Billionaires Prefer Blondes (Samantha Jellicoe Series #3)

by Suzanne Enoch

Overview

“Like The Thin Man’s Nick and Nora, Rick and Samantha have a sizzling chemistry, and their witty repartee adds panache to the already entertaining story.” –Booklist, starred review

Samantha Jellicoe is enjoying her new legitimate career and her romance with billionaire Richard Addison. Of course, this doesn’t mean the former thief has gotten over the urge to steal, but she’s been able to fight it off––most of the time. Then she spies someone she never thought she’d see again ––her father, Martin Jellicoe. Sam thought Martin had died in prison years before, but now that he’s back, she knows he’s up to no good. Her worst fears come true when a new painting that Rick purchased goes missing. Sam knows her father is behind it, but with the police focused on her checkered past, this won’t be easy to prove. Between keeping her father’s return a secret, searching for the missing art, and saving their reputations, Rick and Samantha’s relationship will be tested like never before.

“Samantha and Rick are a team from romance, murder, and mayhem heaven.” —New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd

“A winning continuation of a funny, frisky series.” —Publishers Weekly

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780061739088
Publisher:	HarperCollins
Publication date:	08/18/2023
Series:	Samantha Jellicoe Series , #3
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	384
Sales rank:	229,577
File size:	1 MB

About the Author

A native and current resident of Southern California, Suzanne Enoch loves movies almost as much as she loves books. When she is not busily working on her next novel, Suzanne likes to contemplate interesting phenomena, like how the three guppies in her aquarium became 161 guppies in five months.

Read an Excerpt

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.

Billionaires Prefer Blondes. Copyright © by Suzanne Enoch. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

Editorial Reviews

Fans of contemporary romantic capers will eat up the third tale of retired cat burglar Samantha Jellicoe and her British billionaire boyfriend, Rick Addison (following Don't Look Down), who continue to steam up the windows of Rick's posh, Upper East Side New York City townhouse, where Sam has recently begun living. Between sexcapades, the odd couple find themselves in a sticky situation. While Rick wins a prized Hogarth painting at a Sotheby's auction, Samantha spies her father, Martin, "the grand master Jedi of cat burglars"-who's meant to have been dead for three years-lurking in the shadows. Not quite coincidentally, the Hogarth disappears from Rick's townhouse shortly thereafter. When Sam finally catches up with Martin, he has a proposition for her: a piece of the biggest heist he's ever pulled. The only problem is that Martin's working for Interpol, the heist is a setup, and the crew's muscle, Veittsreig, won't take no for an answer. Protective, straight-arrow Rick, unable to keep her out of trouble, decides to tag along for the crime, getting an intimate look at Sam's impressive extralegal skills. Much heavy-breathing sex and suspense follows, making this a winning continuation of a funny, frisky series. (Nov.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Publishers Weekly