A Kiss in the Dark (Sam and Rick #2)

Chapter 4

4

Wednesday, 7:56 a.m.

I n the past, when Samantha met with suit-types it had been in the process of scoping out a crime. She did best with her portrayal of “generic dumbass bimbo,” because men loved to mansplain all their secrets to, well, generic dumbass bimbos who hung all over them and pretended to be infatuated. At the same time, she did speak a couple of languages and had also assumed the guise of a professor, a doctor, a couple of anthropologists and archaeologists, a selection of rich heiresses, and a reporter or two.

All that meant now, though, was that after a year of being on the straight and narrow she still had the tendency to run all her personas through her head while she figured out how to meet a prospective client. In those circumstances, the version of her that was matter-of-fact, cursed less, and showed some knowledge of what was being protected seemed the most practical to wear for the day.

Blowing out her breath, she tapped her clipboard against her thigh and resisted pacing for another minute. Waiting sucked, no matter what the job happened to be.

“Miss Jellicoe?”

She turned from gazing up at the converted Victorian house to see a petite woman hurrying up the block toward her. Anne Hughes lacked an inch or two on her, and she considered herself pretty short—especially in comparison with a six-foot-two English lord. The Sotheby’s curator had hair that had likely started out as brown but had been allowed to lighten to a honey blondish as a good portion of the strands went white.

Ms. Hughes wore it in a slightly longer version of a Helen Mirren bob, and it made her look competent and stylish at the same time. The gray slacks, practical shoes, and peach-colored blouse beneath an open blue jacket completed the ensemble, and Samantha was glad she’d decided against wearing her dress. Yay for practicality.

“Hi. You must be Ms. Hughes,” she said, shifting the clipboard and proffering her right hand.

“Anne, please.” Anne had a firm grip, and while that didn’t necessarily mean anything, it was so much better than the soft, curled-finger howdies that overly cultured women seemed to favor.

“And Sam is fine. This place is lovely.” Samantha gestured at the former house. “Way bigger than a traditional Victorian, though.”

“Yes. Two homes originally sat on this lot. The rear house was demolished to make room for the extension of this one. The entire front of this house is original, with the exception of the windows and some security and accessibility additions.”

Samantha sent her a sideways glance, then resumed gazing at the building. Yeah, she had it pretty much memorized, but it was a good move to look intensely interested. “Sotheby’s has used this place for exhibits before, hasn’t it? Why the concern now?”

“Well.” Anne shifted her feet in her low-heeled peach-colored pumps. “Let’s discuss that inside, shall we?” She motioned toward the front door.

“Sure. Lead the way.”

They headed up the six steps to the wood and glass front door—or rather, steel and plexiglass, she amended, knocking one knuckle against it as Anne slid her ID card through the reader. Definitely not original, but if the rest of the windows had been beefed up to plexi, it would make her job a little easier.

“We did replace the front door,” Anne said on the tale of that thought, pushing it open as the bolts slid open with an audible click. “And the ground floor windows. The upstairs windows are either original or replicas, since they’re much more difficult to enter through.”

Samantha could have disputed that, but she only nodded and made a note on her clipboard to check the alarm wiring on all the windows. Back in the day she’d almost never gone into a building via the ground floor, for exactly the reason Anne Hughes had stated.

In the foyer, which had been opened up to allow for a plexiglass-enclosed ticket booth-looking box and an elevator, they stopped. “We have about half of the displays moved into the building,” Anne said, gesturing toward the depths of the house, “but they haven’t been secured or wired yet. I wanted your opinion, first.”

“Not meaning to overstep or anything,” Samantha commented, “but like I said, Sotheby’s has used this venue on more than one occasion. Is there a particular reason you’re worried about this exhibit? If you do have a specific worry, that would help me figure out where you could use some improvement.”

“Yes, that.” Anne took a breath. “We will be exhibiting and then auctioning a large portion of the estate of Lewis Adgerton on behalf of his family.”

