Don't Look Down (4 page)

Cobalt blue glanced toward the wall and Stoney’s sliding
eyes cat clock. “In Florida? Nearly two hours. At Walter’s, about ten minutes.”

“You busted my lock,” Stoney said from the entryway.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Rick returned, rising. “I took the liberty of throwing your knapsack into the car.”

She frowned. “You can’t—”

He lifted a hand. “You owe me a garage door and four tires. I would consider us even, though, if you’d come back to Solano Dorado with me.”

“Bribery?”

“A business transaction. And besides, I’d like to yell at you, and I’d hate to have to do it here in front of Walter.”

“I’d hate that, too,” Stoney put in, strolling into the kitchen with the stack of paint samples they’d collected.

“Fine,” she grumbled, not wanting Rick to think she needed Stoney for backup. “But don’t expect me to apologize for the door or the tires. Or anything.”

“We’ll negotiate,” he returned, pulling a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “This came for you.”

“You read my mail?”

“It was on my office fax at Solano Dorado.”

“But you read it.”

“It came to
my
fax number, darling.”

She still didn’t like it one damned bit. He’d been in town for half an hour, and despite knowing that she wanted him to back off, he couldn’t resist snooping. Silently she added that to her list of grievances. Taking the fax, she offered Stoney a peck on the cheek as she headed back out the front door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“At the office?”

“Sure.”

That sounded cool, to actually have an office where she
could meet people. Previously it had been mostly his kitchen table or dark restaurants or untraceable phone calls.

“So did you like the office Walter found?” Rick asked, catching up to her on the sidewalk.

“Yes.” Silence. “We leased it half an hour ago.”

He pulled open the passenger door of the Jag and offered a hand to help her in. Sam avoided his fingers, though, as she slid onto the warm leather seat. Touching him was important, and he liked the physical contact between them.

“Might I see it?”

“Probably not.”

“Hm.” He dropped in behind the wheel, and in a moment they’d peeled off down the street. “When I needed help solving a theft, I recruited you.”

“No, I recruited
you
.”

“Yes, maybe, but I agreed to it. Thievery is your area of expertise. Business is mine. Why won’t you let me help you?”

“Rick, drop it, or the next time I take a trip you’re not going to be able to find me.”

He glanced at her before returning his attention to the road. “No. Look at it like I do, Samantha. This is obviously important to you. If you exclude me, then I’ve lost too much of you.”

“You’re jealous of me getting a job?” she asked incredulously.

“I’m jealous that you’re trying to push me out of this part of your life, the part that’s excited about trying something new and looking to the future.”

Well, it was an explanation she hadn’t expected. And it made her arguments seem selfish—though that had probably been the idea. He knew how to put together a persuasive proposal, after all. Hell, he did it for a living. But
she
hadn’t been butting into
his
latest deal. “Sounds good, slick, but I said no.”

“I got that. You disabled my car so I couldn’t follow you, if you’ll recall.”

“I’m not trying to exclude you from knowing what’s going on with me, Rick, but I don’t want you to do this for me. I don’t know why you don’t get that.”

“Try explaining it to me instead of just telling me to back off.”

She sighed. “Okay. I’ve…I’m good at everything I try, you know?”

To her surprise, he gave a brief chuckle. “I’ve noticed that.”

“But I’ve never tried this. And if you do the work, then it’s not mine, and it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I’ve done it.” She thudded her fist into her thigh. “Does that make sense?”

They drove in silence for a moment. “Yes. More than I care to admit.”

“It’s about fucking time.”

“Might I at least recommend clients?”

“As long as you don’t assume I’m going to jump at every bone. I know swanky people, too, but mostly because I’ve robbed them.”

“Good, and good God. Take a look at your fax.”

She’d nearly forgotten it. Digging into her bag, she pulled out the sheet of paper and unfolded it. “Charles Kunz. He’s a manufacturer, isn’t he?”

“Plastics. His son Daniel and I play polo together. The father’s a bit…abrasive, but—” He stopped, shooting a look at her. “You haven’t stolen from them, have you?”

“Nope.” Sam forced a smile. “I’m going to get that question a lot, aren’t I?”

“Probably. Would you tell me if you
had
broken and entered?”

Probably not
. “Maybe.”

“Anyway, he wants to set up a meeting with you.”

She perked up. “See? I haven’t even been in town for twenty-four hours, and I’m getting clients already.”

