Twice the Temptation (29 page)

 
“I made a phone call,” she countered. That was the public story, anyway. “My father foiled the robbery.”

 
“Yes, the famous Martin Jellicoe. I was quite surprised to read that he wasn’t dead, as had been widely reported.”

 
She shrugged, keeping a relaxed stance even though her Spider-sense was beginning to tingle. If this guy was a low-level museum curator, she was Wonder Woman. “Martin used to be a cat burglar; sneakiness was kind of his MO.”

 
“Indeed. There was also a mystery you solved involving Mr. Addison’s stolen paintings, and something about
a robbery and murder in Florida which you also solved.”

 
“What can I say? I’m good at my job.”

 
“To a rather miraculous degree.”

 
Samantha stopped, blocking him from descending the last few steps to the cellar floor. “You know, now that I think about it, I do have an interesting résumé. My project with Rick has put me in contact with the curators of most of the better-known museums in Europe. And you know something else?”

 
“I—”

 
“I have a nearly photographic memory. If I see a face or hear a name, I pretty much remember it. But oddly enough, I don’t remember ever hearing your name before you gave it to me this morning.”

 
He frowned. “That’s—”

 
“So in my mind that means you’re either running a scam on me and the V & A—which makes me kind of unhappy—or you’re a cop. Which is it, Henry Larson?”

 
“Cop,” he answered stiffly, his scowl deepening.

 
“Badge?” she returned, holding out her hand.

 
Reaching into an inside jacket pocket, he pulled it out and handed it to her. “Scotland Yard,” she said easily, as if she’d expected exactly that.Great. “So, Inspector Larson, what are you doing pretending to be a museum curator?”

 
“We should sit down,” he said, still looking glum that she’d figured him out. “And put on some tea. This might take a bit of time.”

 
Chapter 3

 
Thursday, 8:12 a.m.

 
Richard slowed his classic ’61 Jaguar as hepassed three delivery trucks and four police cars heading up the long slope to Rawley Park. He downshifted, aiming for the section of road past the next curve where he could turn around.

 
The idea of leaving Samantha alone with truckloads of precious gems amused him. A half dozen or more police officers, though, didn’t seem nearly as funny. He didn’t know about all of the robberies she’d pulled, but he knew enough to be deeply worried whenever she and law enforcement officials were in the same vicinity.

 
As he reached the spot where the road widened, he pulled over and stopped. Why the devil he hadn’t realized that the jewels would have a police escort, he had no idea, but if he went back now, Samantha would know that he’d done so to keep an eye either on her or over her. She hated hovering as much as he did.

 
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and pulled out his cell
phone. Swiftly he dialed the estate security office number.

 
“Craigson,” came his security chief ’s professional voice.

 
“It’s Addison.”

 
“Yes, sir. What may I do for you?” the soft Scottish brogue returned.

 
“Just a small favor,” Richard said, frowning into his rearview mirror. “If, ah, Miss Jellicoe at any time today appears to be in some…difficulty, please call me at once at this number.”

 
“Is there anything in particular I should be looking out for, sir?”

 
Richard hesitated. He liked Craigson, and obviously Samantha did as well, or she never would have hired him, much less put him in charge of overall estate security. They seemed to have a shorthand for discussing things, but Rick had no idea how much the Scot knew of her past. And the fewer people who knew of her Achilles’ heel, the better. “No, nothing in particular,” he said slowly. “I can almost guarantee that you’ll know it if you see it.”

 
“Very well, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

 
“Thank you, Craigson. Ta.”

 
He hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Samantha had several times told him that he had knight-in-shining-armor instincts, and every one of them told him to turn around and go back. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her; he didn’t trust the people around her. But then he would be implying that she couldn’t take care of herself, and he wanted to have sex tonight. Spending the evening fighting would be counterproductive.

 
With a last glance behind him he put the Jag back in gear and pulled again onto the road heading toward
London. If he’d learned anything by now it was that Samantha Elizabeth Jellicoe could take care of just about any odd thing thrown at her. And he had a meeting he needed to attend if he didn’t want to lose out on the Blackpool waterfront redevelopment project.

 
An hour later, just short of the A-1, something popped. Loudly. The Jaguar lurched to the right, nearly sideswiping a lorry. “Shit,” Richard muttered, hauling the wheel back purely by brute force. Pumping the brakes, he managed to slide to a stop at the side of the road.

 
Behind him, most of a tire bounced and skidded along the highway while traffic obliterated it. He blew out his breath, shoved the Jag into park, and opened his door. The right front hubcap and tire were gone, the wheel dug four inches into the soft mud. Bloody wonderful.

