|
BILLIONAIRES PREFER BLONDES
by
Suzanne Enoch
Chapter One
Tuesday,
2:17 p.m.
Samantha
Jellicoe liked New York City. Hell, she loved it, just like the song
said. Her verses would go a little differently than Sinatra’s, though.
She would croon about how the wealthy citizens lived in basic insecurity
amid the huddled masses, how all the cars were taxis and handily all
looked the same for timely escapes, and how everyone had so much of
their own crap going on that they couldn’t be bothered to notice anyone
else’s.
And for
people like her, who made their livelihood by slipping in and out of
places while not being noticed, that made it very close to heaven.
Or she used
to make her living by slipping through the shadows and snatching up
other peoples’ very expensive belongings. Not any longer, though. She
was now retired from that business. R-E-T-I-R-E-D. Retired. Which didn’t
explain why she was currently standing on the doorstep of one of the
influential elite. No, she hadn’t entirely retired. Now she was being
legit. She had a day job. Yay, her.
With a
slight, professionally-considered tilt of her head, she smiled and shook
the hand of Mr. Boyden Locke. "Glad I could be of help, Boyden," she
said, "and thank you for the coffee."
He held onto
her hand for a moment too long, undoubtedly his way of letting her know
that he was interested in more than her advice. As if she couldn’t have
told that from the way he’d chatted with her boobs for the past forty
minutes. Mr. Locke probably had no idea what color her eyes were.
"No, thank
you," he returned. "In my position, it’s impossible to be too cautious.
I know the house is badly in need of a security upgrade, but I wanted to
make sure I found the right person to handle the job."
Somehow he
made the commentary seem vaguely obscene, but Samantha smiled anyway.
She had more than a hunch that her being the right person for the job
had more to do with the man with whom she was currently living than with
her credentials. But if being associated with Rick Addison brought her
business, then so be it. "I’ll write up my recommendations and get them
over to you."
"And I’ll
have my people look them over. And you’re welcome to come by for coffee
any time."
Samantha
forced her lips to curve further. "I’ll keep that in mind. You should
have my invoice in the next week or so."
She
retrieved her hand and sidled out his door. Once in the clear, Samantha
dug into her purse for a tin of Altoids mints. "Coffee. Blech," she
muttered, popping a pair of the wintergreen flavored tabs into her
mouth.
Apparently
she’d do anything in the name of expanding her business, if she had
lowered herself to drinking – okay, barely sipping – coffee. At the
corner she turned around and surveyed Locke’s house again. Old, elegant,
and definitely located in the correct area, she could see why he’d
called to meet with her about his security situation practically the
second her flight had landed at La Guardia. A few years ago she’d hit
the house three doors down from him. The Monet inside had netted her a
quarter million, and Locke had two paintings each worth more than that
one just in his drawing room.
His security
system was pretty standard, alarms on the doors and windows and sensors
on the artwork. For a moment she was tempted to break in through the
back door just to show Boyden Locke how much he really did need her
services. She could get out of the house with his Picasso before he had
time to pour himself another cup of coffee. With her luck, he’d probably
think she was coming onto him, though.
The phone in
her purse rang, interrupting her reverie over the semi-good old days. At
the familiar sound of the James Bond theme, she grinned. "Hey, stud
muffin," she said, with her free hand waving down a taxi.
"Your
meeting went well, then," a cool masculine voice replied in a slightly
faded British accent.
"You could
tell that from three words?"
"Yes. Good
is those three words. Bad is five words."
She
chuckled, stepping forward as a yellow cab stopped at the curb. Pulling
open the door, she slid in. "Madison and Sixtieth," she said, shutting
the door. "Which five words?"
"Usually it’s ‘get off my back, bub,’ as I recall."
"Yeah, but that’s not always about business."
He gave an unaccustomed snort. "Samantha Jellicoe, I dare you to come
over here and say that to me."
Her mouth went dry. All he had to do was hint about sex, apparently, and
she practically had an orgasm. "Randy much?" she joked.
"You have no idea. I actually called, though, to see whether we were
still on for dinner tonight."
"I wouldn’t want to wreck your surprise."
"I do appreciate that. You’re going shopping?"
Samantha resisted the urge to check the cab for hidden cameras. "Which
word gave that away?"
"Madison Avenue, darling. Buy something sexy. And red."
