Twice the Temptation (28 page)

 
Rick had a house there, as well, if anyone could call a mansion boasting thirty rooms, a pool, two tennis courts, and three acres of garden a house. Even Solano Dorado, though, was dwarfed by the Rawley Park estate here in Devonshire.

 
She looked toward the main road again, visible far down the hill beyond the estate’s stone walls. Additional security personnel already manned the gates, watched the security monitors, and walked the perimeter of the stable outbuilding. Everything was as ready as she could make it, but she couldn’t help pacing.

 
The tips of her fingers tingled, and adrenaline pumped through her muscles. It felt like the preamble to a robbery, without the underlying layering of hard tension that came when she put her freedom, and sometimes her life, on the line for a crime. She rotated her arms, stretching her muscles and speeding her blood-flow. Yep, she was ready for anything. Now all she needed was for the trucks and the white hats to arrive so she could get started.

 
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. “This is early for you, isn’t it, love?” Rick said in his low, cultured drawl, pushing her hair forward over her shoulders to kiss the nape of her neck.

 
For a minute she let herself sink into him. What had Dr. Phil called a good partner? A soft place to fall, or words to that effect. Rick had made it possible for her to start a new life. Whether she’d meant to retire in the near future anyway or not, without him the temptation to go back into the heart-pounding nights of cat burglary would have been almost too much to resist.

 
“Just waiting for a delivery,” she returned, facing him. “Ooh, very James Bond.”

 
“I’m not James Bond,” he said, giving his standard reply.

 
“This morning you are. Wow.”

 
He’d dressed for business, in a dark blue Armani suit and a blue and gray tie that made his eyes look as blue as sapphires. When he grinned, her heart skipped a beat.

 
“Then kiss me, Moneypenny,” he said in a very good Connery accent. He wrapped his hands around her waist and dipped her.

 
With a yelp she grabbed his shoulders, arching her back as he kissed her, mouth, teeth, and tongue.Good
glory. “Oh, James,” she breathed, when he gave her a second to talk. “What brought that on?”

 
“You were asleep last night when I came to bed,” he returned, slowly swinging her upright again. “And I was such a gentleman that I didn’t wake you up for the sex.”

 
Samantha snorted. “‘The sex’?”

 
He nodded. “Yes, you’re familiar with the sex, I believe. If not, read up. I’ll be home this evening, and if you’re asleep this time, Iwill wake you up.”

 
Rick kissed her again. It continued to amaze her that even after eight months he could just look at her and make her knees go weak. As for his kisses and the sex, hoo mama. “I’ll be awake.”

 
“Very wise of you. Call me if you need me.” He gripped her fingers, then slowly released her to head toward his stadium-sized garage. “I love you.”

 
“I love you.” She watched him walk away. “Why are you driving?”

 
He glanced over his shoulder. “It helps me think. By the by, I’m taking the Nightshade with me to have it appraised.”

 
A low shiver of uneasiness ran through her. “Be careful, Rick.”

 
“I will be.”

 
He could be to London and back by helicopter in the time it took him to drive there, but if he was carrying a cursed diamond, she was happy that he was on the ground rather than a thousand feet above it. Still, she’d seen him drive. He didn’t take as many risks as she did, but he did like to go fast.

 
The red ’61 E-type Jaguar growled down the drive and out the gate, then headed down the narrow road to the main highway intersection. He would still be on his
land for another ten minutes, but he’d only walled off the house from the prying eyes of the press and the star-struck public.

 
Samantha only had five minutes to consider whether he should be more worried about carrying the diamond, or she should be less worried about it. She was still undecided when she caught sight of a trio of white-paneled delivery trucks winding up the hill toward Rawley Park. As they drew closer, the four accompanying police cars came into view.

 
That was the biggest downside of working with the white hats—constantly rubbing shoulders with cops and lawyers and other people she previously would have avoided with a vengeance. “Showtime,” she muttered, as the caravan stopped momentarily at the main gates and then continued up toward her again.

 
A couple of months ago and despite the many times Rick had said he trusted her, she couldn’t quite picture him driving away while the V & A delivered the glittery equivalent of several million British pounds into her care. And yet there he went, out of sight now down the road.

 
The trucks and police cars stopped in the gravel parking lot. Wow, they’d sent bobbies with M-16s just to show how seriously everybody took the safety of this little traveling display. She blew out her breath and picked up the paperwork attached to her official exhibit clipboard.

 
“Miss Jellicoe,” a tall guy in a cheap, tan-colored suit said, as he emerged from the lead truck and approached her. “I’m Henry Larson, Mr. Montgomery’s second-in-command.”

 
That sounded better than the assistant’s assistant. “Mr. Larson,” she said, shaking his hand and examining
his photo badge. With the blonde crew cut and brown eyes that spent more time looking at the picturesque land around them than at her face, he didn’t quite fit her idea of a museum curator. But then she couldn’t quite imagine herself as the mistress of the house behind them—if that’s what she was. “Do you want to take a look at the room before you start off-loading?”

