Barefoot in the Dark Read online

  Barefoot in the Dark

  Suzanne Enoch

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Discover More By Suzanne Enoch

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Barefoot in the Dark

  Copyright © 2018 by Suzanne Enoch

  Ebook ISBN: 9781641970365

  * * *

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  * * *

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  * * *

  NYLA Publishing

  121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Dedication

  To every single person who ever read about Samantha Jellicoe and Rick Addison and wished, privately or aloud, that someone (ie, me) would sit down and write another one, for crying out loud. You’re the reason this story exists. Thank you for being so very, very, very patient.

  And thank you for encouraging me to jump back into this crazy world. It’s really fun in here.

  1

  Tuesday, 1:02 p.m.

  Samantha Jellicoe paused, her back plastered to the warm, rough-surfaced stone wall, then edged closer to the barred gate just beyond her. A thin line of sweat trickled down the side of her face, but she ignored it. That was rule number three in the thieves’ handbook; when any movement can get you noticed, don’t move.

  The mutter of conversation just on the other side of the gate was mostly about filing times for stories, the legality of drones “accidentally” straying over private property, and something about shoes. It might have amused her, except that her name kept edging into the discussions. Her name. Her actual, real name. “Dammit,” she muttered under her breath. This was not good, especially when all the people who knew her name also knew exactly where to find her and had surrounded the place so she couldn’t leave without being seen. Well, most people wouldn’t be able to leave without being seen.

  The phone in her back pocket vibrated in three short bursts. Refusing to jump, she tapped her earpiece against the wall. “What?” she breathed.

  “You can see them from the security room, you know,” the cultured male British accent noted.

  She stepped back a few feet from the gate. “Any sap could do that. And stop spying on me.”

  “I will, if you’ll stop spying on them.”

  Finally turning her head, she sent a glare up at the security camera hidden inconspicuously among the palm trees. “I don’t like being stuck in here. I want to go for a run.”

  She could almost hear the man on the other end of the phone sitting forward. “Samantha, if you want to go for a run, have Ben drive you out somewhere. Do not hop the fence.”

  “Sorry, Rick, you’re breaking up. I can’t…hear… Oops – lost you.”

  “I can still see you standing there, dammit,” Richard Addison retorted, his voice dropping and his accent intensifying. “And I don’t want to see your arse disappearing over the wall on the evening news. Come back inside.”

  Because she wasn’t an idiot, she left the line open, but she didn’t bother to answer him. Yes, she could have seen them from the security room. She already had. She’d been glaring at them for the past twelve days, as a matter of fact. But she’d wanted information, and she couldn’t get that from the non-stop, indecipherable buzz of overlapping voices echoing in the security room. So now she knew, and it did not make her feel any better.

  “Samantha, get away from the wall before someone sees you.”

  She shot an affronted look at the camera. “Who do you think you’re talking to, bud?”

  “I didn’t mean to insult you. Just come inside.”

  “You’re the one who had to go and tell Frank Castillo we’re engaged, so this zombie horde of press vultures is all your fault. If you can’t think of another way for me to get out of here without people snapping photos and shouting questions at me, I’m going over the back wall. You have two minutes.”

  “I had no idea Frank would type up our conversation in his police report, or that that bloody Backstage Pass show trolled the damned things. It’s not entirely my fault, anyway; I was only attempting to explain why I’d put a Samurai sword through a man’s shoulder and left him stuck to a shelf in my library.”

  “Ah, good times.” And to think that had only been two weeks ago. Since then, the press and paparazzi and half the girls from the “Rick’s Chicks” fan club had been staking out Rick’s Solano Dorado estate. Stupid West Palm Beach was supposed to be used to shit like rich, gorgeous Brits getting engaged to mysterious nobodies, but they apparently hadn’t gotten the memo about that this time.

  “Yes, good times,” he echoed. “Except for the bits about you nearly getting killed and me ruining a perfectly good Samurai sword. Get back in the house.”

  She continued away from the front gates, heading for the east side of the property. “Ninety seconds,” she breathed.

  “Why do you have to be so bloody stubborn?” Rick’s hiss came in her ear as she changed course, moving in a direct line toward the back of the estate once she’d gotten beyond the line of sight from the front gate. “And why does part of me think you’re trying to escape because of our conversation this morning?”

  “Sorry, ‘conversation’? I don’t recall.”

  “You recall everything. And I only asked you if you like the idea of a spring wedding. Not that the ceremony had to take place then.”

  Because he was still watching her, Samantha kept moving, didn’t clench her fists, and didn’t let the stark terror running down her spine show at all. “I told you I’d marry you, Rick. Don’t I have to look at bridal magazines and shit before I decide on what season I prefer?”

