“I don’t. But I’m not going to forget anything, either. Where’s my cell?”
It wasn’t worth arguing about what she chose to call her accommodations. But he could change his mind about which room he would give over to her. Richard led the way upstairs to the second floor. “You’ll find some clothes in the closet and appropriate toilette items in the bath.”
“Your ex-wife’s?”
His jaw closed over a retort. “I frequently entertain visitors on short notice,” he said instead. “I’ve found it prudent to keep a few extra items about to make certain they’re comfortable here.”
“Not defensive at all about that failed marriage thing, are you?”
He was beginning to get the feeling that she didn’t miss anything. Well, he was fairly observant, himself. She followed him down the hall to the suite at the far end. Unable to help a small smirk, he pushed open the door. “Here you are.”
As Sam brushed past him, he leaned in to smell her auburn hair. Raspberries. Very nice. And surprisingly hot.
Halfway into the room, Samantha stopped, and he watched as she took in her surroundings. Off to her right the gleam of tile and mirrors would give hints of a huge bathroom, while open double doors on the left revealed an oversize bed draped in cool green and gray. A small balcony stood outside the wood and glass doors straight ahead, with a set of curving red stone steps leading down from it to the grotto pool. In the central sitting room, green overstuffed furniture in the English Georgian style invited her to sit in front of the fireplace or watch the plasma television set into the wall above it.
“This would be the green room?” she asked after a lengthy silence.
He grinned. “Actually yes, it would be. Do you like it?”
She nodded, a genuine smile on her lips. “It’s nice.”
“Why don’t you find something to wear suitable for a barbecue, and I’ll be back for you in a few minutes,” he said, pleased that the room pleased her.
“Are you going to lock the door?”
“Would that stop you?”
Her lips twitched. “No.”
“Then I won’t bother.”
“I’ll change, then, if you take that off.” She tweaked his tie. “It makes me nervous.”
“I doubt anything makes you nervous,” he returned, the quick touch of her fingers against his chest stirring him farther down. Yes, he’d bloody well figure her out. And soon. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“And don’t take anything. I know.”
He tossed the room’s key onto the coffee table, figuring she would feel more secure with it in her possession. The master key remained in his pocket. With a slight smile he headed down to the opposite end of the hall toward his office.
This was certainly more interesting than purchasing a failing cable television station, as he’d been scheduled to do this week. Damn. He would have to push back some meetings—if he had been the bomb’s target, he didn’t want to put anyone else in danger. And he wanted to concentrate on Samantha—and their agreement.
Seven
Friday, 6:18 p.m.
Samantha had observed enough powerful, ego-driven businessmen to know that this was all something of a game for Richard Addison—especially where it involved her. She could play to that, if she needed to. But all she really cared about at the moment was getting the police focused away from her, and away from Stoney, so they could escape Florida for a while and so she could avoid being hunted down for murder.
Stoney. She desperately wanted to call him, to find out if the police were doing more than tapping his phone. Whether they’d had assistance or not, they’d found him within two days. But Walter Barstone had worked on the shady side of legal, as he put it, for thirty years. He hadn’t done that, and made quite the living at it, by being careless. Which meant that somebody was talking.
Lips pursed, she looked at the phone sitting on the bed stand. It would certainly confuse matters if they traced a call to Stoney back to Addison’s estate. As her illustrious host had said, though, at the moment she was safe. She wouldn’t risk it. Not yet, anyway.
She found the walk-in closet in the huge bedroom and dug in. Wearing a dress and heels was something she did with regularity, usually when she had the opportunity to case a house or other establishment. Nice things were usually kept in nice places, and she needed to blend. Skirts and pumps hampered her movements, though, when she was actually working. And even if she wasn’t stealing anything tangible tonight, she was definitely working.
Apparently most of the guests who stayed in the green room came without their own bathing suits, but toward the back of the closet she found some sweats and T-shirts and even a few glittering evening gowns and a tuxedo. He expected her to relax, and so she would look relaxed. Half-closing the closet door, she pulled off her dress. Folding it carefully, she slid it into her purse, then yanked on a plain blue T-shirt and a pair of yellow shorts just long enough to cover the bandage high up on the back of her thigh.
A couple of boxes of athletic shoes in varying sizes lined the floor, but she opted for flip-flops. They fit her relaxation theme for the evening, and from the way Addison had been looking at her legs, the more of them she left exposed, the better. Tonight the name of the game was distraction. Besides, being ogled by a guy that good-looking was doing nice things for her ego—and several of her body parts.
Taking a moment to more closely admire the suite’s tasteful furniture and artworks, she wandered to the glass doors leading to the balcony. The grotto pool below glinted in the lingering sunlight, with the near side shaded by overhanging palms and birds-of-paradise. On the left, closest to the west wing of the house, stood a large brick barbecue grill surrounded by an artistic grouping of wrought-iron patio tables and chairs.
So she was going to eat steak grilled by a billionaire. Weird—and not even close to what she would have expected. She stayed out of prison by figuring people out quickly, and Addison frustrated her. Rich men didn’t do manual labor. She wondered whether his staff knew that he liked to barbecue. Probably. The police probably didn’t, because who would suspect that a man who could afford to buy a country would like to stand out by his pool and flip his own steaks? Not her, until today.
