Don't Look Down (21 page)

After a heartbeat his arms joined around her waist, and he pulled her tightly against him. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, unwilling to let him—to let this moment—go. And Daniel thought he could offer her more than Rick could. Ha. Daniel didn’t know the first thing she needed, or wanted. “Rick?”

“Mm-hm?”

“I think Daniel did it. I think he either hired someone, or did it himself.”

“You—Fuck.” He didn’t ask her what proof she had, or
how she knew. Instead, he slid a hand up her back, rocking her slowly back and forth and letting her hold on for as long as she wanted to.

Finally Sam took a breath.
Pull it together. Jellicoe
. “Sorry,” she muttered, lifting her head.

“For what?” He cupped her face in both hands. “I’m actually relieved. I was beginning to think the only thing we needed to worry about where you were concerned was Kryptonite.”

“Oh, ha ha. I just wasn’t ready for ocean travel with a probable murderer.”

“Speaking of which, don’t ever do that again, Samantha. Not even if you tell Donner first. Not unless you want me to have a heart attack before I hit thirty-five.”

“No, I don’t want that.” She kissed him on the chin. “We should get out of here before Daniel sees us together.”

He lifted an eyebrow even as he held open the Mustang driver’s door for her. “And why don’t we want him to see us together?”

“Because I’m sneaking out to see him behind your back, and he’s working on seducing me away from you.”

For a long heartbeat he didn’t say anything. “Oh. He’d best be going to jail for something, then,” he finally murmured. “Otherwise I will be, for beating the shit out of him.”

She didn’t bother telling him to keep his testosterone in check; she knew what his hot buttons were, and she knew that by his actions Daniel had pushed several of them. All the same, his response had felt almost…underheated. Sam took a quick breath. He’d taken her demand for a little trust seriously. Of course, even with a huge meeting tomorrow he’d still charged out to Lake Worth to check up on her, but she would have done the same for him. They both knew how dangerous their lives could get.

At the same time, it was a little frightening to realize how much she was coming to rely on him for his opinion, his advice, just his presence. She wasn’t used to relying on anyone but herself. That was in the top five thieves’ rules as taught by Martin Jellicoe. Never count on anyone but yourself. She’d begun to wonder, though, whether Martin had simply never met anyone he thought he
could
trust. She had.

“I’m going in to Tom’s,” he said, slowly letting his hands course down her shoulders.

“I need to get into the office, too, before somebody declares it abandoned and repossesses Stoney’s furniture. And I need to figure out how I’m going to prove any of my hunches to Castillo. Proof sucks.”

“Yes, my dear. But it’s necessary if you want to win the wager.” He kissed her again, then helped her into the car and closed the door for her.

That was Rick, always the British gentleman no matter what else might be going on. They were both headed for Worth Avenue, and she wasn’t the least bit surprised when he fell in behind her and stayed within a car length or two for the entire drive. She thought she’d made it extremely clear that she knew how to take care of herself, but apparently his ancestors had been actual knights in shining armor—and Rick had obviously inherited their “rescue the damsel” mentality.

She crossed Olive Avenue, and Rick got stuck at the light. She half expected him to run the red, but he didn’t. Today, at least, the knight was obeying the law.

The Mustang lurched forward as metal ground into metal. Samantha’s forehead smacked hard into the steering wheel. “Shit!”

Dazed, she automatically put on the brake as she looked in the now-crooked rearview mirror. A big blue pickup filled
the entire mirror. With a roar it shot toward the back end of the Mustang again.

Shoving down the accelerator, she made a hard right onto a small side street. The pickup clipped her right bumper and skidded around behind her.

Okay. This was on purpose. Her heart hammering more from adrenaline than fear, she punched it again. The Mustang had a V-12 engine, and the pickup had a hemi. A pretty even match, except that she wasn’t going to let this turn into a chase.

She screeched a left turn, then another, heading back to the main street. As soon as the pickup driver figured out what she was doing he roared up onto her bumper again.