 
Leaning against the hood, he pulled out his cell phone to call Sarah in his London office. As he hit the speed dial, a flock of pigeons swooped in from somewhere behind him. One of them apparently mistook him for a telephone pole and tried to land on his head. Cursing, he batted at it—and the cell phone flew out of his hand.

 
It landed on the highway and was promptly flattened by a sedan. For a second he just looked at it. As Sam would say, unbefuckinlievable. She in fact would probably find it hilarious that he, one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world, was stuck by the side of the road in a classic car without automated roadside assistance and being attacked by pigeons. He, however, had a meeting to get to.

 
Blowing out his breath, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat. As he did so, the velvet bag he’d placed in one pocket spilled onto the floor. The bag containing a very large and supposedly cursed
blue diamond that had once belonged to his great-great-grandmother.

 
“There is no such thing as a bloody cursed diamond,” he muttered, leaning over to pick it up and shove it back into an inside pocket. Then he popped the boot and pulled out the jack and spare tire.

 
Squatting on the muddy ground, he found a flat rock to place under the jack and went to work. A few minutes later a breakdown lorry came up behind him, and he straightened, stifling the urge to whip out his wallet and offer the driver every pound in it just for stopping. “Good morning,” he said.

 
“Morning. Got a flat, eh?”

 
“A blowout. Did someone call you?”

 
The beefy fellow nodded. “Dispatcher radioed and said some git called to say that Rick Addison himself was stuck on the side of the road in his Jag. You’d be Rick Addison, then?”

 
“That’s me.”

 
“You’re a wealthy bugger, ain’t you?”

 
Surreptitiously Richard tightened his grip on the box spanner. “I am.” Hopefully most people had learned by now that rich or not, he wasn’t an easy mark. Far from it. If it came to it, the illegal Glock in his glove box could back him up on that.

 
“I was gonna say something about your choice in cars, but since it was the tire and since the car’s a 1961 E-type, I guess that won’t work.”

 
“At this point, you can insult any part of the car you feel like.”

 
The fellow snorted and offered his hand. “I’m Jardin. Angus Jardin.”

 
Richard shook hands with him. “Good to meet you, Mr. Jardin.”

 
“Ha. Angus suits me just fine. You want a tire change or a tow?”

 
“The wheel rim’s bent, so I’m not sure we can change the tire.”

 
“A tow it is. I’ll pull around in front of you.”

 
By the time Angus had the Jaguar hooked up to his lorry, Richard was already twenty minutes late for the Blackpool meeting, with another twenty minutes or so of road between it and him. He checked his watch again as he sat beside his rescuer in the breakdown lorry. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cell phone, would you?”

 
“Here you go,” Angus returned, pulling his phone out from under a scattering of papers on the seat between them and handing it over.

 
“My thanks.” Rick dialed his secretary. “Sarah, it’s Rick. I had a flat, and I’m just pulling onto the A-1.”

 
“Sir, I’ve been trying to call you. The—”

 
“My cell phone met with an accident. Has Allenbeck contacted you?”

 
“Yes, sir. He…wasn’t happy.”

 
Fuck.“What did he say?”

 
“That if you can’t manage to arrive for a meeting on time, he doesn’t want you trying to meet construction deadlines for an entire city. There was profanity, but I won’t—”

 
“Not necessary. I’m fairly familiar with Allenbeck’s colorful expletives. Give me the address and phone number again, will you? I had it on my phone, but that’s gone.”

 
She read off the information, and he jotted it down on the back of an envelope. That done, he closed the phone and handed it back to Angus. If this meeting had been with practically anyone else in the world, they probably
would have either delayed beginning it or sent out a search party to join him wherever he happened to be. But not Joseph Allenbeck, the pompous little rooster.

 
“Trouble, m’lord?”

 
Richard rolled his shoulders. “As usual.” He eyed the driver. “You know, if you’ll agree to drive me to this address in Westminster, I’llgive you that Jaguar.”

 
Angus laughed, a loud, unpleasant sound reminiscent of bears fighting. “You give me thirty quid and let me take your Jag to my brother’s garage, and I’ll drive you to Westminster and call us even.”

 
“That is a deal.”

 
Samantha leaned against one of the few sections of bare wall inside the exhibit room and watched the flow and sparkle of precious jewels all around her. Yesterday, even this morning, she’d been excited and a little nervous about helping to look after a very mobile fortune. Now, though, her enthusiasm had pretty much been squashed flat as a pancake.

 
She thought about calling her former fence and current business partner to complain about the general suckiness of life, but Walter “Stoney” Barstone was holding down the fort at their security office in Palm Beach. If she started bitching to him without at least giving Rick a chance to get his ear chewed first, he would only point out that in the four months since they’d opened the office, she’d spent more time out of town than in it.