Frowning, Sam pushed open the double doors and strolled out to the balcony. The evening breeze coming in from the ocean felt cool and comfortable against her bare legs, and she took a deep breath. The tension knotted into her shoulders didn’t ease, but she was growing used to the sensation.
Her flip-flops smacking against the bottoms of her heels, she went down the red stone steps to the pool deck. She was being an idiot, taking unnecessary risks. But with this alliance, Addison had gone from being the only witness against her to being the only man who could help clear her, and until that happened she didn’t want him dead. Etienne had nearly killed him once, and she couldn’t afford to assume that he or someone else wouldn’t try it again.
The barbecue was Spanish-style brick and stone, with a stainless-steel grill across the top and a steamer hood to one side of the main unit. The gas was off, as it should have been, and she knelt to reach under the unit and feel along the pipe. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect; the bomb in the gallery had been clever but hastily rigged, and easy to see if you knew where to look. She knew next to nothing about explosives except for the opening-a-safe or popping-a-dead bolt variety, but she did know a great deal about subterfuge and misdirection.
The pipe jointed smoothly up in the direction of the coal box, and she stood again. With a grunt of effort she lifted off the grill and dug her hands into the dusty coal, shifting chunks aside to run her fingers along the igniter.
“Put your hands where I can see them, and do it slowly.”
Shit. Sam closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly withdrew her blackened hands from the barbecue. She should have known better than to trust anyone. Ten miles from her car and her gear, she couldn’t do much more than kick off her flip-flops and make a run for it—and hope
that whoever was behind her had poor aim.
“Turn around.”
Her hands still well away from her sides, Sam turned. Cop, she thought instantly. Plainclothes, detective, probably homicide. And no doubt he had her description written on that little notepad in his jacket pocket.
“Are you carrying a weapon?”
She shook her head, forcing her brain into action. “I work here,” she offered, keeping her voice low and calm. “Nobody checked the barbecue, and Mr. Addison wants to grill tonight.”
“Didn’t you use the same story the other night?”
Sam frowned, her heart pounding. “What are you talking about? Have we met?”
“Move away from there and lie face down on the deck, fingers interlocked behind your head.”
Sighing, she pasted a mildly annoyed look on her face. “I’ll get coal in my hair.”
“I’m not gonna say it again.”
As she knelt on the stone deck, she spied Addison coming down the balcony stairs. For his sake, it was a good thing the cop had a gun. Nobody played her. She couldn’t believe he’d done it so easily, fooled her so quickly. She obviously hadn’t been thinking with her head. The handcuffs the detective pulled from his belt with his free hand sent a shudder of panic through her. She’d never been caught before.
“Detective Castillo,” Addison said, stopping at the foot of the steps, “it’s all right.”
“It is now,” Castillo grunted. “Stay away from here, Mr. Addison. I’m calling in the bomb squad to check your barbecue.”
So Addison hadn’t been the one to turn her in. “That’s what I was doing, you idiot,” Sam snapped, immediately returning to her act. “Will you please tell him, Mr. Addison?”
“She works for me. You suggested I get private security, and I hardly have much faith left in Myerson-Schmidt. I had Donner hire her for me.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
The detective slid his gaze sideways, eyeing Addison. “She’s your security. Dressed like that.”
“Well, yes.”
“You don’t mind if I do a little check on her, do you?”
“I gave all my references to Mr. Addison,” she put in, deciding to lay it on as thickly as possible. “Are you cleared to be here, Detective?”
“This is my investigation. And I would like to see those references for myself.”
“Of course, Detective Castillo,” Addison broke in. “In fact, I insist on it—though I’m completely satisfied with her credentials. You might want to call William Benton, at—”
“Bill Benton the spook?”
“Ex-CIA. We play golf together. He recommended her.”
For the first time, Castillo looked uncertain. With another dour look at her, he holstered his gun. “Fine. I’ll need her name.”
Shit. Better the devil you kind of know than somebody you didn’t know at all, she decided, sending another glance at Addison. He’d come through for her—this time. “Samantha,” she answered, her mind racing. Being connected to Martin Jellicoe might hurt, or it might help, since she evidently hung out with ex-CIA. “Sam Jellicoe. I actually specialize in security for valuables, but I’m branching out.”
The detective gazed at her sharply, his hand straying back to his weapon. “Jellicoe?”
She drew a breath. Man, she hated guns. “I’m his kid. Making up for Daddy’s bad ways, you might say.”
“I didn’t know he had a kid.”
“I’m the white sheep of the family. Nobody talks about me.”
The two of them looked at one another for a long moment, each assessing and distrustful, until Addison stepped between them. “Anything else, Detective?”
Rubbing a finger along his moustache, Castillo shook his head. “No. But if you’ve got a record, Miss Jellicoe, I’ll be back. And I’ll be keeping an eye on you, regardless.”
“Good. I’m looking to expand my fan club,” she returned, watching the detective as he spent another few minutes in low-voiced conversation with Addison and left the patio, heading for the main drive. Not until he was out of sight did she return her gaze to Addison. “You were supposed to clear me, not make me into two people.”