Samantha blinked. “Lewis Adgerton as in Adgerton Digital Media? The guy who wants his ashes flown into space and scattered in orbit?”

“Yes, that’s him. He had quite a collection of art.”

Boy, had he. Samantha had personally liberated a Matisse from him about five years earlier, from his summer home in the south of France, and through Stoney she’d once delivered him an original Picasso plaster of one of his weird penis-nose woman statues. Great. Her statute hadn’t run out on either of those, yet. If this was karma, then karma could go fuck itself. “Wow. His family isn’t keeping hold of all that stuff?”

“No. They all detest each other, apparently, and want everything liquidated and divided into nice, neat little piles of money.” Anne cleared her throat. “Sorry. The sale of artwork keeps me employed, but there’s something about reducing it to its monetary value that just rubs me the wrong way.”

“Oh, I get it. Touching a work of art is like touching history.” Sam put on a smile, trying to be disarming rather than suspicious. “If you could touch it, that is.”

“Yes. Exactly. Anyway, come on, and I’ll give you the tour. My team will be here at nine.” Anne grimaced. “And yes, I have a specific worry. I’ve had dealings with a…particular person before, who’s attempted to damage my reputation. I have reason to believe that he knows I am in charge of this collection and that he means to attempt to remove items.”

Samantha glanced up from her clipboard, eyeing Anne Hughes from beneath her lashes. The woman looked like a competent, middle-aged, mid-level businesswoman, not getting quite as much exercise as she used to and determinedly staying in close pursuit of the better fashion trends. The idea that she had an enemy, someone trying to harm her—even if it wasn’t a physical threat—seemed…weird. Unexpected. “Who is this guy?”

“I don’t know if that matters, because I want to see this collection protected from any attempts at theft by anyone.” She took a breath. “However, in the interest of full disclosure, I believe he goes by various names. The one he used with me was Bradley Martin.”

A metaphorical icepick drove into Samantha’s brain. Fuck, fuck, fuck . She knew Bradley Martin. Bradley Martin, Bob Martine, Frank Bradley, and Brad Cassidy (apparently in honor of Partridge Family singer David Cassidy) were all the same guy. Martin Jellicoe. Her dad . There were probably even more names than that, ones he’d used both before he’d started dragging her along with him and after they’d parted ways.

“I assume from your expression that you’ve heard of him,” Anne said, folding her hands together. “I’m impressed; I haven’t heard his name mentioned in years, myself.”

He hadn’t used that moniker in years, as far as Samantha knew. “If you haven’t heard mention of him, then what makes you think he could be after this stuff?”

“I found this on my desk.” She opened her purse and pulled out a folded piece of copy paper.

Samantha opened it. Written on a computer and printed out, of course, probably right at Sotheby’s. Handwriting would mean evidence in some file somewhere. “‘Congratulations on winning the Adgerton collection gig. I might stop by and see it some time. BM.’”

“When did you find it?” Samantha asked, willing her fingers not to shake as she handed it back.

“Three days ago. I came in on Sunday to go over some logistics with the exhibit, and there it was. I went straight to my boss and offered to hand off the collection to someone else. When he said that no one had ever been able to break into the house here, I asked for additional funds to make certain it stays that way. I was pretty persuasive, I have to say. And here you are.”

Well, this wasn’t the way Samantha had pictured her day going. “I have heard of Bradley Martin,” she admitted, nodding. “He used to be at the top of the heap where cat burglars are concerned. And with a couple of weeks to work, yeah, I could keep him out.” Frowning, she turned a slow circle to eye the late nineteenth century-inspired wallpaper in the hallway. “How long do we have again?”

She knew the answer, but this would be a good way to figure out if there was any leeway in the schedule at all. It still didn’t explain why she hadn’t already turned down the job and run out the door, because going up against her dad…She’d done it once, and he’d double-damn crossed her and nearly got her sent to prison. Maybe that was the lure for her, though. He’d slipped away without his prize, but neither of them could actually say they’d come out the winner in their little contest. The Metropolitan Museum of Art sure hadn’t, what with having to replace fire doors and upgrade their entire electrical system.

