Billionaires Prefer Blondes

by Suzanne Enoch

  “That is not—” Patricia’s shrill voice broke off. “He hasn’t been, has he?”

  Oh, good grief. “Patty, whether you ever take anything else I say seriously or not, right now I’m suggesting that you dump Locke.”

  “Humph. I can’t wait to give you the same advice when Richard finally gets over his infatuation and relegates you to the same place he put me.”

  “Thanks for the words of wisdom,” Samantha returned, refraining from telling Patty that Rick had hired help so he could spend more time with her.

  “Yes, well, I’m extremely displeased with all of this.”

  “And I’m having breakfast. Goodbye, Patty.”

  “Patric—”

  She hung up the phone and tossed it back to Rick. “Sorry if you wanted us to get along,” she said.

  Rick snorted. “I’ll settle for the two of you staying very far apart, my love.”

  As he attempted to dial again, the front doorbell rang. Great. It was probably the FBI. Her heart beginning to accelerate, she bent over to retie her shoelaces. First the footage, then Patty, and now the front door. It could be a coincidence, but she wasn’t willing to bet her freedom or her life on that.

  “Are you going to answer the door?” Rick asked, putting his hand over the phone.

  She stood. “I’m going out the back window. I’ll call you from Delroy’s, and you can tell me whether it’s safe to come back or not.”

  “I’ll call back,” he said into the phone, and tossed it onto the couch. “Samantha, you’re a good guy. Anybody who sees that couldn’t think otherwise.”

  “Right. You may have the charter membership in my fan club, but I don’t want to wear handcuffs again. Ever.”

  He stood, grabbing her arm as she reached the hallway. “Wait here,” he said gruffly, as the bell rang again. “I’ll get the door. You…go stand by the back window. If it’s bad I’ll say something about the Yankees.”

  For the moment she set aside the thought that if he helped her escape, he could very well be the one to end up in prison. He knew that as well as she did. So instead she gave him a swift kiss and ran into the master bedroom for the backpack she always kept close by—the one that contained everything she would need if she ever had to make a run for it.

  Downstairs the front door opened, and she made out the mutter of male voices. Nobody was saying “Yankees,” but she nevertheless pulled the hall table out from beneath the window and slipped the lock open.

  “Samantha, could you come downstairs for a moment?” Rick called.

  Okay, either it was safe, or it was very bad and he needed help. With a grimace she chucked the backpack under the hall table and headed for the stairs.

  “We’re in the sitting room.”

  Rick didn’t sound worried, but then again it took more than a little trouble to bother him. Walking on the balls of her feet, still ready to move in any direction, she leaned into the doorway.

  Phil Ripton sat on the couch, Rick in one of the chairs opposite him. A third man, small and wiry and looking like he hadn’t slept over the past day or so, sat beside the attorney.

  Good. She could outrun these guys. “Hi, Phil,” she said, stepping into plain view.

  All three men stood, led of course by her Sir Galahad. “Phil’s here on a bit of unofficial business,” he said, gesturing her to join them.

  Everybody sat again as she did. “Unofficial? What kind of unofficial?” she asked.

  “Sam, this is Joseph Viscanti. Joseph, Samantha Jellicoe. Joseph is the—”

  “The director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Samantha finished. Just great. If he wanted her to apologize for messing his building up a little, he could forget it. Officially she hadn’t been there.

  “Phil and I play tennis together,” Viscanti said in the quiet, mild voice of a librarian. “And so I happened to know that he does some work with Addisco.”

  With great speed the conversation began a slide from worrisome to boring. “That’s great,” she said with a fake smile. “According to the news, you had quite a day yesterday, I would imagine.”

  “Yes, I did. Thankfully no one left the premises with anything, though we are going to have to make some repairs to the paintings that were sliced out of their frames.”

  “If I might ask, it seems like you have a lot of things to take care of. What are you doing here?”