  “It’s not a requirement, no,” he returned.

  “Fine. But this is about me being a prisoner in here. Not about a wedding date.” It was mostly about that, anyway.

  “I don’t like this scrutiny either, but I’m not planning the Great Escape.”

  “That’s because you’re used to people looking at you and taking your picture. I nearly shit myself the last time I ended up in that clip on Nightly Dish. People aren’t supposed to know who I am.”

  “People aren’t supposed to know who you were,” he amended, that smooth, seductive whisper touching his voice. “The person you are has nothing to hide.”

  “Bullshit. The person I am still has nearly six years of statutes of limitations to wait out. I’m going for a run, or I’m going to end up looney tunes crazy and taking off all my clothes while I go screaming through
the house.”

  Silence. “I might enjoy that,” Rick said after a moment. “Come in and give it a go.”

  Samantha slowed as she reached the midway section of the east-facing wall of the large estate. This side bordered the Newton property, which didn’t have nearly as many cameras and sensors as Solano Dorado boasted. From there it would be just one more wall jump to the road that meandered through the plethora of multi-million-dollar homes that littered this part of Palm Beach. Then she could even boost a car and get the hell out of Dodge until things calmed down a little – the point being, she would have some options.

  She took a run at the wall, digging the toes of her running shoes into the uneven stone, and gripped the ridged top with her fingers. “I’ll see you in an hour or two,” she said, levering herself up to a crouch at the narrow top of the wall. “Or maybe I’ll check into some cheap hotel in Orlando and pretend I’m a tourist.”

  “Devon,” he said.

  Pausing, Samantha looked over her shoulder to face the nearest security camera. “What?”

  “You asked for an alternative to this break-out. I’m suggesting Devon.”

  “Could you be more specific? Because as I recall from an earlier conversation, you were planning on spending the entire month of September roasting in Florida while I wiggle around like a butterfly on a pin.”

  It wasn’t the middle of nowhere, but it did have the benefit of being not Palm Beach. Plus, it had an even stonier wall around the house and gardens than the one on which she currently perched. “You’re not lying just to get me back in the house, are you? Because you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

  “I’m not lying. But I’m not discussing it any further while you’re perched like a damned owl on my wall.”

  “I’m perched like Batman. Not an owl.” She’d likely pushed him far enough, though. Honestly, she didn’t want to see her arse on the evening news, either – or spend the night in a crappy hotel. Shifting, Samantha dropped back into the garden, bending her knees to absorb the jolt. “Okay, but we’re leaving tonight.”

  “I’ll make arrangements as soon as I hang up with you.” He paused. “Meet me in the kitchen, will you?”

  “Fine.”

  Though she was perfectly capable of getting into the house completely unseen and undetected, there was an almost equal thrill in simply walking up and pulling open a door. Just like she belonged there. Rick, of course, would say that she did, but even after a year with him it still felt...like a very expensive outfit that didn’t quite fit. Or maybe it did fit, and she was just worried about getting mustard on the front.

  It was all so…weird. She’d pretended to be a wealthy, sophisticated gal on more occasions than she had fingers to count them on. She spoke a couple of languages and knew more about art and antiques than some museum curators. But when she drank champagne with men – and women – in order to case their estates and then steal their treasures, that was an act. That was just her fitting in to go mostly unnoticed.

  But now one of the wealthiest, most eligible bachelors in the world had decided he liked the scrapes and scars beneath her act. That made going unnoticed much more problematic. For her, at least – Rick seemed to think she was just being paranoid. In fact, he insisted that she had nothing at all to worry about as long as she stayed retired. Yeah, right. She’d believe that…well, never, probably. And since he knew more about the jobs she’d pulled as an art thief than just about anybody else, he probably didn’t believe it, either.

  As she opened the house’s side door, she pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed. After two rings the line picked up. “Jellicoe Security,” the smooth, Southern drawl announced.

  “Hey, Aubrey,” she returned, jabbing a finger in Rick’s direction as he emerged from the hallway and the security room beyond. While he didn’t mind her – them – being seen in public, anyone overhearing an argument ticked him off. “Please tell me I have some business.”

  “What you have, my dear,” the sometime professional date for the elderly ladies of Palm Beach and her self-appointed office manager said, “is reporters. They’re even trying to talk to me, and you know it’s against my nature to refrain from chatting with people. I’m feeling positively frazzled.”

  “I’ve never even seen you sweat, Aubrey. Which is quite a thing, being that it’s ten thousand degrees and four hundred percent humidity here right now.”

  “Precisely.”