He shrugged. “It’ll give us some time. Who’s your father, Samantha Jellicoe?”
“None of your damned business, Rick Addison,” she bit back, rattled. Jesus. In five minutes the entire Palm Beach PD would know who and where she was. And ten minutes after that, Interpol would have her name and location.
“Now, now, what about trust?”
“I’ll talk about him when you talk about your ex-wife. Deal?”
Addison’s gaze hardened. “That’s not—”
“Never mind that,” another voice growled from behind her. As she whipped around, startled, Donner grabbed her by the elbow. “What the hell were you doing down here?”
“Let me go,” she snapped.
“Tom—”
“If you want to lie to the cops that’s one thing, Rick. But she was down here, alone, up to her elbows in the barbecue. I saw her. We both did. And I want to know what the hell she was up to.”
Sam took a steadying breath. Good questions, but she was not in the mood. Not with the lawyer. “I’m going to ask you once more to let me go,” she muttered, stilling under his hard grip.
“And I’m going to ask you once more, what the hell were—”
Pushing toward him, Sam sank down and swept her left leg into the back of his knees. As soon as he was off-balance she yanked backward and heaved up. The attorney went over her shoulder and into the pool, headfirst.
“Karate?” Addison asked calmly, folding his arms and ignoring the roar of splashing and curses coming from the pool. His gray eyes danced with amusement.
She’d noticed it before, but the Brit was one seriously good-looking man. “I’m just mean,” she returned, and headed up the steps. “I’m going to wash my hands. And your barbecue’s fine, as far as I can tell. I didn’t think anyone would have checked it.”
He’d bought her some freedom with the stupid private security story, but he hadn’t cleared her. On the other hand, unless Addison wanted to look like a complete idiot and possibly find himself charged with interfering in a police investigation, he had tied his own hands as well.
Sam elbowed open the bathroom door and stuck her filthy hands into the green marble sink. Now they were both neck deep in crap, and she was staying for grilled steak. A deal, after all, was still a deal.
When she came back down to the pool, the deck was deserted. A dripping-wet trail ran from the shallow end to the other set of steps, which led, she remembered from the blueprints, to a hallway lined with other bedroom suites, ones not as large or as elegant as hers. Yep, Addison liked her. With a small smile she dragged one of the wrought-iron chairs around, so her back wouldn’t be to Donner’s refuge, and took a seat.
The humidity always eased in the evenings as the breeze picked up, and she took a deep breath of air scented with jasmine and sea. Over her shoulder amid the scattered planting of birds-of-paradise and low begonias, a frog began chirping. Nice.
A young, Cuban-looking man walked around the side of the house toward her. “Would you care for something to drink?” he asked in a light accent.
“Iced tea?”
“Straight or fruity?”
“Raspberry, Reinaldo,” Addison’s voice came as he emerged from one of the ground-floor doors opening onto the pool deck. “For both of us. And a Coors for Tom.”
The strain was gone from her face, but he wouldn’t precisely call her relaxed. To the casual observer she probably looked completely at ease, but as a fellow game player he could see the veriest bit of an edge to her. He wondered if she ever completely relaxed.
“Harvard’s still here?”
“Tom doesn’t discourage easily. He’s changing.” And making another phone call to Bill Benton, improving on the details of Samantha’s story now that she had a last name. It was costing him Dolphin season ti
ckets and a nice suite at the stadium, but he never had much time—or inclination—to attend the games, anyway. English football—now that was a sport.
“I’m not apologizing to him.”
He hefted the tray he carried onto the barbecue. “He shouldn’t have grabbed you. How do you like your steak?”
“Medium.”
While he started the barbecue, Reinaldo came back with their drinks. Richard couldn’t help a grin as Samantha took the Coors and moved it to the table farthest from where she sat. He also noticed that his iced tea was allowed to stay where it was, next to hers. Taking advantage of that fact, he made sure the coals were lit and took the seat beside her.
“Will Castillo find that you have a record?” he asked, sipping his raspberry tea.
She eyed him, obviously weighing whether or not the answer was any of his business. “No. Nothing definite, anyway. I work for museums and galleries. Legitimately.”
“Good. That’ll make things a little easier.”
“What things?”
“Clearing your name and figuring out what happened here. What did you think I meant?”
She kicked her bare toes against the table leg. “I’d like to see your security room.”
Studying her over the rim of his glass, he wondered whether Donner was right, and he was thinking with the wrong body part. Showing a thief his security system, giving her access to the video and sensor controls, was insane. But he needed to keep her there unless he wanted to sit back and let Castillo do the work. “Very well. If you’ll show me exactly how you got in here the first time—and the second time.”
“I’m not starting a breaking-and-entering school, Addison.”
“But the second time you didn’t leave any signs of entry. Our bomber may have entered the same way.” He frowned. “Why didn’t you go in that way the first time?”
She shrugged, as if the answer was so obvious she couldn’t quite believe he’d asked the question. “Target location. Cutting through the patio window the other night was faster, and I was dodging security guards.”
Flirting With Danger Page 7