  Viscanti cleared his throat. If he wore glasses, she imagined he would be taking them off and cleaning them right now. “This is a bit awkward, but I’ll be up front with you. Being in the business I’m in, I’ve heard things. I know of your reputation, Miss Jellicoe.”

  Rick shifted. “We all know that Samantha’s father was a cat burglar. That does not mean that she had anything to do with—”

  “Oh, no, no. That’s not why I’m here. I know that you’re working as a security consultant, and that you’ve had a great deal of luck finding other people’s lost artworks. I wondered whether you might be…interested in recovering a Renoir that was stolen eight months ago from our artifact storage area. We managed to keep it quiet, but our insurer determined that it was an inside job, and refused to pay.”

  For a bare moment Samantha felt as though she’d been struck by lightning. A retrieval. She’d heard of a few people who worked in the field, mostly on behalf of insurance companies. Not many, though, and not for long.

  “As you said,” Rick put in, his hard voice pulling her out of her reverie, “Samantha is a security consultant. She is not, and has never been, involved with breaking and entering. Not under any circum—”

  “How much information do you have on the theft?” she interrupted, her voice shaking a little with anticipation she couldn’t conceal. Christ. She felt like she’d just taken on a complicated B and E: the same shivers, the same deep, heavy rush of adrenaline.

  “I have a two-inch-thick file I can messenger over to you if you’re interested. The museum would be willing to pay eighty thousand dollars for the recovery of the painting.” Viscanti’s gaze shifted to Rick. “I’m not implying anything, Mr. Addison. This is merely an inquiry about whether Miss Jellicoe might be interested in assisting the museum or not.”

  “I’m interested.”

  “Saman—”

  “If you could get that file to me sometime today, that would be great,” she continued, rising. Rick’s temperature was rising, too; she didn’t have to look at him to know that. So she needed to get these guys out of here before he blew it for her.

  “You’ll have it this afternoon.”

  Both men and Rick climbed to their feet, and she led the way to the front door. “It was great to meet you, Mr. Viscanti. I’ll let you know what I’ll do.”

  “Thank you.”

  She closed the door behind them, then went back to sit on the couch. Retrieval. Hot damn.

  “Sam.”

  Rick leaned against the doorframe, his dark blue gaze meeting hers. “What?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  She took a slow breath. “You don’t like what, exactly?”

  “You doing this job for Viscanti.”

  And just like that, he wanted to shoot her in the damn foot. The first cool thing that she’d found to do with herself in the legitimate world, and he’d decided after five minutes that he didn’t like it. Pushing to her feet, she stalked up to him. “It’s too bad it’s not up to you, then, isn’t—”

  “Tell him no,” he cut in flatly, his voice sharp and precise.

  “No? Are you fucking nuts? I am not—”

  “Sit down.”

  “I am not g—”

  “Sit down!”

  She folded her arms, glaring at him. He glared straight back at her, his expression, unlike hers probably was, unreadable. “Fine.”

  Stomping back to the chair, she sat. Her hands clenched into fists, and she hoped he would order her to do just one more thing.

  He took the seat Viscanti had evacuated. “I’m not ordering you to do anything.”
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  “Like I need your fucking permiss—”

  “Will you shut up and let me say what I’m trying to say?”

  “Sure,” she returned sarcastically, sinking back in the chair. “Go ahead.”

  “Thank you.” He took a breath, exhaling slowly. “I know you want to do this. You’re practically panting at the thought of doing a burglary for a good cause.”

  Rick stopped, obviously waiting for her to interrupt, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He’d said he wanted to finish, and she would damn well let him. Then she would let him know exactly what she was thinking.

  “I just want you to think about it for a minute,” he finally continued. “I don’t doubt that you’re skilled enough and smart enough to do this, and to be successful. But if you recover the Renoir, word will get out. To other museums, to people who’ve been robbed, and to the people who did the robbing.” He sat forward, touching her knee with his fingers. “You’re the one who said you weren’t certain how you would feel, crossing your old associates. For you, security consultation is kind of a way around that. It’s—”

  “It’s me putting up a ‘No Trespassing’ sign,” she agreed reluctantly. “If they cross it and get caught, it’s their own fault.”

