A Touch of Minx (24 page)

"Oh, pshaw," Stoney grunted, nearly flattening her with his breath. "Can't a guy even have a drink and consider his future in peace?"

"I think there's a lot of stuff going on in your brain right now, Stoney," she answered. "And I think you're not going to be able to tell me what the hell it is until you sober up. So let's get out of here."

"You can't make me."

Great. "Do you want me to pay your tab?"

He giggled. "I don't have any more moola on me," he whispered loudly.

"Then let's go before you wipe me out, too."

He pushed to his feet, none of his usual Hulk-Hogan-meets-Diana-Ross grace in the motion. She grabbed him under one arm and started him toward the door, Rick on his other side. Gigantor had gotten off the floor to sit in a chair with his knees tucked up to his chin. She knew she liked those shoes of hers for a reason.

"Hey, he's not leaving until somebody pays his tab," the Cuban-looking guy behind the bar, Felipe, she assumed, called out.

"I'll take care of it." Rick helped shift most of Stoney's clumsy bulk onto her shoulder, then headed for the bar again.

"Fuck," Stoney grumbled. "Now I'll owe the muffin."

"Pay him back tomorrow. Just stay on your feet until we get outside."

"Why can't I be a fence anymore?" he asked abruptly. "I don't want to do security. It sucks."

"You're preaching to the choir, pal."

They made it outside to the accompaniment of some whistles and a couple of catcalls, but no physical blockage. And hopefully nothing to send Rick charging after anyone. At least these guys were honest instead of going home and whacking off to her picture.

Ben and Rick reached them at about the same time, and together the three of them managed to stuff Stoney's rather large bulk into the back of the Mercedes. She and Rick climbed in behind him, and they headed for Solano Dorado.

"This is not the way to my house," Stoney announced.

"Tonight it is," she returned. "You're not leaving my sight until I know what's going on."

"What's going on is that I have to be good because you want to be good, and I'm old enough to be your damn daddy. Who made you the boss?"

"You-"

Rick put a hand on her arm. "You love her, Walter. That's why you chose to retire."

"You stay out of it, muffin," the fence rumbled. "English muffin."

Rick took a deep breath. "Perhaps you should tell him what we discovered about Gabriel Toombs."

"Not while he's like this," she answered. She didn't want to talk about it again at all, but as Rick had said, Stoney was family, and he had her back—usually—when no one else did. Except for the past week.

"Gabriel Toombs is a sneak," Stoney muttered.

"You're telling me." Okay, maybe this would be a good time to talk about Toombs, if Stoney wasn't playing it as close to the vest as he generally did. "How many times did I work for him?"

"Four times."

"Four?" she repeated, even though she knew the answer already. "Why did I only know about one?"

"Because I didn't tell you about the other three. He liked your style, he said, and offered extra if I agreed to have you, specifically, pull the other jobs for him." He snorted unpleasantly. "And I took it, because I'm scum."

"He knew my name?"

"Nah. I wouldn't tell him that. Toombs said you were worthy, like you were the next King Arthur or Queen Guinevere or something. The freak. But hey, ten grand extra is ten grand extra."

He'd sold her out cheap. "Did it occur to you that he might be setting me up with the cops or Interpol or something?"

"No way. I told him that if either of us got double-crossed on these jobs I would send the cops the recording I'd made of our conversations."

"Why do you think he wanted my services specifically?" she asked, having to stifle her gag reflex to say the words.

"He thinks he's a shogun or something," Stoney slurred, digging under the seat until he found the cooler and pulled out a bottled water. "You're like his personal samurai or ronin or something."

"A ronin doesn't have a master."

"You know what I mean, Sam."

"Has he gotten hold of you since we started Jellicoe Security?"

Stoney didn't answer. Instead he sat back and crossed his arms, glaring out the window. To Samantha that was a big fat yes, but she wanted to hear the details. Considering what they'd found in Toombs's turret room, it could be important.

"It's an important question, Walter," Rick said, echoing her thoughts.

"Maybe you should butt out of Sam's and my business." Stoney sent a glare over his shoulder, then faced the window again. "You think you're such a hot shot, but you're the one who wrecked everything. I bet you don't have any idea what kind of income Sam gave up to stay with you. Millions. And that's all I'm saying. Millions."