 
“Indeed I do.” He signaled, and half the cops together with a dozen ID-badge-wearing museum employees joined them.

 
“You’ve all seen the layout schematics, I presume,” Samantha said, leading the way to the stable and feeling like she needed a little tour-guide flag to wave. “The displays are set up nearly identically to the layout in Edinburgh.”

 
“How many people will have access to the door code?” Larson asked, nodding at the pair of estate guards standing at either side of the door.

 
She turned her back on the crowd and punched in the set of numbers. “Just you and me,” she returned, facing him again. “It changes daily, and you’ll have to get it either from me or from the computer in the estate cellar, which is where I have all the monitoring equipment set up.”

 
“Excellent,” he returned, giving the control pad and heavy door the once-over before they walked inside.

 
She’d turned on the bright overheads already, figuring that the group setting up the displays would favor good illumination over atmospheric lighting. “The exit door to the gift shop’s set up the same way, and I’ll have guards at each door when we open.”

 
“How many cameras?” Mr. Larson asked, turning a slow circle.

 
Evidently he and his boss didn’t communicate very
well. “Twelve, including the four outside covering the outer walls and doorways.”

 
“Overlapping views in here, I see,” he commented, then bent down to look into the nearest display. “Pressure sensors on the glass?”

 
“And weight and motion sensors inside the cases, all currently deactivated.”

 
“I’d like to do a live test before we bring the gems in.”

 
“Okay.” Samantha pulled her walkie-talkie from her pocket. “Craigson, make ’em hot,” she instructed. “This is a test, everybody.” All she needed was for the estate guards to come in and tackle Larson.

 
“Everything’s green, Sam,” Craigson’s voice came a moment later.

 
She faced Mr. Larson again. “Break in to your heart’s content,” she said, stepping out of the way and covering her ears.

 
Ignoring the many “Do Not Touch the Displays” signs affixed to the walls, Larson gripped either side of one of the smaller cases and yanked up. The lid stayed put, the secondary scary red overhead floodlights came on, the doors locked, and a high-pitched wail screamed from the hidden wall speakers.

 
Releasing one of her ears, Samantha faced the nearest camera and drew her fingers across her neck. The siren shut off and the lights and doors returned to their standby positions.

 
Larson was nodding. “Is there a fire override?”

 
“Yes. If a fire sensor goes off, the doors unlock and the sprinklers go off, or we can do it from the control room. We had the sensors turned all the way up; when guests arrive I’ll turn them down so a little jostling and glass-tapping won’t set off the fireworks.”

 
“Well done, Miss Jellicoe. What about metal detectors?”

 
“They pull out from the doorframes, with a second one inset into the gift shop exit doorway for the merchandise tags. They were off,” she commented, indicating the cops with their M-16s.

 
The assistant’s assistant clapped his hands together. “Very well. Let’s get started, then, shall we? McCauley, get your people organized.”

 
Samantha hid a frown as a spindly young woman with bright red cropped hair nodded, gathering the museum employees together for some quick instruction and then sending them out the door. It made sense, she supposed; the V & A people had been touring with the gems for four months and could probably do the setup with their eyes closed. Henry Larson was the second-string quarterback.

 
“While they’re bringing in the safe boxes, would you show me the command center?” he asked on the tail of her thought.

 
“Sure. This way.”

 
Much as she wanted to see the jewels being settled into their temporary homes, walking away was probably a better test of her character. And even though she and Montgomery had spent most of the last month reviewing security and viewing concerns and trying to balance the two, she couldn’t blame Larson for wanting to cover his ass and see the setup for himself.

 
“I hear you’ll be opening your own exhibit here soon,” he said conversationally as they walked through the garden.

 
“Mm-hm. The entire south wing of the house is being remodeled to display the art and antiques Rick’s collected. We’re hoping for a December opening. The
V & A exhibit is turning out to be great for helping me answer some of the security concerns I’ve had for the main house.”

 
“Speaking of Mr. Addison, is he in residence?”

 
Ah, another fan of the rich and famous.“Not at the moment,” she said noncommittally. As her old dad had used to say before they’d parted company and he’d been arrested, only give out information when it’s to your own benefit. Talking about the house gave her some additional credentials, and it was public knowledge, anyway. Talking about Rick—that was Rick’s business.

 
“You know,” Larson continued, following her in through what had used to be the servants’ entrance and down the narrow hall at the back of the house, “I’ve been doing some studying. You have a rather interesting résumé.”

 
She glanced sideways at him, but his attention was apparently on the cellar door they approached. “Do I? Just run-of-the-mill artwork security stuff and some art restoration, I thought.”

 
“Hardly. Two months ago you helped foil a robbery at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.”