  He was right; going in and stealing from thieves was a much more direct confrontation. It would mean she had to decide where she stood, once and for all. And Rick had realized that, even if she’d been so excited at the thought of a B and E that she hadn’t.

  “Wow,” she said quietly. “This is big.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Samantha looked at his handsome, concerned face for a long moment. If she took this job, her old B and E associates would know about it. Maybe she’d be offered more of them, and maybe she wouldn’t. That part wouldn’t matter, though, because if she did it once, she would never be able to go back. None of her old associates would ever trust her or work with her again.

  “If I did this, it could get dangerous.”

  Rick nodded. “Your life at the moment isn’t precisely what I would call boring.”

  “I didn’t mean just for me.”

  “I realize that.”

  “So you would be okay with it.”

  “It’s not up to me.”

  “But you would be okay with it,” she repeated.

  “I would be worried, but yes, I would be okay with it. The question is, however, would you be okay with it?”

  “Yes. I think I would.”

  “You ‘think’ you would.”

  She closed her eyes, waiting to feel uncertainty, or dread at the thought of being trapped into this life. It didn’t come. Samantha opened her eyes again. “I know I would like to do this,” she said quietly.

  “That’s what I wanted you to be certain of,” Rick said, sliding out of his chair to kneel at her feet. “Because I think you would be a smashing white hat.”

  Samantha leaped forward, swept her arms around him, and gave him a very sound kiss. “You totally rock.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Epilogue

  Tuesday, 2:21 p.m.

  “But we would still be in the security consultation business,” Aubrey Pendleton said, sitting at the reception desk of Jellicoe Security in Palm Beach, Florida.

  “That would still be the majority of our work, at least to begin with,” Samantha returned, sipping at her can of Diet Coke. “Stuff with the kind of value that museums and owners would be willing to shell out big money to get back won’t come around every day. Top-ticket items don’t get stolen every day.” She shrugged. “We may not get any other jobs like this one, at all. But I want you to be ready for them, if we do.”

  Aubrey smiled his charming, Southern smile. “This is quite exciting, Miss Samantha. We’d be kind of like Robin Hoods.”

  “Like hoods, anyway,” Stoney said more skeptically from his seat in the reception lounge.

  “I’m not asking for a vote.” Samantha turned to face him. “But if you don’t like it, don’t mess around with being sarcastic. Just tell me.”

  “I’m just wondering what you’re going to do if this does work out, and you get a call from some guy missing a Mayan crystal skull or something. Do you take that job?”

  She knew what he meant. The crystal skull had been one of her jobs. She’d stolen it, and if she took it back from the person who’d bought it from her and Stoney, she’d pick up a shitload of enemies in addition to her generally disgruntled former associates.

  “I guess we take that as it comes,” she said. “A case-by-case decision.”

  “And Addison is backing you up on this.”

  “Yes, he is,” Rick’s polished British accent came from the doorway. He walked into the reception area, closing the door behind him. “I have the feeling it’s either this or buying her a cannon to be shot out of.”

  She smirked at him. “And you’re here because…”

  “Tom’s bringing his car around to take me to lunch. I came to invite you.”

  “No, thanks. Having an office across the street from Donner is bad enough. I’m not going to eat with him any more often than I have to.”

  “Okay.” He walked over and kissed her softly on the mouth. “I’ll see you later, then.”

  “Okay.”

  The office phone rang, and Aubrey picked it up. “Jellicoe Security. Good afternoon.” He paused. “Just a moment.” Hitting the hold button, he looked up at her. “I have a John Robie on the phone for you, Miss Samantha.”