  She made a face at the phone. “Just keep refraining, please. Shit. I don’t suppose anybody cares if no privacy-minded client is going to hire me for a damn thing as long as all those cameras are circling me.”

  “Well, you could always just get it over with and give them an interview.”

  “Keep making jokes, funny man. I may be making myself scarce, but I’ll check in later and let you know the details.”

  “No hurry, Miss Samantha. I’m teaching myself a new photoshopping program. I thought it might come in handy if we ever have to analyze photo evidence.”

  She hung up, turning to face the tall, black-haired Brit who’d literally exploded into her life just over a year ago. Bomb makers didn’t advertise the romantic potential of their products, but she’d certainly come to appreciate it. “Aubrey’s learning how to doctor photos, and tumbleweeds are blowing through my office.”

  Caribbean blue eyes took her in, from her auburn-colored ponytail to her scuffed white running shoes. “This will die down, you know,” he commented, leaning a hip against the small kitchen table. “Someone will cheat on someone or start showing a baby bump, and the tabloids will charge back to the West Coast and forget about us.”

  “Then they should fuckin’ get on with it,” she retorted, opening the fridge and pulling out a diet Coke. “I can’t even get to my own damn office.”

  “You could, if you weren’t determined to remain invisible. We could control the circumstances of an interview.”

  He tilted his head at her, a lock of his black hair falling across one eye. The man could have been a model, or more likely one of those gorgeous athletes selling energy drinks or soda or mysteriously seductive colognes. He could have any girl he wanted even without the billions in his bank account. Being the complete package made him way too noticeable, as far as she was concerned. The exact wrong man for her ever to fall for, really. But fall she had, and hard.

  “My profession – both of them – requires discretion.” There. That sounded logical.

  Rick straightened, approaching to lean around her for a bottle of water. “Your one profession,” he corrected. “You are not a thief any longer.”

  “And I still don’t want my face plastered all over the damn world. You know there’s got to be that one security guard somewhere who happened to see me at a distance four years ago when I heisted a Monet.” When he frowned, she squinted at him. “That hypothetical guard and that hypothetical Monet,” she amended, “but you know what I mean.” She elbowed him. “So, have you called the airport yet to gas up the jet?”

  A slow smile touched his mouth. “Perhaps we should pack rucksacks and hike into the wilderness. Live off the land.”

  She snorted. “Sam don’t live off the land. I mean, I could, but it would have to be guys with badges and guns chasing me. Not guys with cameras.”

  “Nice to see you put it into perspective. If we’re going to be away for a time, I need to go see Tom.” He dipped a finger into the neck of her T-shirt, hooked the material, and drew her up against him. Dropping a hot kiss on her mouth, Rick lifted his head again to look down at her. “Don’t disappear anywhere.”

  Samantha reached up to tuck the straying strand of his hair back behind one ear. “I’m not missing that flight.”

  “Mm hm. We’re leaving for the airport at seven.”

  “‘K. I just have a couple more phone calls to make.”

  Rick paused halfway out the kitchen door. “Walter Barstone and Aubrey Pendleton are not coming with us. We’re going on holiday. This is not going to be
come one of your capers.”

  “Huh,” she returned, folding her arms across her chest. “You sure that’s how you want to word that?”

  He walked back up to her, his steps measured. “If either of them appears anywhere in the U.K. while we’re there, I’m going to fly Tom Donner in to stay with us. That’s how I’m wording it.”

  Well, that was the kind of bluff she didn’t want to call. Samantha scowled. “I do not want stupid Tom Donner, attorney at law, everywhere I turn around.”

  With a smile, Rick brushed his thumb along her lips. “I know. Hence the effectiveness of the threat.” For a long moment he gazed at her, those blue eyes of his practically melting her insides. “I know Walter is your family,” he finally said, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth. “I also know that when you have him about as back-up, you tend to take more risks.” He kissed the other corner of her mouth. “We’re going on holiday. To escape from the press. Not to jump off buildings or break into museums.”

  “Very funny.” Weighing her alternatives, Sam stuck out her hand. “No Stoney and no Aubrey, and no Tom Donner.”

  He shook her hand. “Agreed.”

  She pulled her hand free, then put a finger into his breastbone. “And you will relax, too. You talk a good game, but I know you’re pissed off, too. Holiday. Vacation. Whatever you call it. That’s what this is. Just you and me.”

  Richard continued gazing at her, but she knew it was more to let her know he was serious than anything else. Just like she knew he didn’t like any of this, either. Anything obstructing the way he lived, the way he conducted his business, didn’t get tolerated. Generally. She had a good hunch that the only reason he’d restrained himself from bellowing and flinging people about for the past two weeks was because he was trying to set an example for her. “I’ll see you by seven.”