"I wouldn’t have to keep buying red if you would stop wrecking them.
And, I have to say, that wardrobe would hardly be appropriate for
Pauly’s Pizza."
"I am not wearing a tuxedo to Pauly’s Pizza. We’re not even going to
Pauly’s Pizza."
"Since you won’t tell me where we are going, then, I’ll see you
tonight," she said, and clicked the phone closed.
The taxi stopped and she stepped out onto Madison Avenue before she
realized that she’d forgotten to ask Rick how his meeting was going.
"Shit," she muttered, reaching for her phone again. She dialed his cell.
"Addison," his voice came, cool and professional.
Oops. "You’re back in your meeting, aren’t you?" she asked, swearing at
herself. Of course he would have called her at his only spare moment.
"I am."
"Sorry. I just wanted to find out how it was going. How about saying
‘merger’ for great, and ‘stock options’ for fucked?"
For a moment the line was silent. "Merger," he finally said, humor
lacing his deep voice.
"Good. I’ll see you tonight."
"Certainly. We’ll talking about our stock optioning then."
This time he hung up first. She was getting a little better at the
couples thing, anyway, though after five months of living with Rick
Addison she probably shouldn’t have to remind herself that when he
called her, he would be interrupting his own business to ask about hers.
Well, there was one way to make up for her slip. "Sexy and red," she
murmured, walking up the street and heading into Valentino’s.
Two hours later she stood in an alley behind an elegant Manhattan
townhouse, her shoes and a very slinky red dress tucked up into a ball
beneath her tasteful yellow blouse.
Hm. Four o’clock in the afternoon trying to get into a house that opened
onto Central Park wasn’t exactly something for a rookie, but then she
hadn’t been a rookie since she’d turned seven and her father Martin
Jellicoe had started taking her out for pick-pocketing excursions to the
park in whichever city they happened to be.
The butler and two maids and the chef were inside the house, but she had
learned their schedule over the last couple of days. At the moment Dr.
Phil was on, and they’d be in the kitchen, watching. As for the
townhouse’s owner, he was in his Manhattan office a mile away, meeting
about buying something or other. With a slight smile she pulled the pair
of leather gloves she always carried out of her purse, slung the handbag
across her neck and under one shoulder and Spider-manned her way up the
old, rough brick wall to the fire escape. Breaking into Locke’s house
might be out of the question, but sometimes an itch just needed to be
scratched. And she was fairly humming with bored frustration.
Hiking herself over the railing, Samantha trotted up the metal stairs to
the third floor. The window at the end of the hallway was shut and
locked, of course. Because it was off the fire escape, it was alarmed,
as well. The trick, then, was to keep the circuit from being broken.
Pulling a metal nail file from her purse, she dug out the silicon seal
from around the bottom center panel of glass in the window.
Before she loosened the last bit she took the small roll of duct tape
she always carried and wrapped a length of tape backwards around her
hand. Laying her gloved palm flat on the glass she made sure she had a
good contact, and then gouged out the last bit of sealing with her free
hand. The glass panel came free, attached to her glove palm by the tape.
She set it aside, picked up the nail file again, and reached inside the
window. Pushing the file in under the frame, she secured it with another
piece of tape, then leaned up and in to unlatch the window. Two seconds
later she was inside the house.
Samantha took a moment to frown. That had been far too easy. Somebody
was definitely due for a security upgrade.
Easy or not, the adrenaline surge took a little of the edge off of
nerves that had spent the past two days being polite to people who kept
snapping her picture and staring at her chest. Humming to herself, she
pulled off her gloves and strolled to the upstairs office to help
herself to a Diet Coke from the fridge inside. Halfway through the door,
though, she stopped dead.
A dozen men and women in typical high-class business attire sat around
the room, facing the man who stood at the center. In almost cartoon
unison everybody turned to look at her.
Crap, crap, crap. "Hi," she said. "Excuse me. Wrong door." Backing out
the again, she closed the door behind her.
She was halfway down the stairs when the door opened again. "Samantha,
stop right there."
"I’m sorry," she returned, stopping on the landing to face the house’s
owner. "You said you were at your damn office."
Richard Addison. British billionaire, businessman, collector,
philanthropist, body like a professional soccer player, and eyes bluer
than sapphires. And after five months he still apparently had an
incurable woody for one former thief. Hot damn.