“The timeline is firm. Six days before the exhibit opens, and it will remain open for two weeks. We’ve already uploaded photos of the items on the website and printed the exhibit and auction brochures. I believe we’ve even had some bids come in. Unofficially, of course.”

That made Samantha’s ears perk up. “Do you know which items have gotten the most interest?” Hell, she couldn’t count on all her fingers and toes how many times one of her jobs had been to liberate something after the guy who wanted it the most had lost out on a bidding war.

“I’ll inquire. It’s unofficial, as I said. We use it as an indicator of our starting price, more than anything else. That said, there are some items worth more than a hundred million dollars apiece.” Anne tilted her head. “Sam, I can see you hesitating. Is this something you can do? Because if it isn’t, I need to find someone who can, and I have no time left in which to do that.”

This was one of those times when she would have liked to be able to talk to Rick before she answered. He made for a pretty good conscience while she was still trying to find her balance in the crazy world of being law-abiding. But he was at his giant skyscraper of an office headquarters this morning, and she was standing in front of a nice lady with a very big problem. If it hadn’t been her dad, she wouldn’t even have hesitated. Maybe that was her answer, then.

“I can do it,” she said. “I’m not cheap, though. Especially with this timeline.”

“I understand. Do we have a deal?”

Samantha stuck out her hand. “We do. Let me make a few calls, and I’ll get started. Sotheby’s will have a contract emailed to it before noon. When your installation staff comes in this morning, make sure they know that what I say goes. Because I can pretty much guarantee they won’t like some of what I’m going to say.”

Anne shook her hand. Hard. “Thank you. You have no idea—thank you. Bradley Martin left a disaster in his wake the last time. I don’t want to lose to him again.”

Neither did Samantha.

* * *

Richard typed the address Samantha had given him into Google Maps, then clicked on street view. Ah. A renovated Victorian, just the thing to help any potential buyers imagine all the expensive pieces in their own homes. She hadn’t told him what Sotheby’s was going to be exhibiting or auctioning, but he imagined he could get that out of her later. With his art museum up and running in the renovated stable of his estate in Devon, he’d become even more interested in acquiring pieces than he had been before, and that was saying something.

Someone rapped at the door of the office he’d commandeered for the day, and he looked up. “Come in.”

Jeniah Davis stepped into the room, a folder in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. “I have the printout of the docs you requested from Tom Donner,” she said, “and a cup of Earl Grey.”

“Thanks. For both. Where did Peter settle?”

She grinned. “In the breakroom. But don’t feel sorry for him. We had donuts brought in this morning, and he’s been looking for a reason to pop in there and eat all of them, anyway.”

“Well done me, then.” He picked up the folder as she set it down in front of him. “Have my car brought ’round at five-thirty, will you?”

“Sure. And I texted you the confirmation for dinner for two at the Bryant Park Grill at six-thirty.” She hesitated. “Are you certain that’s where—”

“It’s a pretty little place, at the back of the New York Public Library,” Richard interrupted. “It’s interesting.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Jeniah agreed. “It’s just that I’ve never known you to dine there before.”

Ah, the before times. Before he’d met Samantha Jellicoe. A great many things in his life had changed since then—not the least being that his first requirement for a dining establishment was no longer exclusivity. Samantha liked quirky, and historical, and interesting. He was discovering the same about himself. On top of that, he liked doing things for her. “I’m branching out.”

“Good for you, Mr. A.”

Evidently everyone thought adding Samantha into his life had been an improvement. He happened to agree, but at the same time he’d discovered that “old Mr. Addison” had apparently been rather cranky and demanding. And while the moniker “Mr. A” made him feel like a character in a comic book, being more approachable certainly hadn’t hurt his bottom line. Just the opposite, in fact. “Thank you, Jeniah.”

She left, shutting the door behind her, and Richard immediately swiveled in his chair to look out over Manhattan. He couldn’t see the old Victorian house from the corner office of the Addisco headquarters on the thirtieth floor of the building he also owned, but he knew pretty much where it lay.