"Thanks, Stoney." Samantha frowned at his profile. "Any other shit you want to gab about? My bank account number? Where you keep your job files?"

"Fine," he grunted. "Eight months ago Toombs called me, and he says he's got it figured out, that you're the cat who pulled the other jobs for him."

"And what did you say?" Rick asked, his voice dipping into the deep monotone he only used when he was really mad or really worried.

"I said he was crazy! What do you think I said?"

"I think Rick means how did you explain your working with me in the security biz," Samantha said more gently.

Diplomatic and restrained as Rick was being—especially when she knew how explosive he could be—she was beginning to wish that she and Stoney had been able to have this conversation in private. They had their own shorthand, things they knew about each other and their world with its skewed code that Rick still had to ask.

"I said I helped raise you when Martin was working, and that I promised Martin I'd take care of you if anything ever happened to him."

She kissed his dark cheek. "And you didn't even have to lie."

He thumped his chest. "That's because I know what I'm doing."

"So he let it drop, then?" she prompted, before Rick could ruffle Stoney's feathers again. "His theory about me?"

"Well, first he tried to commission your services to steal something from a neighbor of his, but I told him again that you weren't a thief, and that I was retired."

"What did he want me to steal?"

"I don't know. Something for his collection."

"That narrows it down," Samantha said, sitting back again.

"Hm. Something Japanese and from someone close by," Rick mused. "Wouldn't it be interesting if—"

"No," she interrupted. "Because that would mean that he's known all along about the Picaults' theft, and it's too weird if he wanted to hire me to steal exactly what I'm planning to steal tomorrow."

"And nothing else in our lives has been strange and coincidental."

She sent him a brief smile. Yep. Life was strange and coincidental. With babysitting Stoney tonight she would miss her second chance at wrangling Clark the Anatomy Man, which meant she had to get it done tomorrow or explain why she hadn't to a ten-year-old.

At least she had all of her family back together and safe for the moment. Until tomorrow, anyway, when it would start all over again

Sunday, 10:48 a.m.

Richard rose from his computer and headed toward the back of the house. Somehow in his determination to convince Samantha to do something about the garden, he hadn't anticipated how loud the results would be.

"Christ," he muttered, as he walked into the library. Yes, the house was nearly a hundred years old in places, but the walls and windows should have somewhat cushioned the sound.

"How do you think I feel?" Walter Barstone muttered from in front of the window. He clutched a cup of coffee in his hands, his chocolate-colored skin tinged with gray.

"Walter. I didn't know you were still here."

"Sam wants to talk to me. Which I assume means yell at me." He took a sip of coffee. "And I can't remember where I left my truck."

"Somewhere down by Felipe's, I would guess." Rick made his way over to stand at a neighboring window. Where his pristine blue-bottomed pool had been, a brown morass of mud and half-removed concrete lay obscured by a tractor and a backhoe and some other construction lorry he couldn't recall the name of. "Shall I send my driver to look for it?"

"No. I'll take a cab down there once I get paroled from here."

"Samantha said you were a gloomy Gus when you drank. That extends to the hangover, I see."

Walter eyed him. "You're lovin' this, aren't you?"

"Excessively. And you owe me eighty-five dollars."

"Eighty-five bucks? I didn't drink that much."

"No, you drank fifty dollars' worth. The rest was a tip and to convince Felipe not to contact Entertainment Tonight to tell them that Samantha and I visited his establishment."

"Felipe sold out cheap."

"He also thought I was someone named Brad Hillier, apparently the star of a soap opera."

Walter snorted, then pressed his free hand against his temple. "So it sucks to be famous, but it sucks even more when they don't recognize you."

"It's quite the quandary." Richard waited for a moment until the noise from the thing breaking his concrete in the remaining corner of his pool subsided. "Did Samantha tell you why we were questioning you about Toombs?"

"Because you figure him for the armor heist."

"Because we went into his house yesterday morning and found a locked room plastered with articles and photographs of Samantha." The cup dropped out of the fence's hands. "What?"

"Yes. Apparently Mr. Toombs has been stalking her for most of the past year, and following what he presumes to be her career for approximately the last three years. The four items you arranged for her to steal for him are on granite pedestals in the middle of the room."

"That sick fuck," Walter whispered, his already ill-looking countenance turning chalkier. "That son of a bitch."