“You can use my office at Solano Dorado, if you’d like.”

Whether he was just being generous or not, she didn’t like it. “Don’t piss me off again. I’ll grab some folding chairs and meet him at
my
office tomorrow. It should be passable, if Stoney’ll pretend to be the receptionist.”

“I doubt folding chairs and Stoney will impress Charles Kunz.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “From the fax, he knows I’m just setting up,” she returned, glancing at the sheet again. “And I’ll have an ad for office help showing up in the paper tomorrow or the day after.”

And she still hadn’t given an inch. Richard wasn’t accustomed to apologizing, and he knew he probably could have done a better job of it, but dammit, she could give him a little credit. Taking a breath, he concentrated on the road for a few moments, on the way the concrete and steel made way for palm trees and beach as they crossed the southern bridge, and on the way the sun reflected warm through the tinted glass of the Jaguar.

“Is Florida going to be home for you?” he finally asked, taking the main road cutoff leading to estate row.

Although he kept his eyes on the road, he could feel her glance. “I like it here,” she said slowly. “Do you?”

“I wouldn’t have bought Solano Dorado if I didn’t.”

“But you have that tax thing where you can only spend ten weeks a year in the States.”

“I can be here longer. I just have to pay more.”

“How much more?”

He pressed a button on his key chain and the heavy metal gates of Solano Dorado swung open. They headed up the
long, winding drive past stands of palm trees and low hedges of tropical plants. “Not enough to keep me away if you want my company.”

She cleared her throat. “I want your company.”

He wanted to shout and sing and screw her until she begged for mercy, but instead he pulled up in front of the house and shut off the car.
Be patient
was his mantra where she was concerned, though he often quashed it in favor of
enjoy it while you can
. “That’s a good thing, considering that I find your company rather refreshing, myself.”

Reinaldo emerged from the house, but Rick beat the housekeeper to Samantha’s car door and pulled it open for her. This time when he offered his hand she accepted it. She had apparently decided he’d at least made his point, then. And thank God for that, because if he didn’t get his hands on her in the next hour he was going to do himself some serious bodily injury.

“Hey, Reinaldo,” she greeted the housekeeper, smiling.

“Miss Sam,” the housekeeper returned in a light Cuban accent, “I’m to tell you that Hans has stocked peppermint ice cream and Diet Cokes.”

“Is Hans married?” she asked, slinging her knapsack over her shoulder and strolling up the shallow steps to the front doors.

“Only to his antipasto,” Richard put in, not giving her time to reconsider her phrasing. “Married” was one of those words she avoided, along with “love” and the combination of “future” and “together.” He understood that, and he made allowances for it. With the way she’d grown up, the fact that she was able to admit to wanting him around at all was rather amazing.

She laughed, leading the way into the foyer. Catching up, he wrapped his fingers around hers and joined her on the
way down the long hallway and up the stairs to what had previously been his private rooms, and were now theirs.

As soon as they were inside he closed the door and turned to pull her up against his front. “Hello,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her sweet mouth.

Her free hand slid around his shoulder. “It’s only been like one day.”

“And a whole other continent. I missed you, Samantha. I can’t help it.”

“I’m just irresistible.”

She settled into him, arms around his waist and her face upturned. Richard kissed her slowly, deeply, relishing the sensation of her in his arms. When they were apart he always thought of her as being taller and sturdier; in reality she was slender and petite, and seemed totally unsuited for the life of crime she’d been living—and excelling at.

He wanted her badly. This was one of those times he intended to enjoy the moment. Slipping his hands beneath her pink, lacy-sleeved T-shirt, Richard ran his palms along the warm, smooth skin of her back, then twisted his fingers into the material and tugged it off over her head.

As he lowered his mouth to her throat she went boneless, and he swept her up into his arms and made his way to the bedroom with its huge blue bed. One-handed, she managed to undo his belt before he set her down, and she tugged it free as he sank over her on the soft coverlet.

“Rick?” she whispered, her voice not quite steady.

“Hm?” he returned, unfastening her cute pink bra and spreading his fingers across her pert tits.

“I’m glad you came to Florida.”

He unzipped her jeans and yanked them down past her knees. “So am I.”

She kicked her pants off completely. “I mean, I missed you, too. A little. Even though you’re a jerk.”

