Don't Look Down (5 page)

“How are you faring?” he murmured.

“I think those girls on the left side with the signs are members of Rick’s Chicks,” she returned, mostly to see if she could rattle him.

“So are you, if you get the newsletter.”

Sam smiled. She couldn’t help it, even when the volume of camera flashes increased in response. “That’s right. Ooh, Mr. Addison, you’re so hot, sign my tit, will you?”

He leaned over, kissing her ear. “I am going to fuck you all night,” he whispered.

Shivers went all the way down her spine. “I must have the deluxe fan club membership.”

“Oh, that you do, Samantha. That you do.”

They passed through the doors into the cool depths of the club. After three years in Palm Beach, she’d grown used to seeing the faces in the newspaper, but it was a little weird to have former Presidents, cosmetics executives, oil magnates, actors, and models all rubbing elbows together. And it was even weirder how many of them knew Rick and sought him out for a greeting or a word of investment advice.

“I wonder how many of these guys belong to your fan club,” she murmured, reaching over to collect a glass of champagne and handing him another.

“Yes, well, I hope you’ve noticed how many of the men are looking at you,” he returned, directing his famous smile at yet another acquaintance.

She had noticed the stares at her breasts and the assessing looks at her face and her ass. Those who didn’t know she was Sam Jellicoe, security expert and Addison’s current companion, were probably wondering who the hell she was.
Rick had been known to date actresses and models before, and while she wouldn’t precisely put herself in that group, she did work out, after all. Something abruptly occurred to her. “Are any of your former girlfriends here?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought we could compare notes or something.”

His brow lowered. “Don’t you dare.”

So she had found a sensitive subject. Admittedly, she’d managed to spend three months in England without running across his ex-wife, Patricia, but then she hadn’t exactly been eager to make the lady’s acquaintance. And unless she was greatly mistaken, she didn’t think Rick had been eager for that, either.

“There’s Charles Kunz,” he muttered a moment later, nodding toward one of the three bars. “Do you want me to introduce you?”

A surprising rush of nervousness went through her. She’d done two or three security consultations for Rick and his cronies in England, but if she didn’t blow it, Kunz would be the first official client of Jellicoe Security. Samantha stifled a frown. She needed a catchier name than that. “No, I’ll take care of it,” she said. “Besides, that girl by the door wearing that see-through white Band-Aid’s been staring at you since we walked in. You should go say hi before her dress falls completely off.”

She pulled her hand free, but Rick shifted to grip her arm. “I’ll wander by to see you in a few minutes.” Blue eyes met hers. “Good luck, Samantha.”

“Luck’s for schmucks, Brit, but thanks.”

Swallowing, she made her way through the glitter and perfume toward the straight-shouldered man holding a half-full glass of liquor. “Mr. Kunz?” she offered, stopping in
front of her latest mark—potential client—and noting from the faint odor on his breath that his drink of choice was vodka. Her late dad’s poison of choice, as well.

He wasn’t much taller than she was, and sported about a quarter of the hair. In a fight, unless he knew jujitsu or something, she could probably take him. When he faced her, though, the steely brown gaze said some of the things that Rick’s did—this was a man used to being in charge of his world, and one accustomed to being obeyed. And she saw something else as well: worry. “Samantha Jellicoe,” he returned, accepting her outstretched hand. “I’ve seen your picture.”

“There’ve been a few of them floating around,” she admitted. “Thank you for sending over the tickets for tonight.”

“Free entry or not, I still expect Addison to make a donation. He brought his checkbook, I hope.”

“You’d have to ask him, sir,” she returned, making a mental adjustment to meet his direct manner. Blending in was always the key. “Would you like to discuss anything now, or should we set up an appointment?”

“Now’s good. I hate wasting my time at these damned blue-blood things.”

“All right. Why don’t you start with telling me what your concerns are?”

For a moment he looked at her, his expression unchanged. “You went toe-to-toe with Peter Wallis.”

“Once we figured out he was behind the theft of Rick’s artworks, yes.”

“I mean you physically fought him.”

