“Get out, Ernest!” he shouted, grabbing Samantha back inside and kicking open his side door.
They tumbled out, diving behind the guardrail beside the river as the truck roared by them, smashing the limousine again, and continued on down the road. Richard stumbled around and half fell beside Samantha, who held the paint gun cradled in her arms as though her life depended on it.
“Are you all right?” he asked, pushing back her hair, trying to keep his hands from shaking.
“I’m fine. You’re white as a sheet.”
He kissed her, hard and deep. “That’s twice I’ve almost lost you,” he grunted, turning to find Ernest vomiting over the side of the road. “Ernest?”
The driver waved a hand at him. “Okay. Just bloody scared.”
Two-toned police sirens came into hearing, and Samantha stiffened. “Shit. I can’t go anywhere with you,” she said, putting her finger through a hole in his light jacket.
“Give me the gun,” he ordered.
“But—”
“This is my town,” he said, “and my car. I can be a paint gun enthusiast if I want to. The fewer questions about you, the better.”
She handed it over. “Okay. But your town sucks, so far.”
With his free hand he gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Very clever, by the way. I didn’t know you’d brought your gear.”
With a weak smile she brushed a shard of broken glass from his collar. “I never leave home without it. Rick, I think Dr. Evil knows we’re here.”
Sometimes you just couldn’t catch a break. Sam sat in a hard-backed chair in her second police station in less than twenty-four hours while Rick gave his statement to the officer in charge. They’d believed him about the paint gun, and she hadn’t had to do more than give her name—though handing over even that small amount of information gave her the willies. England was full of stuff she’d either stolen or at least been asked to relocate.
The police didn’t seem that surprised that someone would want to kill Richard Addison, and she remembered what he’d said about receiving threats before. Apparently they had both found themselves in dangerous lines of work.
He walked between the glass-and-metal partitions and returned to her side. Sam had to stand up and hug him, both because she’d realized how much she’d come to rely on him over the past few days and because the only thing she’d been terrified about in the limousine had been that he might be hurt.
“I should take you to see the police more often,” he said into her hair, slipping an arm around her waist as they headed for the door.
“We can go?”
“Of course. We’re the victims, here. No possible explanation why someone would try to send us into the Thames.”
“Yale’s gonna be really mad he missed this, now.”
With a quick smile he grabbed their scant luggage and led her down to the curb where a taxi waited for them. He’d already sent Ernest off in one, evidently realizing the poor guy was in no condition to drive. Giving directions to his town house off Cadogan Square, he sat back and cradled her against his shoulder, carefully, as if he thought she might break.
She felt ready to. Taking risks on her own was something she’d become used to, but she always knew where they were coming from, and she weighed the odds before she decided whether to leap or not. Grenades in doorways and rampaging trucks were new, and so was the idea that it wasn’t just her own life at risk, not just herself she needed to protect. And whether it was idiotic or not, the man sitting beside her seemed determined not to let her vanish into the safety of the night.
“I’m afraid we’ll be on our own in the house,” he said conversationally. “The police have already been through it with bomb detectors, but I’m not sending for any of my staff until this is resolved.”
“When are we going to see Meridien?”
If he noticed the “we,” he didn’t say anything about it. He probably expected it, by now. “No sense going now. He’ll still be at the office with dozens of people I don’t want overhearing our conversation. We’ll go this evening. He’ll be home in time to catch the football match.”
“Works for me. And it’s soccer.”
Her case and her knapsack had crossed the Atlantic with her, and they now rode behind them in the cab’s trunk with Rick’s things. If he didn’t own the town, as he’d claimed, he at least had some pull here. The police had even given him back the paint gun, minus the remaining pellets.
He owned the building’s penthouse, and while it looked nice if nondescript from the outside, once they went in she had no trouble recognizing it as his. Expensive wood beams crossed the ceiling, and in the dining room the chandelier looked to be sixteenth century, fitted with electricity to replace the candles.
“Sorry it’s so small,” he said, throwing his jacket over a Louis XIV chair. “I gave Patricia the big London house and bought this one.”
“Yeah, it’s tiny, but it’s homey,” she said with a grin, gliding her fingers over the frame of the Georgian china cabinet. “Why not give this one to her and keep your house?”
He shrugged, disappearing into another room and emerging with a chilled can of soda for her. “I didn’t want to live there any longer.”
“Is it close by?”
“About three miles. And no, we’re not going over to say hello.”
“I didn’t say we should. I just wanted to know.” A thought occurred to her. “Did you leave any artworks there?”
His half-amused expression faded into a frown. “No. Why?”
“Just wondering whether Danté might have been busy there, too.”
“Not likely. I stripped it of all my things, including the antiques. Most of them ended up over here, or in Florida. They were the only houses I wasn’t…finished with outfitting.”
“Did you leave them any furniture?”
His smile reappeared, grimmer this time. “A little. Late-model Ikea.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” she said, not for the first time, and wandered to the windows. The view was nice, though a hundred and fifty years ago it would have been stunning. London always vaguely disappointed her; for a place with so much history crammed into it, it looked so…ordinary, now. And so modern. There were parts of it she liked, the museums and the historical buildings, but she’d never had much of a chance to visit those.