Unfastening his own jeans, Richard shoved them down and slid over her again, slowly sinking the length of his cock into her hot, tight depths. “You only missed me a little?” he managed, beginning his plunge.

“Christ. Maybe more…than a little.”

“Good.” Grunting, he continued his rhythmic assault while she clutched his shoulders, her legs sweeping around his hips as she met him thrust for thrust. With a gasp she arched her back and came. Faster than he wanted, he felt himself building too far to stop, so he gave into instinct and pumped into her hard and fast until he found his release.

“I’m going to have to stop using the word ‘little’ when I discuss you,” she panted, guiding his face down to her shoulder as he relaxed against her.

“I’m going to have you start writing my fan club newsletter,” he returned.

“Oh, you wouldn’t want that.”

Friday, 8:31 a.m.

S
amantha, with Rick seated beside her, drove the Bentley Continental GT to Worth Avenue. The car fit the street and the building to perfection, and if Rick hadn’t gifted her with it, she would have purchased something like it. She’d long ago learned that blending with marks—clients—was the best way to earn their trust, and she couldn’t very well set up a high-class security business and keep driving a Honda Civic. She hid a smile. Besides, that Civic had been stolen and then, with Stoney’s help, ditched months ago.

“Are we going to Tom’s office?” Rick asked, leaning an arm along the window frame.

“No. Mine.” She slid into an open spot along the street and put the car in park. “You said you wanted to see it.”

His gaze was on the tall building owned by Donner, Rhodes and Chritchenson on the far side of the street. “I do, but—”

“Come on. This way,” she interrupted, enjoying his confusion. It didn’t happen very often. “And no business advice.”

“I’ll do my damnedest.” He followed her into the oppos
ing building, through the tasteful lobby, and into the chrome elevator. “Five floors,” he noted, taking in the short row of buttons and then the lighted one in the middle. “Third floor for you.”

“Not the entire floor.”

He smiled at her. “Not yet, anyway.”

There he went again with his little pushes, trying to convince her to open offices worldwide and become some megasecurity advisor queen. The idea did appeal to her—for sometime in the future, if the legit career thing worked out. On the other hand, if she pretended to go along with his world-domination theme, it would give her an excuse to spend the weekend every so often in…Venice, say. Sam shook herself. Even with a chance to touch a Michelangelo and earn another million bucks, she was not going to Venice. Not, not, not.

She led Rick through the suite door and into the empty reception area. “Stoney’s picking up some furniture catalogs.”

Rick nodded but didn’t say anything as they meandered through the unfurnished offices and the backside of reception. She tried to pretend that his opinion didn’t matter to her, tried to pretend that his approval wasn’t important whatever she might say to him—and not just as a multibillionaire businessman, but as her…lover, and her friend.

“It’s champion,” he said after a moment, smiling as he took another turn around the side office she’d already decided to claim for herself. “Well done, Samantha.”

“Thanks.”

Rick paused at the window. “And Tom’s going to fill his knickers when he finds out your office is across the street from his.”

Chuckling, Sam joined him. “That’s what I thought. Isn’t it great? But don’t you tell Donner. I want to.”

“There you are, honey,” Stoney’s voice came as he strolled into the office. He had an absurdly delicate purple orchid cradled in his large arms. “The building owners sent this as an office-warming present.”

“Wow,” she said, taking the orchid and doing a little more pretending that she hadn’t noticed the way Rick and Stoney were pretty much ignoring each other. “Epidendrum.” She felt Rick looking at her. “What?” she asked.

“I’d forgotten how much you like gardens and flowers,” he returned in a quiet, intimate voice. “I’m going to tear up the area around the pool. It’s time for an update, and it’s yours.”

Samantha swallowed.
A garden
. You couldn’t roam the world and have a garden. He did know she’d always wanted one, but he couldn’t possibly realize how much it meant to her. A garden meant a home. “From time to time,” she whispered, taking his hand again in her free one, “you can be very nice.”

“From time to time,” he returned, tugging her closer, “you let me.” Slowly he leaned down and kissed her softly on the mouth.

“Ahem,” Stoney grumbled. “I plugged in a phone and a fax.”

That had been fast. “Where did you get…” She trailed off at the quick head shake from Stoney. “…the phone numbers?” she finished.

“Kim set them up last night.”

