Flirting With Danger Read Online Free PDF

way, she wanted payback. And she needed to be able to prove that she hadn’t done it. Solving this mess just to satisfy her own curiosity wouldn’t keep her out of prison.
    The news ended with no break in the story, and she finally found something worth watching. With Godzilla 1985 roaring and stomping Tokyo on WNBT in the background, she scooted off the couch for her computer, logged on, and checked messages. Since she wasn’t interested in either penile enlargement or a free trip to Florida, she deleted them, went into a search engine, and typed in Richard Addison’s name.
    The preview page flooded with images, a backlog of articles on various newspaper and magazine Web sites, from Architectural Digest to CEO to Newsweek . “We get around, don’t we, Addison?” she murmured, scrolling through the first page and calling up the second.
    Most of the articles used similar pictures, as though Addison had sat for one photo shoot and left the publications to sort through the results. Despite the slightly too-long, dark, wavy hair just touching his collar, he looked like a multibillionaire, and not just because of the black Armani suit, black tie, and dark gray shirt. It was the eyes, mostly, dark gray and glinting. They said power and confidence, looking directly into the camera and announcing that this was a man to be taken seriously.
    “Not bad,” she commented. Okay, so maybe that was an understatement. Maybe he was gorgeous. And he’d definitely looked delicious in nothing but sweatpants, even covered in soot and blood.
    Annoyed at herself for getting distracted, she clicked on the third page. Now that the references were becoming alittle more obscure, she slowed. Purchases of antiques, a site dedicated to yacht enthusiasts, and an entire page of www.divorcegladiators.com , hosted not by Mr. Addison, but by Patricia, the ex–Mrs. Addison. Ouch . Samantha knew she had more pertinent things to discover about the man who’d dumped her into the middle of a murder investigation, but she clicked on the Web site anyway.
    A photograph of Patricia Addison-Wallis flashed onto the screen. A petite blonde with the sculpted good looks that cost a thousand dollars per visit at a salon, the ex–Mrs. Addison answered e-mail questions and gave advice on how to avoid being taken to the cleaners in a divorce, in hopes that others would profit where she hadn’t. Considering that just over two years ago Addison had caught her bare-assed with Sir Peter Wallis at his villa in Jamaica, Sam privately thought Patricia had gotten off easy. Not all cuckolded husbands would allow their ex-wives and new spouses enough funds to at least keep a nice home in London.
    Her phone rang. Sam jumped, trotting into the kitchen to pick it up. “Hola.”
    “Samantha Jellicoe,” the voice returned, male and heavily French. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
    Her heart thunked, then began beating again. As if she didn’t already have enough trouble . “Etienne DeVore. I’m not hiding, and how the hell did you get my number?”
    He made a derisive sound. “I know my business, cherie. And stay out of mine. It’s dangerous.”
    A siren drifted into hearing a few blocks away, then cut off. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked, and Sam pulled aside the lace curtain to gaze out the small kitchen window at the street. Nothing, though the timing of the phone call had just become very interesting. “That was you at Addison’s! You nearly killed me!”
    “I did not expect you’d take a job like this one. So complicated, you know.”
    “Well, fucks to you, mon ami.” As another thought occurred to her, she frowned. “How did you know it was me, there?”
    Etienne snorted again. “Don’t insult me. Anyone else would be dead. Even with you, it was too close, non? Besides, I’m trying to do you a favor.”
    “A fav—”
    Another siren just entered her hearing, and then shut off abruptly, rather than dropping into the typical low