“Hey.”
She turned around, and he flipped a British silver pound at her. She caught it reflexively, examining it in the wan remains of sunlight. “What’s this for?”
“Your thoughts.”
Rick would know if she lied. “My thoughts are kind of jumbled right now,” she said quietly, pocketing the money. “Tonight or tomorrow, this could be over.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” he returned, joining her at the window. “I’m not usually away from Devon for so long. Would you like to see the house there?”
“What are you really asking me, Rick?” she said quietly.
“I’m asking if you’d like to spend more time with me, in Devon.”
She wanted to. It would be so easy just to fall into his life. After the first few days or weeks, though, she’d just be his appendage, his toy, until he got tired of her, and until she got tired of being normal. No purpose, no work, no job—because she certainly wouldn’t be able to resume her usual nighttime activities if she was living with him.
“Looks like I need to get some more money,” he said, gazing at her. “Don’t answer now. Just think about it.”
“Okay,” she answered, because she didn’t want to tell him no. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Any kind of hint, though?”
“Rick, don’t push—”
The phone on the end table rang. They both jumped, then with a muttered curse Rick picked it up. “Addison.”
As the person on the other end of the line spoke, his face closed off—but not before Sam saw the anger and the remains of a deep hurt there. Patricia, sh
e guessed, not surprised when he said her name a moment later.
“It just happened a few hours ago,” he said in a short, clipped voice. “I’m not responsible for what the BBC chooses to broadcast on the news, and no, I don’t think I need to inform you when I’m going to be in town.”
He listened for another moment, then drew a breath. “The woman in the car with me isn’t any of your business either, Patricia. I have another call coming in. I’m hanging up now.”
Sam stifled a smile. She’d never been involved in this sort of conversation before, with the ex-wife jealousy thing. Interesting. And a little flattering.
After a few seconds his expression grew more annoyed. “No, I don’t want to meet for dinner. I’m here on business. Yes, with her.”
Leaning back against the windowsill, Samantha found herself wishing she could hear precisely what Patricia Addison-Wallis was saying. Because from Rick’s responses and the way she’d learned to read people, she had the feeling that Patricia still had a serious thing for her ex-husband.
“No, not lunch or breakfast either. I’m here with someone, and you’re married. I take the vow seriously.” He paused. “For God’s sake, Patricia—I’d call it more than a mistake. Isn’t Peter there? Good—go complain to him. I’m not in the mood for this.”
Sam shook herself. As deeply interested as she found herself in the conversation, it really wasn’t any of her business. “Where’s the bathroom?” she asked quietly.
He gestured, and she left the room. The bathroom was all white tile and gold fixtures, and she remembered that she badly wanted a shower. Slipping out again, she headed for the sitting room and her knapsack.
“Yes, it’s serious,” Rick was saying, and she stopped just inside the hallway. “She’s…she takes my breath away. No, I’m not going to compare you. Christ, Patricia, I’ve moved on. I’ve found someone else. And so have you, supposedly. So—”
Thud. Sam hurried back to the bathroom and locked the door. Breathing hard, she fought off her first-ever panic attack and leaned her forehead against the cool tile counter.
He’d found someone. He’d found her. In the back of her mind she’d known, but now she had to acknowledge that their partnership, this game, had changed drastically. He was serious, and so was she—or she wanted to be, but wasn’t quite sure how to do it. She didn’t know how much of herself she could give up to be with him, or how much of a new, improved Samantha he would even like.
“Samantha?” Rick knocked on the door. “Sam? Are you all right?”
“Fine. Just jet-lagged and truck-smashed. How’s Patricia?”
“Nosy. I’m going to throw together a sandwich, then I think we’d better go. We’ve been on the news, so Harry will know I’m in London. Fanatical as he is about football—soccer—I’m still not sure he wouldn’t leave town before the end of the match.”
“Okay. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Do you want something to eat?”
“I don’t suppose you have peanut butter and jelly.”
“No, but I have jam.”
“Smart ass.”
He couldn’t know what she’d overheard, but that probably didn’t matter. He’d asked her about Devon, and he probably knew the question had unsettled her, so he was trying to distract her. What that meant admitting, though, was that Rick was braver than she was.
“Rick?” She pulled open the door.
He reappeared in front of her. “I can send out for jelly if that’s what you really want.”
“You said Peter Wallis had disappointed you. What did Patricia do?”
“Other than the obvious?” For a long moment he looked at her. “Patricia had a plan. She wanted a set number of things: money, nice house, elite circle of friends, invitations to exclusive parties. I made the plan possible.”
“But you asked her to marry you.”
“I thought she fit into my plans.” He shrugged. “I could claim ignorance or something I suppose, but that wouldn’t be true. Plans change, Sam. After a short, happy beginning, what I needed wasn’t her, and what she needed wasn’t me.” He touched her cheek. “Come on, and I’ll make your sandwich.”