Sam pursed her lips, hoping her potential client wasn’t into female mud wrestling or something. “He started it.” Wallis had also been the one to give her the concussion that landed her in a London hospital for two weeks.

Kunz smiled, which she didn’t think he did very often. “I know the rumors about you,” he said, “and about your father’s criminal record and how he died in prison.”

“I haven’t made a secret of any of that.”

“No, you haven’t. I don’t quite believe that you never followed in your father’s footsteps, though.”

Now she was wondering whether this was some sort of Interpol sting. “If you don’t trust me, Mr. Kunz, you should probably hire someone else.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t trust you.” He glanced around the noisy room. “I actually like what you’ve done with your life. It takes guts to push open that box and step outside of it, young lady.”

“Thanks. What does all this mean for you, though?”

“Enough of the compliments, eh? Very well. I have a great deal of money and influence, and some people in my acquaintance who’ve been acting pretty interested in it, lately. And the people who work for me couldn’t think outside their boxes if their lives—or mine—depended on it.”

Samantha nodded. “Does it? Your life, I mean.”

With another look around, he took a swallow of vodka. “Yes, I think it might.”

“Then maybe what you need is a bodyguard. I can scrap with the best of them, but I’m more into preventive measures.”

“I have been considering hiring a bodyguard,” he returned, “but like you, I prefer a more passive and long-term solution.”

“Then I’m your gal.”

“Excellent.”

Kunz drew a breath, his thin shoulders lowering. He’d been worried, she realized, that she might turn him down. Shit. She’d expected her services to be
wanted
, but being
needed
—that got the old heart pumping. “Look,” she said,
lowering her voice as much as she could in the loud room, “I’m not a big fan of carrying tales to the cops, but whatever security measures we decide on aren’t going to be instantaneous. If you think this is an immediate threat, maybe you should think about talking to the PD.”

“No. Success is based on the appearance of—”

“Success,” she finished. “I’ve heard the lecture. And I’m not trying to dictate here, but in my book the number one rule is staying alive. If—”

Kunz chuckled. “I’ll bet that’s quite a book, Miss Jellicoe.”

She found herself smiling back at him. “Sam. And I think you know that I’m not joking.”

“I do know.” He shifted, running a finger around the rim of his glass. “Perhaps I should—speak to someone, I mean. Do you have anyone in mind? Someone you trust?”

A cop she trusted. Talk about an oxymoron. Still…“I’ll see wh—”

A loud bell chimed. “Dinner is served,” a liveried employee of the club called.

A muscle in Kunz’s cheek twitched. “Damn. I want to—” His gaze moved again. “Addison.”

“Hello, Charles,” Rick returned, coming up from behind her to offer his hand.

Kunz shook it. “Your Miss Jellicoe here is quite charming.”

Rick smiled. “I think so.”

“Okay, gentlemen,” she said. “Enough with the compliments. We have a little more business, Rick. Give us a minute.”

“No.” Charles looked straight at her for a long moment, as though he had something else he wanted to say. She waited, but after a moment he cleared his throat. “Come by my house at two o’clock tomorrow. I want to set something up along the…lines we discussed.”

“Will do. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Kunz.”

“Charles. Yes. We’ll talk then.” He inclined his head. “Good evening, Addison, Sam.”

She watched while he headed for the dining room and was intercepted by a taller, brown-haired version of himself. The son, Daniel, she guessed. What was it, who was it, that had him so concerned? He and Daniel looked chummy enough, though with the crowd in between it was impossible to overhear their conversation.

A moment later Rick nudged her shoulder. “Hungry?”

She shook herself. “You ever get that weird feeling that somebody’s walked over your grave?”

He closed his hand over her shoulder and stepped around to face her. “You felt that? Then don’t take the job, S—”

“Not me,” she interrupted, ignoring for the moment that he was trying to give orders again. “Him. Charles.”

Rick followed her gaze. “Really? My thought was that he’s had a little too much to drink.”

She watched as Daniel put a companionable arm around his father’s shoulders and they joined the crowd streaming into the dining room. “Maybe. I still want to talk to him again later if I get a chance. Something big’s bugging him.”

“If something wasn’t bothering him, he probably wouldn’t have felt the need to call you.”