"My thoughts precisely."

Barstone faced him. "You seem pretty cool about it, actually, Addison," he said, his voice shaking.

"Yes, well, I've had nearly a day to dwell on what I intend to do to Wild Bill Toombs." He kept his own tone crisp, but he couldn't help the growl as he said Toombs's name. Dwelling, imagining, anticipating, whatever he chose to call it, when he finished with Gabriel Toombs the bastard would not look at another female, much less Samantha, ever again with anything more than a sad regret. At least he surmised that the removal of Toombs's genitalia would have that effect.

"I'll kill him," Walter was muttering, his sightless gaze on the deconstructed pool area.

"Not if I get to him first." Rick walked over to the work table and buzzed the intercom for Reinaldo. "We've had a slight coffee spill in the library," he informed the head housekeeper. "And could you bring a fresh cup for Mr. Bar-stone?"

"Mr. Stoney? Right away, sir."

"Sorry about that," the ex-fence returned.

"No worries."

"Where's Sam, anyway?" Walter asked.

"In the shower."

Taking a breath, Rick rejoined him at the window. He needed to take this step sometime. Now, when they were partially on the same side, would probably be the best moment he would find. "I'm a traditional fellow," he began.

"Are we still talking about Toombs?" Walter asked.

"No."

"Then save it until my head stops trying to explode. We can fight then."

"Traditionally, I would approach a lady's father for this."

Barstone turned around to face him full on. "Huh?"

"Under the circumstances—under any circumstances, actually," Richard continued, ignoring the protests and the suspicion and surprise, "I know she considers you to be more of a father than Martin is. I do, as well."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm asking for your blessing, because I intend to ask Samantha to marry me."

Walter sat down rather hard on the deep window sill. "Holy cow."

That was better than no fucking way, Richard supposed, though an immediate agreement and a warm handshake would have been ideal.

"Does she know?"

"She knows I want to marry her, yes." Did she know that he still intended to propose? That was a horse of a different color.

"What if I say no fucking way?"

Ah, there it was. "I didn't ask for your permission."

Richard said more evenly than he felt. "I asked for your blessing."

"So why bother to ask me, if my answer doesn't matter?"

"It matters."

"What matters'?" Samantha said, strolling into the room with two cups of coffee and a Diet Coke on a tray in her arms.

"I asked Reinaldo—"

"I snagged the refreshments from him, and sent him off for some of Hans's fresh-baked brownies."

"I thought you preferred the brownies from New York," Rick murmured, taking the tray from her and kissing her at the same time.

"We don't talk about that where Hans might overhear," she whispered back, removing a coffee from the tray and handing it to Walter. And both kinds are very fine, anyway."

"You're in a good mood," Walter observed, looking from Richard to Samantha.

"Why shouldn't I be? My guys are both here and safe, and I don't have a hangover."

"Very funny, smarty pants." Barstone kept his gaze on her as she took the soda off the tray and popped the tab. "Rick told me about Toombs's house."

"Yeah? Great. I wanted to tell you, to make sure you know that I don't think you or I did anything wrong. We've had clients request my specific services before."

"Maybe, but I should have told you when he showed up at the office and wanted to hire you for a break-in."

"Yes, you should have," she agreed. "Why didn't you?"

"You were in Paris with the English muffin, and I thought

I'd handled it. If I'd had any idea that he was taking photos of you, honey, I would have—"

"I know."

"What did you do with the pictures?"

Samantha frowned. "We left them there. I'm looking for stolen armor, and I didn't want Toombs talking about how his house was broken into. And I didn't want him to call the cops and have them take a look at my photos and those articles on thefts sitting all nice and cozy next to each other"

"What if you'd still been a thief? What would you have done then?"

For a long minute she looked at her former fence. "If I was still in the game and I didn't have a reason to keep my B and E a secret from him, I would have burned his house down, starting with that room."

The calm certainty with which she said it startled Richard, even though he'd said the same thing himself yesterday. She'd put on a white hat, as she liked to say, but he doubted that dark, dangerous side of her, the one that knew she needed to look over her shoulder or she'd get jumped from behind, would ever go away. Like last night when the behemoth biker had confronted her, and he'd been ready to rush to her rescue. Instead she'd dropped the fellow before he could take more than a single step.