“I’ll be right there.” Sam ducked back into the bathroom. Plans. Plans did change, didn’t they? But how much, and for how long? She paced for a few minutes, then splashed cold water on her face and went to go have a sandwich.
Just after dusk Richard pulled out of his garage with Samantha beside him. The BMW had barely been driven before now, but it turned over easily enough, and he had the satisfaction of having Sam call it his “James Bond car.”
Being Tuesday evening in London on a game night, traffic was fairly light. He couldn’t help his abrupt impatience, even though he didn’t think Meridien would bolt from a possible confrontation. In all fairness, Harry wasn’t much for panicking.
He was one for being ruthless, which was why Richard had dumped a Glock 30 into his jacket pocket. He shouldn’t have had a pistol in England, and if he got caught with it, much less using it, he’d be in a large amount of trouble. This, however, was not a typical business meeting with a potential partner, and he wasn’t going in unprepared.
They parked around the corner from Meridien’s town house. The neighborhood was quiet, occupied mostly by retired couples now, who’d grown older with the houses around them.
“Is that it?” Samantha asked, as they reached the corner.
“Yes.”
“Which floor is his?”
“He has the whole bottom floor. Harry doesn’t like stairs.”
She continued to gaze at the tower of flats. “Bottom floor, and he might be expecting you. I say we go in through a back window.”
“I’m going in through the bloody front door.”
“Fine, you go in the front, and I’ll go in the back. Maybe I’ll find the tablet.”
“Samantha, I don’t want you breaking the law.”
“You’re breaking the law,” she said, tapping his jacket pocket. “I’m helping.”
“Damn, you’re frightening, sometimes. You do notice everything.”
She scowled. “Don’t change the subject, Brit. This guy stole from you.”
“What happened to serving revenge cold?”
“Forget it. A truck tried to crush me. I’m mad now.”
He caught her hand as she started through the nearest hedge, her case in tow. “You were trying to steal from me, too, Samantha.”
“Yes, but I never pretended to be your friend or business partner while I was doing it.”
And someone had said there was no honor among thieves. He followed her around through the narrow alleyway and up to the back of the house. Lights were on, and he could faintly hear an announcer calling the match. And Chelsea was ahead, which would keep Harry’s attention.
Samantha tried the back door. It was locked. “Give me two minutes,” she whispered, pulling a copper wire from her pocket, “then make as much noise as you want around front.”
This wasn’t how he wanted to play it, but she had a point. Sam could probably find more answers her way than he could beat out of Harry. Leaning down, he brushed his lips against hers. “Be careful.”
She grinned. “You, too.”
He watched until she inched open the door and slipped inside, then made his way around to the front of the house. He didn’t quite wait the entire two minutes, because he didn’t like the idea of Sam being in there by herself. Taking a step back, he slammed his foot into the door. It rattled and cracked open, one of the hinges breaking. Shoving it aside, he strode into the front hallway.
“What the devil is going on there?” the familiar voice of Harry Meridien bellowed. “I have a cricket bat, so you’d best get off before I call the police!”
“Call ’em!” Richard yelled back, striding forward.
He turned the corner as Harry stalked into the hallway, cricket bat raised. “Rick? What—”
“Hello, Harry. Surprised to see me?”
“Wha
t the hell are you doing? You broke my door!” Tall and thick, Meridien had been a hell of a cricket player a few years ago in college.
Richard offered him a grim smile, his blood heating. He almost hoped Harry would go after him with the bat, so he’d have an excuse to beat the shit out of him. “You stole my tablet,” he replied.
“I what?”
“You wanted me to stay an extra day in Stuttgart,” Richard continued, snapping his hand out to grab the cricket bat. He tossed it into a corner. “Was that to protect me, or to make sure you got what you were paying for?”
“I have no idea what—”
“Three people are dead, Harry. I suggest you consider very carefully what your story’s going to be.”
“Rick, you’ve gone mad.” Harry’s face darkened. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but you have no right to break into my house and threaten me! I—”
“Rick!”
At Samantha’s yell he turned and sprinted down the hallway. “Samantha?”
“In here. You’ve got to see this.”
He found her in Harry’s office. The desk drawers all hung open, and from the appearance of the bent letter opener in her hand she hadn’t been too careful with the woodwork. She held up a photo. “Gotcha,” she said with a grim smile.
The tablet. It looked to be a duplicate of one of the insurance photos. For a brief moment, he wanted to catch her up in his arms and shout. They’d been right. And that meant Harry would know who Mr. Big—Dr. Evil—was.
Meridien loped into his office, his face red and glistening with sweat. “Get the hell out of my house, Rick. You and whoever she is. Now.”
“I have a better idea,” Richard snarled. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me a story?” Grabbing the photo, he waved it at Harry. “A very good story. With names and everything.”
“You—she—could have put that there. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe not to the police, but it does to me. Now sit down, Harry, or I’ll take you down.”
For a moment the big man blustered, complaining about not being able to trust anyone. Then he sank into the plush chair beside the door. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Flirting With Danger Page 31