“So you’re saying I attract trouble.”

“You attracted me,” he said by way of answering. Rick held out his hand. “Come on, let’s eat. Apparently dinner tonight is going to cost me ten thousand dollars, so I intend to enjoy it
and
ask for seconds.”

“I suppose,” she muttered, taking his hand, “at least when you start the evening freaked out, it has to get better.”

“Precisely,” he returned, kissing her on the forehead. “So
get ready to consume thirty pounds of prime beef and at least a gallon of w—”

“Richard? Oh, good heavens, it
is
you! Richard!”

His hand gripped Samantha’s convulsively, then relaxed again, and his face went absolutely still.
Shit
. This was bad, whatever it was. She’d only been joking about the ex-girlfriends thing, for God’s sake. Even as she opened her mouth to ask whether he was all right, he turned around to face the cultured feminine voice.

“Good evening, Patricia,” he said pleasantly, smiling. “Samantha, this is Patricia Wallis. Patricia, Samantha Jellicoe.”

Patricia? The
Patricia? And he’d been worried about exposing her to former girlfriends. Sam swung around to get a good look at the ex-Mrs. Addison. “Hi,” she said, taking in the gorgeous black Vera Wang dress, three-inch black fuck-me heels, and coiffed mane of golden blond hair. She’d seen her picture, of course, but Patricia looked even better in person, the bitch.

“Hello. How very nice to meet you after all this time,” the smooth voice returned in cultured, London-native Brit. Patricia held out her hand.

Sam shook it. The grip was a little weak and tentative, and Patricia slipped free before she released. Nervous then, Samantha decided, and trying not to show it. Walking up to her ex when he was in the presence of his new lover, though, had to take some guts.

“What are you doing here?” Rick asked, his face and voice still at ease but the expression in his eyes deathly cold. He didn’t forgive betrayals easily.

“I came for the Season,” Patricia returned. “A little excitement, you know. It’s so dreary in London right now.” She
glanced around, avoiding his steady gaze. “I have something of a…dilemma. Might I come see you in the morning?”

Samantha expected him to refuse, but after a moment he nodded. “Nine o’clock,” he said, for the first time his voice clipped at the end. “For breakfast.”

“Splendid.” With another hesitation Patricia put her hand on his arm, then took a half step closer and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Richard.”

“Hm,” Sam mused when Patricia had strolled away. “I wouldn’t have—”

“I don’t want to discuss it,” Rick muttered back, heading them toward the dining room again at something close to warp speed. “Not now.”

“Okay. I think we busted our theory about the evening getting better, though.”

Before he could answer, some supermodel appeared, clutching onto his arm, and they began an overenthusiastic discussion about winter holidays in Switzerland. Sam knew about those winter holidays, too, and the jewelry that rich vacationers stupidly insisted on toting with them, but she kept quiet. If he wanted to be distracted, she had no problem with that.

As they stepped through the double doors, she glimpsed one of the Society dames edging toward a side table. In a second, and with practiced aplomb, a small crystal inkwell vanished into the woman’s handbag.

“Did you see that?” she murmured, gazing after the diamond-encrusted woman as she vanished into the depths of the dining room.

“What?” he asked, his tone impatient and his thoughts obviously still on the Ex.

“Nothing.”

It figured. He wanted her to go straight, in the middle of a
society where respectable charity women ripped off trinkets from the facilities. She saw things like that all the time; women, mostly, probably desperate for attention or a thrill. Usually it amused her, but tonight it bothered her—since she was skilled enough to palm wallets in her sleep, she was on restriction, but the clumsy, married-well herd could lift anything that wasn’t nailed down, and without repercussions. Fucking hypocrites.

It wasn’t that she wanted clearance to lift ashtrays—she didn’t want to end up with a neat little collection of gaudy trinkets or something and call that her new life. When Rick handed her into a chair and then seated himself beside her, she spent a moment studying his remote expression. There were other ways to betray somebody than by sleeping around, and she wondered if he realized how close she sometimes felt to the edge. And whether he would forgive her if she slipped up.

Saturday, 8:18 a.m.