"That's my girl," Walter said with a grim nod.

Bloody wonderful. Good old Walter was back to remind her how much easier things had been during the good old days. "Samantha," Richard said aloud, "Walter and I were just in the middle of discussing something. Will you give us another moment?"

"Sure. But don't go anywhere, Stoney. I need to talk to you, too."

"Lucky me," the fence grumbled.

Once Samantha left the room again, Richard went over and quietly closed the door behind her. "I wish you wouldn't do that," he said.

"Do what? Drink your gourmet coffee?"

"Encourage her to do things like burn people's houses down. There are other ways of… seeing to things (hat don't lead to arrest for arson." For the moment he ignored the fact that he wanted to castrate Gabriel Toombs. He hadn't said that out loud, at least.

"I told you before. I support Sam in whatever she wants to do. Unlike you."

"Yes, well, that's because I want her to have a long, happy, free life of the not-in-prison variety."

"With you.

"With me."

"Why not just leave things like they are, then? I'll admit, she's been pretty happy since she met you" Barstone took a sip of his coffee. "Except for the time she got shot and that time she got arrested. Gosh, that all happened after she moved in with you."

"And the git following her career and pasting it on his wall started before she met me. And the files with Interpol and the FBI just waiting for a photograph or a fingerprint to go with all the evidence they've been compiling since her career began. I had nothing to do with that. Are we really going to compare lives, Walter?"

"Marrying her won't turn her into Lady Addison."

"Lady Rawley, actually. And I think that's between Samantha and me. I just wanted you to know."

"I thought you wanted my blessing."

"That, too, but I can live without—"

"Okay."

Richard closed his mouth again. "Okay?" he repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

"Okay. I give you my blessing." Walter twirled his hand in the air, a very poor imitation of a royal salaam.

Deeply surprised, Richard took a drink of coffee to give himself a moment to mentally reposition himself. ""Why the abrupt turnaround?"

Barstone lifted a thick eyebrow. "I gave you a thumbs-up. Do you really want to know why?"

"Yes. I do."

"Fine. She started talking about retiring a couple of months before she met you. But pulling another job or two was still more interesting for her than anything legit she was doing. She could get away with that for another couple of years, but ultimately she'd end up like Martin. I think you're the only thing she'll stay retired for." He hesitated. "And you love her more than anybody else who's ever been in her life. Except me, of course."

Given some of the fence's actions, Richard could dispute that, but he didn't say so aloud. "Thank you, then."

"Yeah. I don't think she'll be as easy to convince as I was." Barstone walked to the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go get chewed out and then get a cab and go find my car."

Richard waited until he was alone in the library before he took a seat at the work table. Down below the Piskford workers continued demolishing his pool, the sound of breaking concrete and the broken chunks being loaded into the rotating dump trucks reverberating through the house. And to think, talking to Walter had probably been the easiest thing he would encounter today. Even so, he gave a slight smile. He'd convinced Tom and

Walter—mostly—and now he had only one person left to go. The most important one.

Samantha lounged against the railing at the top of the stairs and drank her soda. Whatever Rick and Stoney were talking about, and she presumed it was her, at least they weren't yelling. She considered listening at the door, partly out of curiosity, but mostly because with her life as it was, secrets flying around her could be dangerous.

Just as she straightened, though, Stoney emerged from the library and shut the door behind him. "You okay?" she asked.

"I feel like he's the principal who just gave me detention, and you're the kid I was out spray-painting the walls with. Yes, I'm fine."

"Did you remember where your truck is?"

"In general."

"Let's go get it."

"I'm not going to tell you what he said to me. It's a guy thing."

Dammit. "Well, I don't want him to hear what I say to you."

"Oh, this is a fun day."

Still grumbling, he followed her through the foyer, where she snagged a brownie off the plate Reinaldo carried in the direction of the library. "Which car should we take?" she asked as they walked into the garage.

"You make pretty free with Addison's stuff, don't you?"

She glanced sideways at him as she freed the keys to the Barracuda. "It's my way."

"Oh, I know that."

Whatever he was thinking, he didn't say anything else as she started the car and they headed out the front gates back toward Felipe's. At about the halfway point she pulled into a grocery store parking lot and turned off the engine. "Okay."