"And you were shopping." He descended the stairs after her, stopping to
lay a palm on her stomach – or where it was under all the padding. "You
look good plump."
Yep, he still thought she was cute, bulges and all. "I had a burger for
lunch."
"And apparently several large buildings, Godzilla."
"Ha, ha. It’s my dress and shoes." She lifted her blouse to pull the
bundle out from under her clothes. "I told you I went shopping."
Those deep blue eyes lowered to the bag. "You did buy red."
"You suggested it. But that was when I thought you were at your office,
which you apparently weren’t."
"I was," he countered, taking the bag from her and draping it over the
bannister. "We were on Extra last night."
Samantha scowled at him. "You see? And you said we’d just slip out of
the airport, ‘quiet as church mice’." She imitated his slightly faded
London accent as she spoke, noting the responding twitch of his sensuous
lips.
"Yes, well, apologies. Anyway, half of New York decided to give me a
call today to welcome me back. I got tired of it, so we relocated here."
"That’s your fault, for being so handsome and rich and famous." She
grinned at him. "Just don’t try to cancel on me for dinner or the
auction tonight."
"So you know where we’re going."
She flashed him a grin. "Ben asked me when we wanted the limo tonight. I
wheedled it out of him."
"Sneak."
"That’s me, all right."
"So are you wearing that dress, at least?"
"That’s why I bought it."
Rick edged closer, sliding a hand around her waist and drawing her up
against him. "All the better for me. No one will be able to take their
eyes off you long enough to bid on any of the artwork."
"Everybody dresses up for Sotheby’s evening auctions."
"Not the way you do." He kissed her, soft and slow. It made her knees
weak. "Tell me how you know about Sotheby’s evening auctions."
"I haven’t hit Sotheby’s in three years, if that’s what you’re
implying." Well, two, anyway, if she counted the one in London.
"Mm hm. I’ll be finished in the office by six." He leaned down and
kissed her again, bending her spine back just to let her know that he
meant it. His hand crept up beneath her blouse, sliding along the bare
skin of her stomach.
Her toes practically curled. "Okay," she returned, forcing her mind back
to matters at hand. "I’m going to grab a snack, then fax Stoney and take
a shower." She brushed his hand away, slipped out of his arms, retrieved
her dress, and continued down the stairs.
Deep satisfaction swirled down her spine to mingle with heady arousal as
he headed back up to his office. Ha. She’d done it. This was the third
time now she’d broken into one of his houses, and this time he hadn’t
caught her. He hadn’t suspected a thing.
"Samantha?"
Damn. She looked back up to the head of the stairs to see him gazing
toward the far window with its missing pane. He had good vision, but
hell, not that good. "Yes, Rick?" she said, echoing his tone again.
Never give anything away. That was one of the thieves’ rules as quoted
by her dad to her on a regular basis until Martin had ended up in prison
and then dead just over three years ago.
"There are a dozen coats and two briefcases in the entryway," Rick was
saying. "How did you pass them by without realizing I was here with
company?"
"I was distracted. Have fun with your minions."
"And why would you walk through the front door and up the stairs with a
dress wadded up under your blouse?"
"My hands were full."
"With that missing window pane up here, by any chance?"
Okay, once discovered, distract. "Rick, I–"
He descended the stairs again. "You broke into the house."
"Maybe," she hedged, backing down to the first floor. "What if I just
forgot my key?"
Rick joined her at the foot of the stairs. "You might have knocked at
the front door. Wilder is here, and so is Vilseau," he said, tilting his
head at her, his eyes growing cool.
He hated having her try to pull one on him, whatever the circumstances.
Samantha blew out her breath. At least she knew when to give up. "Okay,
okay. Boyden Locke talked to my boobs for forty minutes while I sold him
on some security upgrades for his townhouse. And then I went shopping
for the dress, and I just kept noticing . . . things."
"What things?"
"Cameras, alarm systems. Everything. It was making me crazy. Plus we’re
going to an art auction tonight, and I was just feeling a little . . .
tense. So I decided to subvert my bad self by busting in somewhere. I
picked a safe place."
"And I caught you again." He reached out, curling a strand of her auburn
hair around his fingers. "The last time I did that, we broke a chair
afterwards, as I recall."
