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Billionaires Prefer Blondes

Chapter One

Tuesday, 2:17 p.m.

Samantha Jellicoe liked New York City. Hell, her vagabond shoes were longing to stray, just like the song said. The rest of her verses would go a little differently than Sinatra's, though. She would croon about how the wealthy citizens lived in basic insecurity amid the huddled masses, how all the taxis handily looked the same for timely escapes, and how everyone was so involved in their own crap that they couldn't be bothered to notice anyone else's.

And for people like her, who made their livelihood by slipping their vagabond shoes in and out of places they shouldn't, that made it very close to heaven.

Or rather, she used to make her living by slipping through the shadows and snatching up other people's very expensive belongings. Not any longer. She was now retired from that business. R-E-T-I-R-E-D. Retired. Which didn't explain why she was currently standing on the doorstep of one of the influential elite. All right, she hadn't entirely retired. She'd just gone legit. She had a day job. Yay, her.

With a slight, professionally considered tilt of her head, she smiled and shook the hand of Mr. Boyden Locke. "Glad I could be of help, Boyden," she said, still not entirely certain his name hadn't been designed by some MIT think tank for the purpose of encouraging investors. She would choose something like Samantha Safehouse for herself. "And thank you for the coffee."

He held on to her hand for a moment too long, undoubtedly his way of letting her know that he was interested in more than her advice. As if she couldn't have told that from the way he'dchatted with her boobs for the past forty minutes. Mr. Locke probably had no idea what color her eyes were. His were brown, and they shifted toward his valuables when he talked about them.

"No, thank you," he returned. "In my position, it's impossible to be too cautious. I know the house is badly in need of a security upgrade, but I wanted to make sure I found the right person to handle the job."

Somehow he made the comment seem vaguely obscene, but Samantha smiled anyway. She had a hunch that her being the right person for the job had more to do with the man with whom she was currently living than with her credentials. But if being associated with Rick Addison brought her business, then so be it. "I'll write up my recommendations and get them over to you."

"And I'll have my people look them over. And you're welcome to come by for coffee anytime."

Samantha forced her lips to curve further. "I'll keep that in mind. You should have my invoice in the next week or so."

She retrieved her hand and sidled out his door. Once in the clear, Samantha dug into her purse for a tin of Altoids mints. "Coffee. Blech," she muttered, popping a pair of the wintergreen-flavored tabs into her mouth.

Apparently she'd do anything in the name of expanding her business, if she had lowered herself to drinking—okay, barely sipping—coffee. At the corner she turned around and surveyed Locke's house again. Old, elegant, and perfectly located in the old-moneyed East Side, she could see why he'd called to meet with her about his security situation practically the second her flight had landed at La Guardia.

A few years ago she'd hit the house three doors down from him. The Monet inside had netted her a quarter million, and Locke had a Picasso in his drawing room. If the buyer she'd contracted with had preferred modern to Impressionist art, it might very well have been his house she'd hit that night.

His security system was pretty standard, alarms on the doors and windows and sensors on the artwork. For a moment she was tempted to break in through the back door just for old times' sake before she advised Locke on his upgrade. She could have his Picasso in her hands before he had time to pour himself another cup of coffee. With her luck, though, he'd probably think she was coming on to him.

The phone in her purse rang, interrupting her reverie over the semi-good old days. At the familiar sound of the James Bond theme, she grinned. "Hey, studmuffin," she said, with her free hand waving down a taxi.

"Your meeting went well, then," a cool masculine voice replied in a slightly faded British accent.

"You could tell that from three words?"

"Yes. Good is those three words. Bad is five words."

She chuckled, stepping forward as a yellow cab stopped at the curb. Pulling open the door, she slid in. "Madison and Sixtieth," she said, shutting the door. "Which five words?"

"Usually it's 'Get off my back, bub,' as I recall."

"Yeah, but that's not always about business."

He gave an unaccustomed snort. "Samantha Jellicoe, I dare you to come over here and say that to me."

Her mouth went dry. All he had to do was hint about sex, apparently, and she practically had an orgasm. "Randy much?" she joked.

"You have no idea. I actually called, though, to see whether we were still on for dinner tonight."

"I wouldn't want to wreck your surprise."

"I do appreciate that. You're going shopping?"

Samantha resisted the urge to check the cab for hidden cameras. "Which word gave it away?"

"Madison Avenue, darling. Buy something sexy. And red."

"I wouldn't have to keep buying red if you'd stop ripping them off me. And, I have to say, red and sexy would hardly be appropriate for Pauly's Pizza."

"We're not going to Pauly's Pizza."

"If you say so. Since you won't tell me where we are going, I'll just see you tonight," she said, and clicked the phone closed.

The taxi stopped and she stepped out onto Madison Avenue before she realized that she'd forgotten to ask Rick how his meeting was going. "Shit," she muttered, reaching for her phone again. She dialed his cell.