein and everybody else if I could deliver the buyer, too.”

  “That’s stepping way, way over the line, though. You know a lot of buyers. If they start thinking you’re likely to rat them out, you can’t even count the number of ways you’d be in trouble, and with a lot of rich guys.”

  “That’s a possibility,” she mused, “but those guys are mostly pretty smart. And since they are, they’ll know that this guy stepped over the line first. Taking a painting out of a cat burglar’s house is so uncool. It makes me look bad.”

  “Then get the information out of Veittsreig before you go in.”

  “I tried, but he thinks I might try to go around him and renegotiate.”

  “It just doesn’t pay to be a crook anymore.”

  “Tell me about it. But whoever this guy is, he made me mad, and I’m not giving up.”

  For a minute Stoney watched her work. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Why did you decide you had to bring in the cops for this gig?”

  “Because we couldn’t go directly to Interpol.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  Stoney put a hand over hers, blocking her view of the remote. “I meant, Martin wrangled you into a pretty generous job. He made it kind of hard for you to turn it down, even. I mean, I know it’s a museum, and that you have a thing about museums, but other than that, it’s—”

  “It’s the kind of job that would appeal to me,” Samantha finished, putting down her pair of pliers. “You mean why shouldn’t I take the opportunity and dive back into my old life?”

  “You’re obviously loving this right now. You can’t wait to go in this afternoon, can you?”

  She’d spent most of last night debating those same points with herself. “It’s a challenge. You know how I am about challenges.”

  “It’s more than the challenge. You’re like a junkie getting a fix after five months. You had a sip of tequila with those diamonds, and now you’re dying for a nice, big bottle of Jack Daniels.”

  “Oh, nice. Thanks a lot.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Yes, she did. “Why did Martin want to pull me into this, Stoney? Did you ever wonder about that?”

  “You already figured that he’s not trying to double-cross you. He needs your help to pull off this job.”

  “No, he doesn’t. Two of us together can get the electronics done faster, but he doesn’t need me to do it.”

  Stoney sat back in his chair. “Okay, you tell me, then. Why does Martin want you doing this job? You already know it’s not to get you caught, because he put Interpol off until Friday.”

  She twisted to face him, drawing one foot under her bottom. “He’s been keeping tabs on me for the past three years, since he supposedly died. For three years he’s danced around, playing nice with Interpol, doing the least he could to keep on their good side and keep them from putting him back in the slam.”

  “I figured the same thing about that.”

  “How many other jobs do you think he’s jammed them on? It’s his new scam, Stoney—pretending to work for the good guys. It gives him all kinds of freedom to do small jobs on his own. He can even blame them on whoever he’s setting up for the next Interpol sting.”

  For a few seconds he sat silently. “I can see that. Martin’s always been pretty good at playing other people to suit his own purposes.”

  “I remember. And all the while he could say he was teaching them—or me—lessons. So what happens if he can get me to help him pull this one off? I get yanked away from Rick, because even if he could cover for me this time, he wouldn’t. Martin gets the cash, stays in good with a very successful crew, and here I am with nowhere to go and a high-profile hit under my belt.”

  “He gets you to be his partner after you turned him down six years ago.”

  She picked up her Diet Coke and tipped it in his direction. “Give the man a gold ribbon.”

  “Is that why you called in the cops, then? So you wouldn’t have to work with Martin again?”

  “Give me a break. My life right now isn’t perfect, but there are moments when I’m really, really happy. I’m in love. And I’m safe.” She flashed a grin at his dubious expression. “Safer than I was. Today is an exception.”

  “How many exceptions will Addison put up with?”

  Samantha had been debating that, too. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out when I hit the magic number.”

  “Do you want to hit the magic number?”

  “Who are you, my guidance counselor?”

  “I thought I was your Yoda.”

  “Well, this morning you’re being my C-3PO, and you’re annoying the shit out of me. Of course I don’t want to hit the magic number. If Rick and I split, I don’t want it to be because I didn’t have the…guts to keep my face pointed in the direction I’ve decided to go.”

  Rick rapped at the door. “Everybody decent?” he asked at the same time, pushing it open.

  “Is Stillwell gone?”

  “Yes, I’ve sent him off to stall the city for today. It’s only fair, since they’ve been waffling about for the past three days.” He sat opposite her. “Should I ask how you’re going to get all of this into the museum in the first place?” he asked, gesturing at her equipment.

  “Let’s just say we won’t be using the front door. Not all of us, anyway.”

  “And explain the exit again to me. That’s the bit that I want to make certain doesn’t have any flaws.”

  The worry clear in those blue eyes of his made her reconsider the flip answer she’d been about to make. Anything she embarked on wasn’t just about her anymore. That was probably the hardest thing to get used to; somebody else had an emotional, even physical, stake in her life.