They connected, knocking her forward even when she braced against it. With only inches separating them, she slammed on the brakes.

The pickup thunked into her again. With all her strength she steered straight for a light pole. The pickup engine screamed as it tried to accelerate her into the metal post while she tried to stop.

Or not. Taking a breath, she waited until the last possible second, hit the accelerator, and spun the wheel left. The right side of the Mustang scraped into the pole and bounced off. The pickup slammed squarely into it.

Fishtailing wildly, Sam brought the Mustang to a limping stop. She jumped out and ran back to the truck. Whoever it was, they were getting their ass kicked.

“Hey!” she yelled, yanking at the dented driver door. “What the fuck are you—”

A baseball bat crashed through the tinted glass straight at her head. Instinctively she ducked the blow and the shower of safety glass, but just barely.

“You bitch!” a male voice roared. The door shoved open and Al Sandretti lunged toward her, bat swinging.

Samantha dodged sideways, aiming a kick at his groin. She hit a muscular thigh and he stumbled, grabbing at her foot. Jesus, he was big. If he got hold of her, he’d break her in half.

Neighbors were starting to emerge from their houses, though she noted their presence only enough to keep Schwarzenegger and the bat well away from them. Pissed as he was, she didn’t think he would care who he swung at. “Come on, big boy,” she taunted, backing along the street.

“Where are my fucking photos?” he roared. “You’re fucking dead!”

She dodged again, looking for an opening and hoping someone was dialing 911. Her heel cracked into the curb and she went over backward. With a gasp she rolled sideways just as the bat dug into the parkway where her head had been.

Rolling onto her back again she pistoned both legs straight into his knees. He staggered back, spitting and grunting. Christ, the guy was built like a fucking tree stump.

Doing a backflip onto her feet, she jabbed at his face and nearly took a fist to the gut.

“Come on, bitch. Let’s d—”

Sandretti stumbled forward onto his knees. Sam side-stepped as Rick backed up a few steps, then charged forward again with a flying kick and rammed both feet between big Al’s shoulder blades. As the guy dropped, Rick followed up with two hard, quick jabs to his kidneys.

Sandretti groaned and started up on his hands and knees again. Sam kicked him in the side of the head. With a grunt he collapsed.

She bent over to take a breath. When she straightened,
Rick had the baseball bat clenched in both hands. His face was white and furious, and she didn’t doubt for a second that he would bludgeon Sandretti into paste.

“Stop!” she gasped, grabbing his arms and forcing him backward with all her weight.

He moved about a step, but it got his attention. “He—What—Who the hell is that?”

“Al Sandretti.”

“Is this because of Kunz?”

Sam shook her head, taking the bat out of his trembling hands. “It’s part of the Leedmont thing.”

As sirens approached, Rick touched her forehead. His fingers came away bloody. “I saw him hit your car,” he said in a more even voice. “Christ. I thought—”

“Hey, I’m okay,” she returned, taking his hand and clutching his fingers. “I have a hard head.”

“And thank God for that.” Abruptly his tense shoulders lowered, and he gathered her in for a tight hug.

“I broke your man car,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. She could feel the hard, fast beat of his heart against her cheek. He’d really been worried about her.

“
He
broke my man car,” Rick amended, separating from her as the cops rolled up. “And he’s going to fucking pay for it, the wanker. Do you want me to take care of this?”

He’d asked instead of jumping in.
Wow
. “No, I can deal.”

By the time she finished explaining how she’d found a folder with some weird photos in it in the McDonald’s parking lot and had been on her way to give them to Detective Castillo and how this guy must have seen her do it and panicked, she almost believed herself. It didn’t hurt that she had the folder in her trunk to hand over, or that a bunch of the neighbors and Rick Addison could corroborate various parts of the story. She slipped the Leedmont photos under her
shirt without anybody noticing, signed a statement, then climbed into the passenger seat of the SLR.