All day he’d resisted the urge to call Samantha, to see how her new “gig,” as she called it, was proceeding, but thinking about it had put a definite damper on his ability to get any of his own work done. After he checked the time on his phone again, he went ahead and tapped her photo.

She answered after the second ring. “Hey.”

“Hi. Anything interesting going on?”

“Dude, are you bored ?” she asked, her voice dripping humor.

“I know, you told me not to come to New York. But I’m here, so how is everything going?”

“Good, with a smattering of ‘holy shit,’” Samantha returned, her voice lowering. “I have about another hour here today. Wanna meet me somewhere for dinner after?”

“How about I pick you up at quarter of six?”

“As long as what I’m wearing is okay. I don’t want all those women on the Rick’s Chicks Facebook page trashing me again.”

He grinned as he gazed out the window. “Your attire is suitable. I can’t promise you won’t get trashed. They do love me, you know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware. They call me ‘Jellicon,’ which scared me until I realized they just meant that I’m conning you—not that I’m on my way to becoming a convicted felon.”

“God, every time you say something like that my Fitbit alert informs me that I’m having a heart attack,” he muttered, not amused any longer. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

He wanted to ask what it was that ranked as holy-shit-worthy on her meter, but given the way she’d lived her life so far it would have to be bad. No, it was better to wait so she could tell him in person and he could decide if he needed to throw her over his shoulder and flee with her.

At the same time, something untoward was already afoot, and he was a quarter of the way across town from her. Richard tapped his phone again. “Benny, bring the car around now, will you? I’m in the mood to go for a drive.” And to circle a particular block for an hour until time to retrieve Samantha.

When they reached the building some twenty-five minutes later, nothing looked fright-inducing. A truck parked at the rear, with uniformed workers unloading what had to be display cases and stands. A van parked behind the truck bore the name of a security company with whom Samantha had worked occasionally over the past few months, and a third vehicle sat with its rear doors open to reveal boxes of cables and cameras, a Sotheby’s security agent watching over all the comings and goings from beside the heavy double doors.

“There’s some parking about two blocks from here,” Benny said over his shoulder as he sent the SUV on up the street and around the next corner. “Do you want to wait there?”

“No keep circling.”

“Okay, but the guard’s already giving us the side-eye.”

The downside of Samantha entering his life and making him seem more approachable to his employees was that they didn’t only bring him new insight. Now they all felt free to question his choices and decisions. Admittedly overall that seemed to encourage him—and the company—to make better choices, but his ego still wasn’t quite comfortable with him being…humanized. “At least once more around the block, Benny.”

“You’re the boss, Mr. A.”

They circled again, and he took time on this go around to count the number of windows lining the front and back of the modified Victorian. If he knew anything about Samantha, which he did, she would think there were too many. The ones on the top floor even looked like they could be original to the house.

His phone rang. Samantha’s name showed up in the display, and he tapped the accept button. “Hi.”

“Are you by any chance driving around in a black Ford Expedition and circling my block?” she asked without preamble.

“You said you were facing ‘holy shit,’” he returned, frowning. “I wanted to make certain SWAT wasn’t surrounding you.”

He could hear her sigh. “Okay. I’m just…I’m glad it’s you. Marv wanted to pull a gun the next time you came around and start a Heat -type shootout.”

“ Heat being the DeNiro movie, and Marv being the Sotheby’s security agent, I presume,” Richard said. “We’ve only circled twice, so either Marv is extremely gung ho, or you have him on high alert.”

“Probably half and half. Just double-park out back and come in.”

“Will do.” He lowered the phone. She hadn’t complained that he was being pushy or stepping on her toes. To most men that likely would have signaled that she was become more accepting of having someone else in her life. To him, though, and with Samantha being the woman in question, he found it worrying. If she wanted a second opinion, or backup, she should simply have said so. “Park us behind one of the vans, Benny.”