She checked her watch. Ten o’clock, probably a decent hour to return Charles Kunz’s fax with a phone call—one she could now make from her own office. Samantha handed the orchid to Rick. “Thanks, Stoney. You two talk for a minute. I have to make a call.”

“Sam—”

“I’ll be right back.”

Richard watched her vanish into the reception area, then
turned back to face Walter Barstone. He’d dealt with executives, disgruntled underlings, and slick lawyers, but Stoney was a new one. “Are you enjoying your retirement?”

“Not really. Is Sam enjoying hers?”

“She seems to be, yes.”

The fence glanced toward the front of the office and back again. “You planning on staying long in Palm Beach?”

“Evidently.”

“So she goes where she wants, and you follow? That’s—”

“That’s really none of your affair,” Richard broke in. It was far more complicated than that, and he had no intention of discussing with Barstone that his business was essentially wherever he was. Location meant influence and prestige, but he could operate from anywhere.

“I mean, no offense, but you have a pretty busy life. And Sam’s kind of a full-time deal all on her own. It just doesn’t make much—”

“No offense,” Richard cut in again, “but I don’t think I need your advice.”

“Then you don’t—”

“Hey, Brit,” Samantha crooned, prancing back into the room to take Rick’s hand, “you wanna go on a date with me tonight?”

Richard couldn’t resist sending Walter a smug look over her head. “I was going to ask you the same question, actually. There’s a charity thing tonight, kind of a grand opening to the Palm Beach Season proper. It’s bloody exclusive, but if you want, I’ll inquire whether any tickets are still available. I thought you might find some potential clients there.”

“Is this charity thing the one at the Everglades Club?”

He lowered one eyebrow. “Yes.”

She snorted. “I already got us tickets.”

Richard absorbed that. When he’d said the event was exclusive, he hadn’t been kidding. “You did?”

“Yep.” She kissed his cheek. “I have connections, too, you know.”

“Who the devil did you call?”

“Charles Kunz’s secretary. He wants to meet me at the club tonight. They’re his extra tickets.”

“So it’s actually
my
connection you’re using.”

“You gave him to me.”

“So I did.”

The event at the Everglades Club was a dinner, dancing, and drinking fest for charity, an annual thing that marked the beginning of the Palm Beach winter season. Since Richard was rarely in town this early, he’d never attended before. In fact, he didn’t particularly like their old-fashioned membership restrictions and had never applied to join the exclusive Everglades Club. When he was in Florida, for the most part he worked. Until now, apparently. As he’d been attempting to point out to Samantha, hers wasn’t the only life that had been upended over the past three months.

The Kingdom Fittings project, for instance, was taking up too much of his time, particularly now that he needed to move the board of directors’ meeting from London to Palm Beach. There was no going around them, especially since some farsighted individual had empowered them to accept or veto any purchase offers. Still, that made it a challenge, and he seemed unable to resist those.

At just after six he left his Solano Dorado office and made his way upstairs to change. Samantha wasn’t in the room, but she had left her usual neatly folded shirt, jeans, and shoes under the nightstand on her side of the bed; he still
hadn’t been able to cure her of the idea that she might have to flee somewhere in the middle of the night.

He shrugged into his tuxedo and went into the bathroom to knot his black bow tie beneath the better light there. Samantha had left a yellow Post-It note on the mirror: “I’m on the pool deck.”

Electric heat glided down his spine, sending his business frustration into something hotter and less tangible, and much more personal. It was just a bloody note, but it meant she’d considered he would look for her, and that she wanted to be found. With a glance over his shoulder, he removed the Post-It and tucked it into his breast pocket. The world knew him as a hard-assed businessman—he could guess what it would make of him if anyone learned that he saved the little notes from his lover.

Giving the bow tie a last tug, he went to the full-length glass doors that opened onto the small balcony and the pool deck below. He pushed them open and then stopped for a long moment on the balcony, looking down.

Samantha had chosen to wear red. He knew she liked to blend into situations, and the low-cut, sleeveless sheath of silk certainly would fit into the upper class elbow-rubbing bash, but he truly didn’t see how anyone who got a glimpse of her would possibly be able to look away without noticing. She’d pinned up her wavy auburn hair, though wisps hung in front of her ears and across her forehead. She’d even gone with earrings, clip-on, of course—when she was working, she’d told him, she didn’t wear any jewelry, in case something should fall off or could be seen on her and identified later.