  Her heart stopped beating. Stoney had lurched to his feet, but he would recognize the code name. “Put it through to my office,” she said.

  “Samantha?”

  Rick stood in the reception doorway, from his expression realizing that something was wrong. “Do you have a minute?” she asked.

  He closed the door again and gestured for her to lead the way. “Of course.”

  In her office, she hit the speakerphone button. “I still think John Robie’s a little obvious, Martin.”

  Slowly Rick sank into the seat facing her desk.

  “Maybe, but it’s got style,” her father’s voice came, echoing a little in the room. “You have me on speaker. Why? Who else is in there with you?”

  “Rick.”

  “Pick up the phone, Sam. This is family business. Private.”

  “Rick’s family. And you’re not playing me again. What do you want?”

  “You did me something of a favor, I guess,” he said after a moment. “Interpol’s satisfied, anyway. But the next time you try to pull one over on me, I’m not going to be very happy.”

  “Allow me to give you the same warning.”

  “That was just another lesson for you, Sam. I did teach you everything you know.”

  “No, you taught me everything you know.”

  He chuckled. “That’s what you think. Addison, keep your eye on her. She’s pretty clever.”

  “That’s what I love about her,” Rick put in coolly.

  “I think you should know, Martin, that I’m going to be working with the Met Museum to recover some paintings stolen by somebody who actually got away with it.” It probably wasn’t wise to taunt him, but his plan might very well have gotten her killed.

  “That’s a damn foolish thing to do. I was going to suggest that my wasting my whole clean slate on the straight life would be a shame. We could work together again, like old times.”

  She felt Rick’s gaze on her, but kept her own eyes on the phone. “I don’t want old times, Martin. I want new ones. You just might want to avoid doing anything that could put the two of us in direct conflict.”

  “The only thing I can guarantee, Sam, is that you’re Daddy’s girl. Walking the straight and narrow might be fun for a while, but in the long run, it’s not in your blood. You’ll figure that out, soon enough.”

  The phone clicked dead.

  “He’s wrong, you know.” Rick stood and moved to her side of the desk, squatting at her side.

  She look
ed down at him. “I’m glad one of us is sure about that.” Samantha cleared her throat. “I mean, hell, if I’d made a deal with Interpol, I could be retired with a whole new identity, and a whole new opportunity to make bad. I could be blonde, even.”

  “Will you stop with that? I like auburn hair. I like your hair.” He paused. “And I trust you,” he said more quietly. “Speaking of retirement, though, what kind of plan does this new business venture of yours offer?”

  Samantha flashed him a smile. “It doesn’t matter, because I have a rich guy on the hook.” She slid out of the chair onto the floor and kissed him.

  A rich guy, and an exciting new chapter of her life beginning. Hell, what could go wrong with hiring a former thief to recover stolen works of art?

  About the Author

  A native and current resident of Southern California, SUZANNE ENOCH loves movies almost as much as she loves books. She once appeared on an E! special, Star Wars Is Back, as an expert on the romance in the Star Wars movies. Other highlights include winning her third-grade spelling bee, receiving an E.T. poster and T-shirt in an alien-inspired poetry contest, and submitting a script for The A-Team (which was not why the series was cancelled).

  When she is not busily working on her next novel, Suzanne likes to contemplate interesting phenomena, like how the three guppies in her aquarium became 161 guppies in five months.

  Suzanne loves to hear from her readers,

  and may be reached at:

  c/o Lowenstein-Yost Associates

  121 W. 27th St., Suite 601

  New York, NY 10001

  Or send her an e-mail at suzie@suzanneenoch.com.

  Visit her website at www.suzanneenoch.com.

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  By Suzanne Enoch

  Contemporary Titles

  BILLIONAIRES PREFER BLONDES

  DON’T LOOK DOWN

  FLIRTING WITH DANGER

  Historical Titles

  SOMETHING SINFUL

  AN INVITATION TO SIN

  SIN AND SENSIBILITY