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Rick asked, sliding behind the wheel. He feathered her hair behind her ear, and she shivered.

“I’m fine. A little headache, but I’ve had much worse.” It was the last time she would take a car with personalized plates on a gig, though.

“I remember.” He leaned over and kissed her, surprisingly gentle. “You actually went toe-to-toe with that brute.”

“You told me not to scratch your car. He made me mad.”

Rick smiled. “I love you.”

She felt her cheeks warm. “And I’m glad you can do that karate flying kick thing. Take me to the office, will you?”

For a long moment he gazed at her before he nodded and put the SLR in gear. “Sure.”

He let her off at the front steps, then headed for the parking structure. The Bentley was where Stoney had left it; at least he seemed to be serious about helping her, whatever his private reservations. Hell, he’d already logged more office time than she had.

“Hey,” she called as she stepped into the reception room. “I’m back.”

Stoney shoved open the hallway door to join her. “Good. What the hell happened to you?” He motioned at her head.

“Not much. I’ll tell you later.”

“Fine. I’m going to lunch.”

“Sheesh. Was it something I said?”

“Nope. I have a lunch date. And I got a call on that Giacometti. I went ahead and scheduled a meeting for tonight.”

She grabbed his arm to stop him. “Wait a minute. Who called?”

“I don’t know. They used one of those Darth Vader voice
changers.” He grinned. “Very James Bond—and very amateur.”

The same guy who’d called Bobby, then. “Okay. We’ll go over strategy when you get back.”

“Like I don’t know how to take in property of questionable origin.”

“You’re not—”

“See you later, honey.”

Sighing, Sam headed back to her office to call Leedmont. Stoney had left her the dwindling pile of résumés and a small stack of phone messages, most of which said something along the lines of “I hadn’t heard from you, so I accepted a job with fill-in-the-blank.” Crap. Her desk had gone from mahogany to oak, and she was beginning to wonder whether it was safe to put her pencils away.

After she set up an early Saturday morning meeting with Leedmont, she started to go through the remaining applications again, weeding out the ones who had found work elsewhere, but after a minute or two she set it aside. Instead she picked up her desk phone and dialed Aubrey Pendleton.

“Hello, darlin’,” he answered.

Samantha smiled at his tone. “Hi. Could I ask you a question?”

“Ask me for the moon and the stars, and I’ll deliver them.”

“You’re in a good mood.”

“A lovely lady just sent me a case of 1935 French wine.”

“Wow, you must be a good date.”

“Try me.”

A little good-natured, nonserious flirting was good for her, especially after the surreal attempted seduction on the yacht and the pro wrestling match. “I might. But who asked you for the phone number?”

“The phone number? No one. I’ve been carrying it around
just in case, but it’s been quiet. I must say, you’ve started a terrible craving for adventure in me. I’m not sure how I’ll go back to being merely charming.”

“I wouldn’t call you ‘merely’ anything, Aubrey.”

“Oh, you’re making me blush. Oops, my date’s on the other line. I have to go.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

So whoever had called Stoney hadn’t gotten the number from Aubrey. It wasn’t that surprising, she supposed; in the right circles, Walter Barstone had a reputation for being one of the best in the world. Through him she’d managed to make a nice-sized fortune, after all. And though he worked primarily with her, it wasn’t an exclusive relationship. Not professionally, anyway.

She had some strands, now, but she needed to find a way to weave them into a web. And then she needed to catch a fly—a fly with a cocaine addiction, and who went by the name Daniel Kunz.

Friday, 7:17 p.m.

B
y seven in the evening, Richard felt they’d nailed the contract. It was closer than he liked to cut things, but even if Leedmont intended some sort of preemptive strike, he’d still be ready. He left Tom wrapping up a few phone calls and headed across the street to pick up Samantha and see where she’d decided on for dinner.