  “The exit’s pretty simple. As soon as the white hats start moving in, I dump my gear, head out through the nearest exit, walk a block to where you’re waiting with a cab, and we head to your office so I have an alibi. With Gorstein’s guys giving me an extra couple of seconds, it should be easy.”

  “Yeah,” Stoney muttered, “easy. Except for all the guns and the running around and the chance that somebody might try to follow you. Or that somebody might recognize you. You’ve been on TV, if you’ll recall.”

  “Ah, but I thought of that,” she returned, reaching into a sack beside her and pulling out a blonde wig.

  “I hope that thing’s bulletproof,” her former fence said dourly.

  She smiled at Rick. “Is it true, Mr. Addison?” she chirped, pulling on the headpiece. “Do billionaires prefer blondes?”

  He snorted, reaching across the table to twist a strand of the golden blonde hair in his fingers. “You look good in any color, Yank. If being blonde will get you out of the Met safely, then yes, today I prefer blondes.”

  She stood, leaning over to kiss him on his sensuous mouth. “Good answer.”

  Letting go of her wig, he returned his attention to the electronics spread out on the table. “If you’re just going to dump your gear, why are you fiddling with these things?” Rick asked, picking up one of the remotes and examining it.

  “Insura
nce. Nicholas or Martin might check to see what I’m carrying. I have to at least look like I’m going to pull my weight on this.” If she told him what they were actually for, he’d probably lock her in a closet until Doomsday. There were some things it was just better that he not know.

  “And what’s the exit plan according to you and your partners?”

  “We’ve been through this.”

  “Go through it again, if you don’t mind.”

  That was how he worked, she reflected, examining all aspects and angles of a situation. It was one of the ways they weren’t so different. “Martin and I disable the sensors and the alarms,” she said, keeping the impatience to get going out of her voice, “and while the docents and security are starting to empty the exhibit halls, we start yanking things off the walls. Panic starts, and we toss out some flares and smoke grenades, then head for the pieces we actually want and bag them.”

  “Like groceries.”

  “Just like. Still disrupting the displays, we jam out the front door and into the waiting UPS truck made up to look like a SWAT-mobile. With lights and sirens going, we head away from the museum, ditch the truck for a van, and head back to the warehouse. Then we dump off our loot and split up.”

  “But even if the alarms are shut down, armed security will still be on the premises.”

  “Hopefully they’ll have their hands full with the civilians and the art we’ll be scattering all over the place.”

  “According to Veittsreig, I presume?” Rick pressed. “He shot a security guard in Paris. He’ll do it again. I hope you realize that.”

  “I’m not stupid, Rick,” she retorted, the heady buzz of adrenaline already pulling at her. “The cops know what he’s capable of. They’ll be ready. That’s the whole point of me telling Gorstein. Remember?” He continued to look skeptical, and so, sending him her best don’t-mess-with-me look, she shoved away from the table. “I need another soda,” she snapped, and stomped out of the room.

  As soon as she was gone, Richard sat forward. “When do you think they’ll call her in?”

  “Within the next two hours, would be my guess. That way they’ll have time to make last-minute adjustments with no chance of anybody getting the word out to anybody else.”

  “No honor among thieves?”

  “Not with those guys. Man, I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “You’re not the only one.” Rick lowered his voice further. “As soon as she leaves, you and I will have a few steps of our own to take.”

  Walter furrowed his brow. “What kind of steps?”

  “Steps to make certain our girl stays alive. Are you in?”

  The ex-fence offered his hand. “Oh, yeah, I’m in. All the way.”

  Rick shook it. “Good.”

  Just as Samantha would do what she had to, so would he.

  As an art collector, the thought of anyone tossing priceless artworks about for the sake of causing a distraction made him queasy. His feelings about the methods of Veittsreig’s crew, though, didn’t matter. Once the authorities began to materialize throughout the museum, her fellows would realize they’d been set up. They would turn either on Martin or on Samantha, or both. As far as he was concerned, Martin was on his own.

  But no one in the FBI or Interpol would blink if any of the thieves should end up dead, and whatever Detective Gorstein might be hoping, his people were not going to be anything remotely close to in charge. Which left Walter Barstone and himself. And after what he’d overheard of the conversation between Walter and Sam a few minutes ago, nothing—nothing—was going to happen to Samantha if he had any say in the matter. Therefore, he would take steps to make certain that he had a say.

  When Samantha returned to the library, soda in hand, Walter climbed to his feet. “If you two don’t mind, I’m going to go see if I can catch the news. Make sure none of the local stations are doing ‘A Day at the Met Museum’ or anything.”

  “Chicken,” Samantha said, setting down her drink and going back to work on the half dozen little gadgets Walter had brought her.

  “Are you going to tell me what those are for?” Richard asked after a moment, watching her.

  “They’re so I can trigger an alarm on or off from a short distance away,” she said, labeling them A through F with pieces of duct tape and a permanent marker. “That way I can kind of control when the rest of the museum knows that something’s up.” She flashed him her quicksilver grin. “Hopefully.”