R
ichard propped his head in his hand, watching Samantha as she slept. He felt as though he’d been kicked in the jaw last evening, but at least he’d done his manly duty and kept his promise to have sex with her all night.

He reached out and curled a strand of her hair behind her ear. When Samantha first set eyes on Patricia, he’d expected an interrogation at best, while his worst case scenario had involved slinging insults and a fistfight. But she’d come face-to-face with Patricia and hadn’t said a word. In fact she’d been quiet and a little distant all evening. What did that mean?

Her enthusiasm when they returned home certainly hadn’t waned. But she still hadn’t asked him a single question about Patricia’s presence or made a single comment about him inviting his ex-wife to breakfast this morning. And that made him uneasy.

Green eyes fluttered open, immediately awake and aware. “Good morning,” she mumbled, rubbing her face into the pillow.

“Good morning. Why do you look so innocent when you’re asleep?”

She smiled lazily, flipping onto her back and reaching up to touch his cheek. “I’m saving up so I can be devious later in the day without it showing.”

“You do it very well, if I may say so.”

“Thanks.”

She studied his face for a moment, while he held still and let her look.
Honesty and trust
. Two things he would never have thought to find in a thief, and the two things he found most precious about her. And he needed to find a way to prove to her that he did trust her. “What?”

“Are you going to be okay this morning with Patricia coming to visit?”

She
had
been thinking about it. “It feels a little odd.”

Samantha brushed aside the blankets and stood, naked and smooth and lovely as daylight. “I bet. All I’m going to say is do whatever you need to, Rick. Emphasis on
you
. She’s the one who screwed around. You don’t need to feel guilty about anything.”

“Wow,” he returned, rising from his side of the bed and reaching for a robe. “You sensed all that trouble on the horizon just from saying hello and shaking her hand?”

“She
is
trouble.” Sam flashed her grin as she headed for the bathroom. “But then so am I.”

“Yes, you are. I have to say, breakfast with the two of you is going to be bloody interesting.”

She paused in the doorway. “I won’t be here. I have to check in with Stoney and see if anybody’s faxed over a résumé. And I have a meeting to get ready for.”

“Kunz really got to you, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m leaving. If Patricia has something to say to you, she won’t want me around.”

The bathroom door closed, but he approached to lean against the door frame. “You’re being very understanding.”

“That’s just me.” For a moment he listened to the sound of water running and things clicking in the medicine cabinet. “And I really have enough to worry about today without getting into a catfight with Patricia Addison-Wallis.”

So she
was
thinking about pummeling Patricia. “You would win,” he commented. “I won’t offer to help you put together a contract for Charles, but I’ll be here composing an article for
CEO Magazine
if you want to run anything past me.”

“I’ll be fine.” Silence. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Richard walked Samantha out to the Bentley, and then stood on the drive to watch her head out toward her new office. When he checked his watch, five minutes remained before nine o’clock. If Patricia kept to her old, familiar pattern, she would be at least twenty minutes late, but obviously Samantha couldn’t know that, and obviously she hadn’t wanted to chance running into her.

He blew out his breath, feeling ridiculous at the tension running through his shoulders. For Christ’s sake, he sat opposite high-powered businessmen, attorneys, and heads of state on a regular basis without so much as flinching. In fact, he frequently caused
them
to flinch. And this morning, with his ex-wife coming by for breakfast, the tips of his fingers felt cold. Not nerves precisely, though he’d be much happier to have her back across the Atlantic. Three years ago he’d caught her in bed with his friend Peter Wallis. The…anger that he’d felt had frightened him, both because of its intensity and because of what, for a few blind, blistering seconds, he had considered doing.

To his surprise, a black rental Lexus rolled up to the house at precisely nine o’clock.
Hm
. She was anxious over something, then. “Patricia,” he said, standing back as Reinaldo held open the car door for her.

“Richard. And Roberto, it’s good to see you again.” She’d dressed conservatively, for her, in what looked like a Prada blouse and skirt, a simple sky blue on top with a wild brown African print on the bottom, flowing and yet still managing to hug her well-honed curves.