Technically this time he’d caught her well after the fact and because of
a huge mistake on her part, but as the raw, hungry shiver traveled down
her backbone she wasn’t about to contradict him. She drew her free hand
around the back of his neck and leaned in to give him a deep, soft kiss.
"So you want another reward, I suppose?"
He nuzzled against her ear. "Definitely," he whispered.
She was going to explode. "Why don’t you get rid of your minions, then,
and I’ll reward you right now?"
Rick’s muscles shuddered against her. "Stop tempting me."
"But I broke into your big old house. Don’t you–"
He pushed her back against the mahogany bannister, nearly sending them
both over it as he took her mouth in a hard, hot kiss.
Ah, this was more like it. There had to be something wrong with her,
with the way that even after five months she couldn’t get enough of him.
Thank God he had the same problem where she was concerned.
Still, the sooner he finished his meeting, the sinking logical part of
her brain said, the sooner they could get to Sotheby’s. Deep as her
hunger for Rick ran, that place was like a thief’s Mecca. Knowing the
special auction was taking place was the reason she’d agreed to abandon
her new security business in Palm Beach and join him in New York, though
she’d never admit it aloud.
His mouth crept down her to jaw line, and her legs turned to spaghetti.
"Stop, stop, stop," she muttered, probably so quietly he couldn’t hear
her.
He could. Rick backed off an inch. "I’m supposed to be the responsible
one. Not you, sweetheart."
"I know, but I’m getting hungry."
Rick narrowed his eyes. "For me, for dinner, or for the auction?"
"All three, Brit. Get back to your office and get rid of those guys."
"Give me an hour, Yank."
"You got it. Any more, and I’m going to dinner with the butler."
"No, you’re not."
With that he vanished back upstairs, quietly closing the door behind
him. For a long moment Samantha frowned up the staircase. Despite the
considerable distraction Rick represented, she needed to consider what
had just happened. Man, she’d screwed up. No, he hadn’t exactly caught
her, but the point was that he wouldn’t have known anything about her
window entry at all except for her own bumbling. Not that there was any
real harm in interrupting one of Rick’s meetings except for the
embarrassment factor, but she’d just waltzed into a room full of people
without having a clue that they were there. If she’d done that in her
previous life, she’d probably be lying on her back with a chalk outline
around her right now.
She grabbed an apple from the kitchen, probably offending Vilseau the
chef, then returned upstairs to the room beside the office. In the large
brown and black bedroom suite that she and Rick shared, Samantha flopped
backward onto the bed. She was getting soft. There was no reason to
argue with herself about that. The question was, did it matter any
longer?
Obviously as long as she stayed with Rick she couldn’t go back to her
old way of life. He was too high profile, and there was that sticky
issue of morality, plus the fact that he was chummy with far too many of
the people from whom she’d stolen artworks or treasures or antiques.
It was only the rush that she missed, the intense sensation of being
alive that came from sneaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be in
order to acquire things she wasn’t supposed to have. She didn’t keep
those things, but she had damned well enjoyed the money she got for
them.
Right on cue her cell phone rang, to the tune of Raindrops Keep Falling
on My Head. "I told you never to call me here," she said as she dug the
phone out of her purse and flipped it open.
"Where are you, then?" came the familiar voice of her ex-fence,
surrogate father, and current business partner Walter "Stoney" Barstone.
"‘Cause unless it’s the john, baby, I don’t remember you telling me any
such thing."
"I meant while I’m on vacation."
"You’ve never taken a real vacation in your life. And I just wanted to
find out how the thing with Locke went."
She blew out her lips. "It went fine. The guy’s a perv, but he’s loaded.
I’ll fax you in half an hour or so with the details so we can send him a
bill."
Stoney stayed quiet for a beat. "You sound real excited about it."
"Yeah, well, I kind of broke into the house here, and stumbled right
into the middle of Rick’s meeting."
"What the hell did you do that for?"
"Because I tried to go shopping earlier, and I cased every store I
walked into on Madison Avenue. It was giving me a fucking panic attack."
He had the bad manners to laugh at her. "Then stop shopping on Madison
Avenue, honey. There’s better stuff at the Metropolitan Museum of Art,
anyway. In fact, I know two guys who have open requests for anything you
can pick up by Renoir or Monet. We’re talking a cool half million for
each."
