In her dazzling romantic suspense debut, USA Today bestselling author Suzanne Enoch brings us a thrilling tale about a thief who needs to prove she ' s no murderer and the millionaire who loves her.
Samantha Jellicoe is a thief and proud of it. Raised to appreciate the finer things in life, Sam has no trouble divesting the wealthy of their treasures. This all changed, however, the night she attempts to steal a valuable item from a Palm Beach estate. Before she knew what hit her, a bomb goes off, a guard is killed, and Sam ends up saving millionaire Richard Addison. She ' s a good thief and will own up to her jobs, but if anyone thinks to tie her to murder, they better think again.
On any other night, having a one hundred plus pounds of female fling herself at you is a good thing. But on this particular night, Richard Addison is mad as hell. Not only did he just have his gallery blown up ' with him about to enter it ' but the woman who rescued him didn ' t stick around to offer any explanations. When the dust settles, Rick knows the only person with answers to his questions is the mystery woman. And if she thinks she can hide from him, she better think again.
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March 01, 2005
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Excerpt from Flirting with Danger by Suzanne Enoch
Tuesday, 2:17 a.m.
Samantha Jellicoe wondered who, precisely, had written the rule that thieves breaking into anything larger than a paper bag must always scale walls. Everyone knew it. Everyone counted on it, from prisons to castles to the movies to theme parks to the impressive east Florida estate sprawling before her. Stone walls, electric fences, cameras, motion detectors, security guards, all for the purpose of preventing an enterprising lawbreaker from climbing over the walls into the sanctity of private space beyond.
She looked from the stone wall in front of her to the wrought-iron double gate at the front of sprawling Solano Dorado House and gave a small smile. Some lawbreakers were more enterprising than others. So much for the rules.
Drawing in a slow breath to steady her heartbeat, she un-slung the weapon from her shoulder, sank deeper into the shadows outside the gate, aimed at the camera mounted atop the fifteen-foot-high stone wall to the left of it, and fired. With a small puff of air, a paint ball splatted hard against the side of the casing, tilting it crazily up toward the treetops and streaking the lens with white paint. An owl, disturbed by the motion, hooted and launched from a branch of the overhanging sycamore, one wing passing right in front of the redirected camera.
Nice touch, she thought, slinging the paint gun back over her shoulder. Her horoscope had said that today would be her lucky day. Normally she didn't put much stock in astrology, but ten percent of one-and-a-half million for an evening's work seemed lucky enough to qualify. She scooted forward, sliding a pair of long-handled mirrors into place on either side of the heavy gates to deflect the sensors into themselves. That done, it only took a second to bypass the circuitry in the control box and shove one of the gates open far enough for her to slip through.
She'd spent all day memorizing the location of the remainder of the cameras and the three motion detectors she needed to pass, and in two minutes she'd crossed through the trees and landscaped garden to sink into a crouch at the base of a red stone staircase. Thanks to blueprints and schematics, she knew the location of every window and door, and the make and model of every lock and wiring connection. What the drawings hadn't done was tell her color and scope, and she took a second while she caught her breath to admire the sprawl of decadence.
Solano Dorado had been built in the 1920s before the stock market crash, and each successive owner had added rooms and floors... and increasingly sophisticated security. Its current incarnation was probably the most attractive so far, all whitewashed and red-tile-roofed and massive, surrounded by palms and old sycamores, with a hockey-rink-sized fishpond in the front. At the back of the house where she crouched, two tennis courts lay beyond an Olympicsized swimming pool. The actual tidal pools at the edge of the actual ocean gurgled and sighed only a hundred yards away, but that was for public consumption.
The estate was private and protected, and created to suit the whims of man rather than nature. After eighty years of tasteful modifications and expansion, it was now the house of someone with a massive pocketbook and an equally massive ego. Someone whose horoscope read the opposite of hers and who happened to be out of the country at the moment.