The offices sharing the third floor seemed to have emptied out for the day, but when he tried Jellicoe Security’s door, it turned and opened. “Samantha?” he called.

“In my office,” her voice came from the back.

“You should lock this door when you’re the only one here,” he said, still shaken by that hug she’d given him at the pier, though the fight with Al Sandretti—whoever he was—had nearly driven her embrace from his mind.

“A locked door wouldn’t even slow down most of the people I know,” she returned, joining him in reception. “You hungry?”

She had a nice bruise on her forehead, which he brushed with his fingertips. “Starving.”

Samantha grinned, wrapping her hand around his arm. “Well, do we go home and change, or pick a place suited to our current wardrobe?”

They were both in jeans and shirts, and in the middle of the winter season at Palm Beach, that meant their dining possibilities were severely limited. “That depends on what you’re hungry for.”

“If I told you what I was hungry for, we’d never make it out of the office,” she returned, laughing. “But how about Mexican?”

“I’ll rely on you.”

He couldn’t help mauling her in the elevator. If they’d descended more than three floors, he would have had her out of her pants. She could investigate all she pleased, but the more she put herself into danger, the more she flirted with other men to get information, the more he liked to remind her what waited for her at home.

“Randy much?” she joked, pushing him out of the elevator when they reached the lobby.

With a calm nod at the concierge he led the way through the side door to the parking garage. Patricia would have called such a display undignified. For her, everything had been about appearance. Samantha’s concern was that admitting to liking him too much would somehow trap her, keep her from being the person she’d grown up to be. She’d loosened up her defenses over the past few months, and he wasn’t going to give up until she realized he was an asset rather than a liability. Not when the alternative would mean losing her.

“What about the SLR?” Samantha asked, sliding behind the wheel of the Bentley. Thank goodness Walter was better at taking care of borrowed automobiles than she was.

He moved around to climb in beside her. “We’ll pick it up later.”

“You’re so romantic. Can’t spend a minute without me.”

“Shut up and drive.”

She kept her good mood all through dinner, even after recommending some sort of tomato and pepper salsa so spicy it nearly took off the roof of his mouth. Apparently that was some sort of American humor, but he didn’t mind. He liked hearing her laugh. She hadn’t done much of it since they’d returned to Florida.

“Are you okay for your meeting tomorrow?” she asked abruptly as they drove back to the parking garage. She had to be in a good mood, because she handed him the keys to the Bentley. “I can quiz you or something.”

“It’d be nice to know what Leedmont was plotting, but I think I’ll manage.”

“Hm. Well, I’m meeting him first thing in the morning, so if he’s got dynamite in his pockets, I’ll let you know. Come on, let me quiz you. I probably know tons about pipe rings and fittings.”

“I’m terrified.”

Her phone rang, though he didn’t recognize the tone. From her expression, she didn’t recognize it or the number. “
Hola
,” she said.

He watched her face as her expression closed down and her skin went gray. Alarmed, he pulled to the side of the street and put the car into park. “Samantha.”

When she held the flat of her hand out to stop him from talking, her fingers shook. Richard grasped her hand. Whatever was going on, he wanted her to know—if she didn’t already—that she had his support.

“Okay. I’ll handle it,” she finally said. “Don’t worry.” Her voice broke as she slowly closed the phone.

“Sam?”

“That was Stoney. He’s in jail.”

“In—What happened?”

Samantha drew a breath, obviously working to pull herself together. “He couldn’t say much, but about two minutes after he took possession of a Giacometti prototype, the cops rammed open his door.”

Richard started to comment, then closed his mouth. He knew very well what both Walter and Samantha did for a living when they’d all met. And he would have to be very careful about what he said next. “I thought Walter retired when you did.”

“He did. He was doing me a goddamned favor.”

“You? Samantha, you promised me that y—”

“Shut up. I need to think for a minute.”

Panic shoving into his chest, he grabbed her shoulder. “Are the police going to come after you for this?”