As he stood on the balcony and watched, she wandered along the edging of grass, her gaze on the low mix of ferns
and azaleas lining the half wall. “What are you doing?” he asked, heading down the stairs.

She faced him. “Were you serious about letting me replant here?” Her gaze sharpened as he joined her by the lighted pool. “And wow. James Bond. You look great.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass the compliment on to Armani.”

“I so don’t want to jump Armani’s bones right now,” she returned, grinning. “It ain’t the tux, Brit.” Reaching up, she readjusted his tie, though she seemed more interested in running her hands along his lapels.

If he could pick moments to last forever, this would be one of them. He covered her hands with his. “You look rather stunning, yourself,” he murmured.

“Thanks. I found it at Ungaro’s. I even cut off the tag so I can’t return it.”

Richard smiled down at her, hoping the expression didn’t look as idiotically sappy as it felt. “Amazing. And yes, do whatever you like with the garden here. Unless you prefer somewhere else.”

She raised up on her tiptoes and kissed him softly. “You don’t have to keep giving me things. I’m here because of you. Not the Picassos.”

“You don’t like Picasso.”

“You know what I mean. All I want from you is your trust.”

Richard shifted to take her hand and guide her toward the front drive. “I do trust you.”

“Mm-hm. I hear you talking, but—”

“It would be easier if you would accept at least some of what I have.”

“Easier on you, you mean,” she pointed out.

“All I’m saying is that I didn’t acquire the Picassos or the
Bentley from being bad at what I do. My advice is as available to you as my…”

He’d almost said “heart.” Jesus, she was making him insane—or he was doing it to himself.

“Your what?” she prompted, lifting an eyebrow, and her expression making it very clear that she had a good idea what he’d been about to say.

He’d take it as a positive sign that she hadn’t turned and run. “My chef,” he amended.

“I love your chef,” she said, chuckling. “Hans makes the best cucumber sandwiches ever. And I appreciate your offering me the advice.”

Deeply surprised until he considered that she hadn’t said she would
accept
the advice, he opened the door of the stretched Mercedes-Benz S600 for her. “Right, then.”

Limousines thronged the entrance to the Everglades Club, two deep and backed up for half a mile down Worth Avenue. Samantha watched through the tinted windows as they neared the red carpet and roped-off walkway. Press and onlookers lined both the street and the entire length of the entry.

“I didn’t realize it would be this high profile,” she muttered, starting to run her fingers through her carefully arranged hair and then stopping herself.

“It’s the first event of the Season proper, remember?” Rick replied, taking her nervous fingers and squeezing them. “All the weres, ares, and wannabes are going to be here. You knew that.”

“Yes, I did. It’s just that cameras are here, too.”

“You’re eventually going to have to get used to it. Everybody knows who you are now, anyway. Another photo won’t make anything worse.”

“So speaks Mighty Fortress Man,” she returned, concentrating on taking deep breaths.

“That’s in private. In public, it’s going to happen.”

It would, for as long as they were together. And giving him up because of a few annoying photographers and reporters seemed the height of absurdity. Besides, as he’d said, the damage had been done. Her picture had been in
People
and even his fan club newsletter, for God’s sake. And the Rick’s Chicks flame girls regularly posted her photo, with moustache and horns added, on the website. Now all she could do was use her so-called fame to her advantage and get herself some damned clients, starting tonight. “So why is it I could get us tickets and you couldn’t?”

“I could have,” he protested. “You just beat me to it.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. You keep telling yourself that.”

He leaned forward. “Ben, just let us out here.”

The driver nodded the back of his head at them. “No problem, Mr. Addison.”

Sam looked at him, horrified. “Here? It’s a long walk to the club.”

He had the bad manners to chuckle at her. “I’m not going to get into the publicity game by fighting for a curbside entrance. I want to go inside and dance with you.”

“Great.”

Eventually they made it past the mobs of onlookers to the austere front doors. Despite her annoyance at him for parading her down the sidewalk, Samantha had to give Rick a few points for pretending not to notice that her grip on his hand was hard enough to break rocks, or that her smile to the crowd was more fake than the boobs of the top-heavy model preceding them.

If she could hear the numerous calls from the sidelines of “Ooh, it’s Rick Addison” and “Look this way, Rick!”, then
her escort could hear them as well. Rick’s attention, though, seemed divided only between the front doors and her.