The housekeeper didn’t even blink at the misnomer. He’d lived through over a year of it, after all. “Mrs. Willis,” Reinaldo returned instead, handing her off to Rick.

“That’s Addison-Wallis,” she said brightly, rolling her eyes for Richard’s benefit as soon as the housekeeper’s back was turned.

“Oh, yes, I forget, you have so many names,” Reinaldo returned in an amazingly thick accent.

Richard threw Reinaldo a grin as he ushered Patricia toward the front door.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said. “I wasn’t certain you would.”

He’d arranged for breakfast in the dining room, mostly because he didn’t want to have to listen to her chatting about the lovely poolside setting or the weather. “What brings you to Florida?”

“That’s a new wall covering,” she commented, slowing to run her hand along the textured adobe-style finish in the downstairs hall. “It’s lovely. Have you restored the upstairs gallery?”

“Considering that your husband is the one who had it blown up,” he returned, keeping his tone mild, “I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“My ex-husband,” she corrected, talking over the last part of his sentence. “I’m divorcing Peter.”

Giving himself a moment to absorb that news, he gestured her into the dining room and the seat nearest the door. In his reluctance to have her there, he’d asked Hans to have breakfast ready rather than waiting to see what she might want to eat. Sitting opposite her, he nodded at one of the two servers, and the food began appearing from the direction of the kitchens.

“Aren’t you going to say anything, Richard? I’m divorcing Peter.”

“Why?”

“‘Why?’ He’s in prison, on trial for killing two people, contracting another murder, and for smuggling and theft. Isn’t that enough reason?”

“I don’t know, Patricia. I’m unfamiliar with the workings of your moral compass.”

“Richard, don’t.”

He took a breath. “I just find it a little surprising that you would come to Florida solely to confirm to me that you’ve made yet another mistake in judgment.”

“I didn’t know you were here,” she shot back. Her jaw twitching, she reached for the bowl of strawberry jam and began spreading it on her toast. “But I’m glad to see you.”

“I’ll reserve judgment for my part.”

“You were my first love, Richard. Nothing changes that. And the first eight months of our marriage were…” She fanned her hand in front of her face. “…exceptional.” Patricia’s gaze followed his hands as he cut up a slice of cantaloupe and ate it. “Is your friend going to be joining us?”

Richard narrowed his eyes. Past mistakes, past injuries, and poor judgment were one thing, but now she’d brought up the most important part of his present and—unless it killed him—his future. “Samantha had an appointment.”

“I heard that she was setting up a security business. How do you feel about her working, when—”

“Patricia, why are you here?” he interrupted, finally allowing some of his annoyance to surface. “And don’t give me that rubbish about the weather.”

“Fine.” She looked down, stabbing her over easy eggs into oblivion with her fork. “You didn’t make things easy for me, you know, either before or after our marriage ended.”

“I know that. Before was my fault. After is yours. I prefer to leave magnanimous gestures to the Pope.”

“You—” She stopped herself, no doubt realizing that if she started flinging insults, she would end up out on the drive sitting on her arse. “I’m staying at a hotel here in Palm Beach. I had to leave London, and all the memories of Peter and those people—my former friends—he must have lied to. And I want your help to start over again. This time, I want to do things right. I’m living on a budget, trying to keep my priorities straight, making a go of being independent for once.”

“If you’re being independent, why do you want my help?” he returned, barely noting the rest of what she was saying.

“Well, I’m patterning myself after you,” she said, with an unmistakable sniff. “I mean, look at you. You came out well, you’ve settled into your life, you have a new…friend, and you certainly aren’t wanting for money. I need your advice, Richard. And your help and your understanding. Then I can be strong and independent.”

She placed a hand over his, and he couldn’t help notice her fingers shaking. He knew her well enough to be fairly certain that as proficient as she was at manipulating people, her show of helplessness wasn’t an act.

“What sort of help do you want, then?” he asked reluctantly.

“I…I thought you might let me speak with one of Tom Donner’s people, to get a perspective on what I can do in the
divorce when half of Peter’s—our—income was apparently derived from the sale of stolen objects. And I’d like to rent or purchase a small house here in Palm Beach, but I need someone to cosign the paperwork. This—”

“You expect me to help you move here?” he broke in.