She looked at him so blankly for a heartbeat that he knew the answer before she spoke. “No. No. It’s not like that. He wasn’t even supposed to take it. I just needed to know who was trying to sell it to him. I told him…” She growled, slamming her fist against the dashboard. “It doesn’t matter. I have to get him out of there.”

For a brief moment he pictured her breaking into the city jail. “
We
will get him out,” he countered, shaking her to make certain that sank in. “I’ll call Tom right now.”

What he didn’t say was that he wasn’t sure what the attorney would be able to do. Samantha had just said that Stoney had taken in some sort of stolen property. And he’d done that previously, too many times to count. If circumstances had simply caught up to him…From what Samantha had intimated on numerous occasions, Walter could be spending a very long time in prison.

Even as he dialed Tom, he was also considering that removing Walter Barstone from Samantha’s life, painful as it would be for her, might also serve her for the better. He’d been trying to pull her away from her criminal past, and Walter obviously still had a pretty tight hold on her.

As Katie Donner answered the phone, Richard exited the car. It wouldn’t do for Samantha to overhear his responses to whatever disparaging remarks Tom might make. The two of them had a tricky enough relationship as it was.

When he slipped back into the Bentley, she was sitting in the passenger seat, staring out the front window. This all had to hurt. She let so few people into her life, and Stoney was closer to her than anyone else. Maybe even than him.

“Okay. Tom said he’ll—”

“I’m going to the police station. I have to bail him out.”

“Wait a minute, Samantha. You need to listen to me.”

She glared at him. “Why, so you can talk me out of something? Do you think I’m going to leave Stoney in jail for one second longer than I have to?”

“No, I don’t. But I also think that before you charge into the police station, we should let Tom have a few minutes to find out what exactly Walter is being charged with. If the Giacometti has something to do with you, it’s possible that whoever turned him in might have mentioned your name.”

“I didn’t steal it, Rick.”

“I didn’t suggest that you did,” he retorted, though the thought had crossed his mind. “You know about it, though, which means someone else might know about you.” He drew a breath, shuddering at the thought of what jail or prison would do to her. “In fact, maybe we should consider relocating back to London.”

“No. I had to sit in the shadows and watch while Martin
got sent to prison for the rest of his life. He died there. I’m not abandoning Stoney.” Her voice broke again. “I can’t.”

“You won’t have to. Right now we need to go home, though, and wait for Tom’s call.”

She shook her head. “No. I need to look into some things.” Before he could stop her, she’d opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Samantha, for Christ’s sake—”

“I’ll call you. And give me the SLR keys, or I’ll have to hot-wire it.”

There were times as a businessman that he’d had to acknowledge defeat. He recognized this as one of them. Digging into his pocket, he found the Mercedes key and tossed it to her through the open door. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

For a minute she didn’t think he would leave, but with a last concerned look he screeched back into the street.

Samantha walked three blocks to the parking garage and found the SLR. In less than an hour she could have Stoney out. It would mean pulling a gun, which she’d never done in her entire career, but she could do that. Getting into the station wouldn’t be a problem, even for someone of much less skill than herself. Getting out would be more difficult, but she could do that too.

The part she wasn’t sure about, the one thing that made her hesitate, was the knowledge that afterward she would have to run. She’d have Stoney, yes, but she wouldn’t have Rick. She’d never have him again. Because even if he wanted her after the jailbreak, he was too public. People always knew where he was, and the second she tried to see him again she’d be arrested.

“Fuck,” she muttered, bending to rest her forehead on the
steering wheel. She banged her head against the stretched leather, feeling the sharp stab of pain from her sore forehead. “Think, Sam. Think.”

If Aubrey had supplied Stoney’s phone number to anyone, this would have been simple. Whoever had contacted her fence, though, had found him on their own. Still, she’d only told one person about the probable value of the Giacometti. It had to be Daniel.