“You got it, Mr. A.”

He’d been to enough Sotheby’s auctions to know that armed security wasn’t uncommon, but this was both an off-site venue and one that was still setting up the displays. No valuables would be inside yet. Aside from that, Samantha didn’t like guns. Something had spooked her. And that, he didn’t like. At all.

“Wait here for me,” he instructed, as he stepped out of the SUV to approach the security officer stations at the house’s open rear doors. “You must be Marv,” he said, keeping his hands away from his sides just in case Samantha hadn’t yet given her armed protection the all-clear.

“Mr. Addison. Sam says to meet her up on the second floor.” Marv tilted his face toward the microphone extending down from his right ear. “Eagle to Nest: I have Mr. Addison on his way up, over.”

“Thank you.” Hiding his amusement behind years of practice, Richard walked into what Samantha would have termed the business end of the house. Stacks of metal chairs stood in one corner, while open doors on the other side gave him a glimpse of the security room, the utility closet, and a padded elevator, respectively. With a half dozen people in sight already, Samantha must have had at least three times that in the building. Hmm.

After a trio of men wheeled a four-foot-tall pedestal topped by a glass cube into the elevator, he stepped in behind them. “Which floor?” he asked, pushing the second-floor button.

“Same.”

The workers exchanged glances. “You’re Rick Addison, aren’t you?” one of them asked in a thick Bronx accent.

He nodded. “I am.”

“How does a stiff in a suit like you get a hot lady like Sam? It’s the money, right?”

“Nah, she don’t go for money,” the second one countered. “Maybe it’s that accent. You’re British, right?”

“I am,” Richard answered, somewhere halfway between being insulted and amused.

“Yeah, if I had a swanky accent like that, I bet I could get the ladies,” the second mover went on.

“No, you couldn’t,” amateur comedian number three put in. “And it’s definitely the money.”

Thankfully the elevator opened before one of them could pull out a measuring tape and ask him to drop his trousers. With a nod, Richard exited. The walls, covered with dark, rich paneling and pin-point lights designed to illuminate particular sections, made the second floor feel like a maze. Of course, he might have asked in which direction Samantha would be up here, but he’d been too occupied with being rich and British.

Keeping his expression neutral, he headed to the right. If he could find some windows, he would at least be able to orient himself. It didn’t help that there were plastic sheets hung everywhere to protect freshly re-stained wood, or that the smell was intense enough to actually make him feel light-headed.

A hand slipped around his left arm. “I figured you wouldn’t be able to resist coming inside,” Samantha murmured.

He leaned down to brush his mouth against her ear. “That’s what she said.”

Shifting, Samantha gave him a quick kiss on the jaw. “I don’t know how you manage to make that sound sexy, but you do.”

It likely had a great deal to do with her being an adrenaline junky looking for release, but hell, so was he. “This is…chaotic,” he observed, turning his attention back to the house.

She looked up at him. “Yeah, I think I’m high on fumes right now, too. Let’s find a window.”

Obviously, she’d already learned the layout, because she led him around a half dozen corners, through three sheets of plastic, and into one of the corner turret rooms. All the windows stood open, and he staggered to the nearest sill and took a deep breath. “You should be wearing a mask.”

“I was; you should have tried breathing in here two hours ago. I could see sound.” With a grin she sank down on the sill of the next window over, unmindful of the thirty-foot drop to the ground directly behind her. “I’m glad we set up the museum at Rawley Park. It’s been good practice for this.”

“I’m more interested in what prompted your comment on the phone,” he said, glancing at the open door beyond. As discreet as he generally was, she’d turned the damned thing into an art form.

“Nothing urgent.” Straightening, she sidled toward the hallway. “If you can hang out here, I’ll be about fifteen more minutes.”

A silent alarm began buzzing in the back of his head. Within two minutes of him arriving, she’d ushered him into one corner and seen to it that he stayed there. She’d done a good job of it, but he knew when he was being handled. The question was, why? What, exactly, had she run into here that had bothered her? And why the hell did she want to keep it from him and keep him close by at the same time? “I’ll attempt to stay out of the way,” he said aloud.

