Read Billionaires Prefer Blondes for Free Online Page B

damned much simpler if she could just walk over and ask Martin where he’d been and what he was up to, but every instinct she possessed screamed that it’d be a very bad idea. “I was just thinking about the Hogarth,” she lied. “I wonder when they actually discovered the second painting.”
    “I’ll ask at intermission.” He lifted the catalog in his hand, easy and casual, and Ian Smythe added another ten thousand dollars to the going price of the statue. A minute later, the price started jumping in fifty-, then hundred-thousand-dollar increments.
    Intermission. Maybe she could arrange to talk with Martin then. As she sat and tried to match her expression to Rick’s calm, mildly amused and interested one, yet anotherthought joined the others crashing through her brain: the why of Martin Jellicoe—the why here and why now.
    If she’d been the reason, he could have made his appearance anytime before now. Even not counting the past three years, there had been shopping for two hours earlier today, and the morning run she’d taken through Central Park several hours before that. Sotheby’s wasn’t a logical place to spring his non-death on his daughter, which meant he wasn’t there tonight for her. Which left the other option—theft. But of what?
    “The bid on the phone is twelve million four hundred thousand. Do I have twelve-five?” Ian Smythe’s voice interrupted her thoughts again.
    Rick raised the catalog.
    “Twelve-five. Twelve-six anywhere?”
    “Rick,” Samantha whispered, “can I see the catalog?”
    “Now?” he mouthed.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m using it.”
    “I need to look at something.” For a clue about what might have enticed her father to suddenly reappear after three years.
    He signaled with it again. “Look in a minute.”
    Samantha drew in a breath. “Fine.” Wrestling him for it wouldn’t do her much good. Anxious, nervous as she was for answers, another five minutes would hardly change anything.
    “The bid is now thirteen million dollars with Mr. Addison,” Smythe said, twirling the gavel in his hand. “Do I hear thirteen two-fifty?”
    The room around them buzzed, but no one blinked, nodded, scratched, or lifted a hand. Samantha held her breath, too. Rick wanted the Rodin, but he was also a keen businessman who wouldn’t pay more than something was worth.Whatever his limit was, they had to be close to it. His expression, though, remained calm and unconcerned. Despite her nerves, anticipation coursed through her. And she was only a damned interested bystander. He was amazing. No wonder he owned a good portion of the world.
    “No one? Thirteen-two, perhaps? Mrs. Quay? No? All right, then, going, going, gone”—and the mallet struck the desk—“to Richard Addison for thirteen million dollars.” Smythe smiled. “Congratulations, sir. Or should I say, my lord?”
    The room burst into applause, which Samantha belatedly echoed, as Rick waved away the question. He was so low-key about his blue blood that most people—unless they were a part of his fan club—probably had no idea that he was the Marquis of Rawley, a real, genuine aristocrat. “You’re so cool,” she breathed at Rick, sliding over to give him a kiss on the lips.
    “Thank you, my love.” He had the good manners to pretend that she made such gestures of affection in public all the time, and broke the kiss before she could do so. Then he handed her the catalog. “Now, what did you want to look at?”
    “Just some—”
    “Rick, congratulations.” Thankfully one of the other bidders interrupted before Samantha had to make up something that would hopefully sound less confused than she felt.
    While Rick chatted with well-wishers and handlers brought in the next piece, Samantha flipped through the catalog. If Martin was here to make off with something, it would have to be a painting—none of the sculptures tonight were small or light enough for a snatch-and-run. But which painting?
    She paused at the photo of