She snapped her mouth closed, eyes wide and hurt. “It…it took everything I have to come here and see you.” A well-timed tear ran down her cheek. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do. I can’t stay in London. I need your help, Richard. Please.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said, setting aside his fork with a clank and standing. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to meet Samantha. Reinaldo will see you out.”

“But—”

“You’ve asked enough for one day.”

“You never used to go out of your way to meet me during the day,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

He didn’t reply; he wasn’t certain how to do so, mainly because it was true. He’d never gone much out of his way, veered from his routine, to accommodate Patricia. It had never seemed necessary. She had been his wife, and her schedule had been designed to accommodate his. Samantha, on the other hand, was an all-consuming passion.

“Leave your hotel information with Reinaldo,” he said over his shoulder, pulling open the dining room door. “I’ll have Tom or somebody from his office give you a call.”

“Oh, thank you, Richard. You have no idea what this means to me. Thank you so—”

He closed the door on her faux gratitude and went to collect his car. One thing he could count on about Patricia was that she never changed. Her surface charm and competence had been precisely what he’d wanted in a spouse—or so he’d thought. As it began to sink in that the depths were a mirror
of the surface, and that neither were particularly interesting, he’d drifted away from her—until she’d taken the last giant leap into Peter’s bed.

Three months ago he’d made a leap of his own, and he wasn’t certain his feet had hit the ground yet. Richard climbed into his silver Mercedes SLR. When he did land, he knew where he wanted to be. And he was going to see her right now.

“How’s that?” Stoney called, his voice muffled.

“Stoney, it’s fine. Quit messing with it.” Samantha blew out her breath, ruffling her bangs. “I don’t care which radio station is on. I want to know where this fax machine came from and why the back is labeled ‘Property of Dunbar Associates.’”

Her former fence appeared from the utility closet. “A radio station is all about ambience, baby. How you gonna catch rich, conservative clients when you have Puff Diddy bangin’ it over the sound system?”

Lips twisting, Sam concentrated on looking through the blueprints of Charles Kunz’s home. Some of her old contacts were still definitely worth keeping. If she’d gone through the city to get the plans, it would have taken six weeks. “You’re a dork, Stoney. Where did you get—”

“Come on, admit it. You need a nice classical station. Soothing, elegant, and—”

“—and old. I’m not going to leave the office at the end of the day with gray hair and popping Geritol. Besides, it’s commercial radio,” she returned, deciding she almost preferred it when he was trying to talk her into the Venice caper. “What if some other security firm starts advertising over our sound system?”

“Just watch. You’re—”

“The fax machine, Walter,” she interrupted again, rubbing at her temple.

He plunked himself down on the folding chair opposite hers. “Don’t yell at me because being legit isn’t all balloons and daffodils, honey.”

“Do I have to find Dunbar Associates and give them a call?”

“Not if we were in Venice.”

“Stoney—”

“Fine. There is no Dunbar Associates. They went bankrupt. Big Bill Talmidge has been holding a few pieces of their office equipment, and he offered to make me a deal.”

Big Bill Talmidge was a fence of much less refined taste than Stoney, but he did have a semilegitimate pawn business on the side. “Swear to me that it’s not hot.”

“It’s not hot. Jeez. When did you get so squeamish?”

“Don’t even ask me that, bub.”

He sat there for a moment, and she could feel his gaze boring into the top of her head. Shifting, she flipped the blueprint to the next sheet, the electronic schematics of Kunz’s estate, Coronado House. She knew precisely how she would break in, which gave her a good idea where to start beefing up the security. Like most residences, once somebody got inside, it was pretty much a free-for-all except for the safe and the paintings wired to the walls.

Yep, anybody could just wander in and mess with your things. Sam thunked her forehead against the surface of her desk. Damned Patricia was messing with her best thing right now. She was eating one of Hans’s creations and probably regaling Rick with some tale of woe designed to win his heart back. And here she sat, figuring out how to protect a man’s possessions without the use of sirens and gun turrets.