  “My offer still stands to sweep you off to the Bahamas, you know,” he commented. “You can bring the wig.” He’d seen her climb walls and cut through windows, but while he’d known she had technical expertise, seeing it was something new. And fascinating.

  “I know. I’ll let you sweep me back to Palm Beach when this is over with. How’s that?”

  So she could get back to the security consultation business she didn’t particularly like. “It sounds very good to me,” he said anyway.

  When she finished whatever she was doing with the remote controls and receivers, Richard helped her load everything she needed into her backpack. And to think, a few months ago he never would have believed that aiding a woman—his woman—in preparing for work would include packing wire cutters, a mini blowtorch, twenty yards of copper wire, an electronic splitter, and infrared binoculars, among other things.

  He could see in her expression, hear in the excited tremor at the edge of her voice, how she felt about the coming job. It terrified him, but at the same time he could certainly understand it. “Do you want a peanut butter sandwich to go in there, too?” he asked, indicating the backpack.

  “The other thieves would laugh at me.”

  “We can’t have that.”

  Richard wanted to touch her, to haul her off to the bedroom and strip her naked, to remind her that he could arouse her just as much as a good B and E. Right before the moment of concluding a business deal, though, he would have hated the distraction, the threat to his focus. And since in her case focus could very well be all that kept her alive, he wasn’t going to do anything to risk dulling hers.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “I pace around and get cranky until meeting time.”

  “How likely is Veittsreig to alter his plans at the last moment?”

  “I’ve never worked with him before, but this whole thing is so seat-of-the-pants I’m not sure what he could change and still have it work. The basic plan will stay the same, at any rate.”

  “What if he—”

  Her phone rang, with a theme that sounded familiar but he couldn’t quite place. Richard frowned as she pulled the cell out of her pocket.

  Samantha glanced up at him, grinning. “It’s from The Terminator,” she said, and flipped the phone open. “Hola.” She listened for a minute, her face expressionless. “Will do,” she finally said, and closed the phone again.

  “Well?”

  “It’s a go. I have to leave now.”

  Now that the moment had come, he wanted to change his mind. His male ego and desire to possess warned him not to let her leave, to keep what was dear to him close by and safe. He took a deep breath.

  “Be careful,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her up against him.

  She lifted up on her toes and kissed him, warm and worried and excited all at the same time. “Just be there when I make a run for it.”

  “I will be. Count on it.”

  With a wink she slung the backpack over her shoulder and headed for the stairs. “I love you, Brit.”

  That was twice now she’d said it without being prompted by him. And it wouldn’t be the last time, either. “I love you, Yank. See you soon.”

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday, 4:41 p.m.

  While beneath a stand of trees Bono/Eric and Dolph speculated in German over whether either of them had enough money to tempt her away from Rick and into bed, Samantha, Martin, and Nicholas pretended to be tourists a few yards away. Martin spoke German, as well, but apparently the conversat
ion about her virtue didn’t bother him. “Four minutes,” Veittsreig said, tapping his thigh the designated number of times for the benefit of their companions.

  From Martin’s expression he might have been waiting for his turn at playing chess. The Germans looked a little smug, but that was nothing new for them.

  “Are you ever going to tell me who we’re pulling this job for?” Samantha asked.

  Nicholas shook his head. “You’ll get your money. That’s as close as you need to get.”

  “You’re making me feel left out. At least tell me if he’s getting the Hogarth, the Picasso, and the jewelry on top of everything else.”

  Martin laughed. “He can’t not get one of them.”

  “Martin, please. A little discretion.”

  “She is part of the team, Nicky.”

  “No. The only reason you know is because you helped me get the Hogarth.”

  The buyer couldn’t not get one of them. Did that mean he already had one of them? And not the Hogarth, because Martin had helped with that one.

  “Look, she’s trying to figure it out.”

  “Shut up, Bono.” Samantha blew out her breath. She had more immediate things to be concerned about right now. Only three minutes left. She’d just run out of time. “Nicholas, could I talk to Martin for a second?” she asked. “We have this thing we do before a job when we’re working together.”

  Veittsreig took a draw on his cigarette. Unfiltered. Blech. “You’re not getting nervous are you, Sam?”

  “I’ve been out of the game for a few months,” she retorted. “Let me talk to my dad, okay?”

  “Sure. No talking about our buyer, Martin.” With a loose grin, Veittsreig strolled over to join the other two members of the team. Wulf was already in their fake SWAT-mobile, waiting to pick them up when they exited the museum.

  “Martin,” Samantha began, “how are the—”

  “What are you doing,” he interrupted, “letting a hack like Nicky think you’re nervous about a job? How many times have I told you never to let anybody see you sweat?”

  “I don’t care what he thinks. How are your friends today?”