"Shut up. I don’t want to know about those people." Frowning at the
phone, Samantha rolled onto her stomach. "Besides, I never did museums,
if you’ll recall."
"I recall. What about Sotheby’s? Did you talk the billionaire into going
with you tonight?"
"It was his idea," she returned defensively. "And I’m keeping my hands
in my pockets. I’m just going to take in the view, and maybe to advise
Rick on artwork."
"Uh huh. Whatever you say."
"That is what I say."
"Fine, honey. I was just trying to help distract you from your crisis."
Samantha blew him a raspberry. "With friends like you, yadda yadda yadda."
"I love you, too, Sam. And hey, as long as I’m already interrupting your
vacation, those business cards we’ve been spreading around Palm Beach
have been paying off. Aubrey took three calls for appointments over the
weekend. One mansion, one art studio, and an attorney’s office."
Oh, good, more joy and excitement for her. "Blech. Go talk to ‘em,
then."
"They don’t want to take security advice from me, Sam. They want Rick
Addison’s girlfriend. The one who has fist fights with murdering
heiresses and lays the smackdown on guys who steal paintings from Rick."
"Christ, Stoney, you make me sound like the Masked Mangler or something.
I used my brain power, thank you very much." Of course on various
occasions she’d also ended up with a concussion and a bullet graze and a
series of other cuts and bruises, but hey, she’d won.
"Then that’s what they want. Your brain power. And you in person."
Three calls on a March weekend in Palm Beach, Florida wasn’t bad at all,
when she considered it. Most of the wealthiest part-time residents had
left for their summer homes, and the number of year-round residents was
tiny compared to the winter influx. "Did Aubrey tell them I was on a
business trip?"
"Is that what you’re calling it now?" She heard his sigh. "Yes, he told
them."
"Then we’ll schedule something when I get back. It’ll be another ten
days or so."
"Whatever you say. Just keep in mind that I’m not running this shit all
by myself. We’re partners, remember? And besides, I think Aubrey’s
getting kind of interested in me."
Samantha snorted. "You are pretty cute. Ten days. I promise. I’m trying
to be a good significant other."
"Then you’d better quit casing stores. Addison probably wouldn’t like
that."
He actually hadn’t seemed too upset, or even surprised. And she’d told
him, which had to count for something. "I’m hanging up now. Bye,
sweetie."
Groaning, she sat up again and strolled in to the bathroom to turn on
the shower. As if she needed Stoney to tell her that thievery wouldn’t
mix with her new life. Hell, she’d been straight for five months now –
and as much as it was so she could stay with Rick Addison, even more it
was for her. It was still so odd, to think of a life where she could
settle in one place and not have to wipe her fingerprints off every
doorknob in case the police or Interpol were following her, looking for
evidence.
She was in that new life now. Why, then, did she feel like she both
wanted to keep on her toes, and that she needed to? Old habits and all
that shit, she supposed. But to stop looking over her shoulder – that
would be harder than remembering to smile for the paparazzi.
Reviews
Affaire de Coeur
November/December, 2006
Billionaires Prefer Blondes
Suzanne Enoch
Avon
Mass Market
5 stars (Reviewer's Pick)
Samantha Jellicoe is attending a Sotheby's auction with her significant
other, Rick Addison, when she sees something impossible. Her father, Martin,
who died in prison, is still alive! She needs to know what Martin's up to
before she tells Rick anything; so she covertly arranges a meeting. Martin
never shows up, but when she gets home, she's arrested. One of the Hogarth
paintings that Rick won at the auction has been stolen, and Samantha knows
her father must be involved, but how can she protect him? As soon as Rick
gets her out of jail, she calls her old friend from her cat burglar days,
Stoney. She needs all the help she can get.
Sooner or later she'll have to tell Rick what's going on, but she puts it
off for as long as she can. Her arrogant, superior father involves her in a
dangerous situation with a crew of robbers. Their leader will kill Samantha,
Rick, and anyone else she loves if she does not do what he says. It's time
to involve Rick and do her best to keep her father and herself out of jail.
Suzanne Enoch's latest contemporary caper starring Samantha and Rick is a
hit! This thriller will have readers holding their collective breath as our
intrepid heroine fights her own criminal instincts while she deals with some
very dangerous characters. If you want a tale that takes you for a non-stop
roller-coaster ride, don't miss this book.
Heather Nordahl Files
|