That earned him a swift kiss on the cheek. The moment she slipped out of sight, he pulled out his phone and sent a text to Tom Donner, asking him to discover what he could about Anne Hughes, the building, and which auctions Sotheby’s had coming up in the next month. Tom wouldn’t like it, but by now he’d become accustomed to odd requests where Samantha and her business was concerned.

The response came immediately. “Christ. Gimme a damn minute.”

Not bothering to respond, Richard took a deep breath out the window and then headed back into the chaos. In some ways it offended him to pretend to be bumbling or dim, and none of that would fool Samantha, but he wasn’t putting on this show for her. Instead, he made for the trio of workers wiring a pedestal for light and for an alarm system.

None of them knew from where the collection for which they were preparing had come, though they seemed to think it was all from one “dead rich guy.” Filling this entire building with one person’s collection—that had to be someone whose acquisitions nearly rivaled his own. And that narrowed down the list of suspects considerably. Hm.

He sent another text, inquiring after rich dead guys who’d expired over the past six months. Tom’s response—“What the hell are you doing, playing criminal Trivial Pursuit?”—made him grin as he strolled into the next area, this room likely a former library, or even ballroom, given the size of it.

A small woman stood in the middle of the swirl of activity, an iPad in her hands and her neck crooked as she held a phone pinned between her ear and shoulder. This would have to be Samantha’s employer—nobody else would be attempting to direct workers with Sam in the house.

She lifted her head, dropping the phone into one hand with an ease that said this wasn’t anything unusual for her. He wanted to walk up and ask her for whatever information she had, but he had a pretty clear idea of how Samantha would react to her boyfriend coming to visit her on the job and then checking up on her with the boss. Nor would she be above pulling the same shit on him just to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Sidestepping, Richard posted himself just outside the door, out of the way but not quite out of earshot. There. That was fairly unobtrusive, if one could overlook the fact that he was there in the first place. And Samantha had invited him upstairs, after all.

“—Hughes, was this the cabinet for in here, or the library?” a male voice asked. “I can’t read the last number on the back.”

“Let me check, Terry. Is that the twenty-four inch?”

“Thirty.”

“Thirty, thirty…Library,” she said after a moment.

“And all this is for one guy’s stuff?” the same male voice queried.

“Yes. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Even my entire Barbie collection from when I was a kid couldn’t fill all this space.”

“My Hot Wheels could give you a run for your money. And you should see Jamie’s Star Wars stuff.”

Anne Hughes laughed. “I did a Star Wars auction once. Sotheby’s sold a set-used lightsaber for thirty-thousand dollars.”

“Ya hear that, Jamie? Any of your stuff worth that much?”

“If it was, I wouldn’t be telling you about it,” a rougher voice responded. “Hey, Sam, do you collect anything? Other than British guys?”

“Ha ha,” Samantha’s voice came, and Rick edged back a little farther from the doorway. Spying was bad enough. Getting caught—that was worse. “I have some cool Godzillas.”

She did, because he’d given her most of them. Before him, before she’d settled in one house, one place, she hadn’t collected anything that he knew of. No one could flee on a whim with a collection of anything bigger or weightier than pennies or Pokémon cards. The way she marveled at the silliest of gifts told him volumes about how she’d lived her life before she’d crashed into his.

“Speaking of British guys,” Samantha went on, “I hope you don’t mind, Anne, but mine wanted to pick me up for dinner and showed up early. I think he’s hoping to get a preview of the collection, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that nothing’s been installed, yet.”

A hand snaked around the doorframe, palm up. Feeling like a damned schoolboy caught smoking, Richard put his hand in hers and rounded the corner into view. “Excuse me for the intrusion, Miss Hughes,” he said in his most charming tone. “I’m a collector, myself, and resisting a sneak peek at a Sotheby’s auction is…difficult.” He stepped forward, offering his free hand. “Richard Addison.”