Why, though, had he set Stoney up? Was this to plant evidence for the robbery and murder? She lifted her head, ice drilling into her chest. Stoney’s house wasn’t exactly high security. Once someone found it, breaking in was kid’s play.

Starting the Mercedes, she headed for the west part of town. Getting to Stoney’s house took what was probably the longest twenty minutes of her life. When she turned the corner onto his street, though, she stopped. One, two, three police cars, lights spinning, cordoned off half the block.

“Shit.” She flipped off her lights, backing up until she could turn down the cross street.

She’d been so obsessed with doing all of this investigating her own way that she’d left Stoney completely open and unprotected. Anybody who watched the office would know that they worked together, and anybody who’d researched her as well as Charles had would have deduced that she used Stoney as her fence. This was her fault. All of it.

“Okay, okay. Get it together.” If this had been Daniel, then he knew he’d hurt her. He would be ready for it if she confronted him. Hell, he might even have set something up on his yacht that could incriminate her. She ran the morning through her mind. She’d had her hands on the wine bottle and a glass, plus railings and the windshield and the mooring line.

It felt selfish, worrying about her own skin while Stoney
was being booked and photographed and fingerprinted, but that was the nature of the game. Besides, if the cops were going to move on her, she needed to be ready for it.

And so did Rick. Dammit. He had a huge meeting tomorrow. All he needed was for Castillo or somebody else to interrupt with a search warrant. In his world, appearance was everything. Three months ago, she and he had more than ruined Peter Wallis’s life with proof of murder and robbery; they’d ruined his business and his future—and his marriage.

The best, fastest, easiest place to get answers was still Stoney. And she’d meant what she’d told Rick—she wasn’t leaving her friend in jail for a second longer than she had to.

With a deep breath, Sam put the car into gear. Rick probably still had a pistol in the glove box, but she would make him one concession—she’d try to do this legally, first. She exited the parking structure and turned left, heading for jail.

Halfway home Richard changed direction, and fifteen minutes later pulled into Tom Donner’s driveway. He only pounded on the door twice before Tom yanked it open.

“Keep it down, will you, Rick?” he snapped, stepping aside. “Mike’s got to be at school at seven in the morning for an away game.”

“Apologies,” he said, lowering his voice. Damn. And Samantha accused him of being too civilized. “What did you find out?” Richard headed toward the stairs and Tom’s office.

“I’m working on it. I told you to go home, and I’ll call you.”

“I prefer to be more involved.”

Tom entered the office behind him and closed the door. “That’s not very comforting. I’m doing my best, okay? It’s a Friday night, and honestly, my area of expertise is in reading and modifying contracts, looking for tax loopholes, and put
ting together corporation documents—not working for criminals or trying to find ways to get them released from jail.”

Richard faced him, surprise cooling the heat in his veins. “So you pick now to stage your holier than thou rebellion?”

“I warned you before, Rick—I don’t like digging into shit for Jellicoe. Now you’re asking me to help get her fence out of jail, and twelve hours before the Kingdom meeting? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

For a heartbeat Richard closed his eyes. He and Tom had been friends for better than ten years. And he understood what the attorney was questioning—whether he was willing to throw everything over for Samantha. “I understand your reservations,” he said, keeping his tone even and quiet. “I understand that you’re a straight shooter. Hell, that’s why I hired you in the first place. But I’m not asking you to lie for Walter Barstone, or to do anything illegal on his behalf or anyone else’s. I’m asking you to find out what’s going on. That’s all.”

“I—”

“I could do it myself,” he interrupted, stepping back toward Tom. “I will, if you won’t. She loves him, all right? Consider Walter to be her father. I am not going to sit on my bum while she does God knows what to try to see him set free. I am going to know what’s going on, and if it takes using some of my influence to aid him in either his bail or his defense, I will use it.”

Tom folded his arms across his chest, not backing down. “Do you have any idea how much this could cost you? And I’m not talking about dollar figures, though eight million in one day comes to mind.”