Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Tamara Morgan

  My husband winces an apology. What I didn’t say, what I don’t need to say, is that Riker and games of chance aren’t the best mix. He’s been doing really well with his gambling addiction recently, but this kind of temptation won’t be easy.

  “This mission is strictly voluntary. If he feels he’s not up for it, just say the word.” Grant rises to his feet in a single, authoritative movement, his hand extended across the table to where I sit. Unless you’re looking for it, it’s impossible to see the way he favors his right side. “Do we have a deal?”

  “You’re a sneaky, underhanded, manipulative bastard, you know that?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I slip my hand into his, the familiar warmth of his grip almost enough to make me forget how angry I am at him for putting me in this position in the first place. Almost.

  “I don’t like it, but I’ll do it,” I say. “And only because our life insurance policy doesn’t cover acts of supreme idiocy.”

  “Only for that?” he asks with one lift of the brow.

  Okay, and for a once-in-a-lifetime glimpse at the Luxor Tiara. But I refuse to give any of these men the satisfaction of hearing me say so out loud.

  3

  The Support

  As usual, I’m the last to know about anything and everything even remotely cool.

  “Um, Riker?” I ask. “Why are you wearing a wet suit in the middle of your living room? I swear, if this is a kinky sex thing, I’m walking out the door and never coming back. Not even if you catch on fire.”

  Riker, who is not only wearing a wet suit but also has a swimming mask over his eyes and flippers on his feet, turns to me and grins. Well, he grins as much as a person can grin with a snorkel shoved into his mouth, but the idea is the same.

  I scan his apartment for signs of further deviation—namely Tara Lewis, the woman he’s been seeing for the last few months—but he appears to be alone, thank goodness. Not that I’m complaining about his social life. Far from it. I might think that dating my blond bombshell of a stepmother would be one small step above stabbing forks in my eyes, but she’s been weirdly good for him. I think it’s because they both like to complain about the same things: honesty, legally earned income, me.

  “Wait a minute. If this isn’t a sex thing…” I whirl back to him, the snorkel suddenly making perfect sense. “Oh, my God. You’re getting ready to go to the Caribbean. You’re getting ready to go to the Caribbean on a gambling cruise, and you weren’t going to invite me.”

  He pulls the mask down from his eyes, leaving a ring of red around his forehead. It makes him look demented but not contrite.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “Would you like to uproot your life for the next seven days and go on an illegal vacation with me? I won’t tell your husband if you don’t.”

  I glare. “Yes, actually, I’d love to. In fact, I was on my way home to start packing, but I needed to stop here and invite you first. That’s what friends do. They tell each other when they plan glamorous criminal adventures.”

  “Wait—seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously.” I pause. “Well, I’m serious about the going home to pack part. And about the inviting you part—but it’s not because I’m your friend. I’m here as an ambassador of the FBI.”

  Riker seems to recognize how ridiculous it is to hold this conversation while wearing flippers, because he reaches down to unsecure his feet. He also unzips his wet suit halfway to reveal the smooth, hard lines of his chest. What my stepmother sees in that flat, hairless musculature is beyond me.

  Well, that’s not fair. There was a time, many years ago, when Riker and I were more than friends, and I seemed to like his flat, hairless musculature just fine then. And if I’m being honest, he’s filled out considerably since we were younger—there are dips and swells and honest-to-god shadows peeking out from the folds of his wet suit. The problem is that in comparison to the hard wall of a chest I get to sleep with every night, there’s no contest.

  Poor mankind. With guys like Grant in this world, no one else stands a chance.

  “They can’t arrest me for playing in a private tournament,” Riker says in a defensive tone. “Not unless they arrest all the other people who will be playing. And the FBI has no jurisdiction over me outside the United States—I checked. They’d have to bring in the CIA or Interpol, and I haven’t done anything to warrant their interest in at least a decade.”

  It’s in my power to reassure him that he’s not in any trouble, but I’m pleased to see that he’s still capable of showing remorse, so I don’t. This trip is a bad idea for more reasons than I care to count, but as far as Riker is concerned, there’s only one worth noting.

  “Riker,” I say.

  “Pen,” he returns flatly.

  “Gambling?”

  “It’s just one poker game.”

  “It’s always just one poker game.”

  He lifts his chin in a belligerent angle. “You said that money was mine to do what I want with. No strings, no rules. This is starting to feel an awful lot like strings and rules.”

  The money he’s talking about is a bus locker full of cash I saved up from my pre-Grant days. My half is still carefully tucked in hiding—and a good thing, too, with all these new expenses looming—but I gave Riker his share a few months ago along with the promise that I wouldn’t interfere in his life anymore.

  Stupid promises. Between Riker and Grant, all I seem to be doing these days is the exact opposite of what my instincts urge.

  “Well?” he asks. “Go ahead. Tell me how stupid I am, how I’m fucking up my life and you won’t always be there to bail me out. I’ll wait.”

  I sigh instead. As much as I might want to fall back into the roles of our youth—a fierce, bickering loyalty that was sometimes the sole thing keeping us alive—I’ve recently learned better. We’re semifunctional adults with our own semifunctional adult lives, and that means backing off sometimes.

  “At least this one requires you to pay your full entrance fee up front,” I say, resigned. “One million all in, right? Do you need any help with it?”

  “Between what you gave me and a few odd jobs Jordan and I picked up, I’ve got it covered.” He eyes me askance, as if waiting for the catch. “You aren’t mad?”

  “Of course I’m mad. I’m furious. I spent the better part of twelve years trying to keep you away from this exact situation.” I don’t give him a chance to argue. “Is Tara going?”

  Now he’s really starting to look at me with suspicion. “Ye-es. She’s the one who told me about the game in the first place. She’s playing, too, in case you’re wondering.”

  Of course she is. Tara would never pass up a chance to win that tiara. She’s the one person in this world who might be more diamond-crazy than I am—and she’ll wear it, which is the funny thing. If given a chance, she’ll place that goddamn crown on top of her platinum locks and go grocery shopping in it.

  She could totally pull it off, too.

  “I’m glad,” I say and mean it. Not only is Tara way more effective than me at keeping Riker out of trouble, but more bodies on our side means more support for Grant. Together, we might—might—be able to get him out of there alive. “That makes you, me, Tara, and my dad at the tables, and hopefully Oz and Jordan, though they’ll probably come as spectators.”

  Riker cracks a laugh. “You’re playing poker? Against that crowd? Pen, you’ll be out in five minutes. No, scratch that. Four minutes. You might as well throw your money from the top of the Empire State Building and watch it float away.”

  Irritation pricks at the base of my spine, causing me to straighten. “Please. I can play poker. It’s not like it’s hard. All you have to do is match the colors and shapes.”

  He groans, passing a hand over his eyes. “Colors and shapes? For fuck’s sake. You’re going to make me a laughingstock.”
>
  I ignore him. “There’s also the luck of the draw, which I’ve always been better at than you.”

  That’s true, and Riker knows it. Even though his best bet would be to lay off gambling for good, there’s something to his infallible belief that the luck will turn his way if only he keeps playing. By the law of averages, it has to. No one has worse luck when it comes to a bad run. I saw a man once bet Riker that he couldn’t roll a single seven out of thirty throws of the dice—something he later said was so rare, it was practically a statistical impossibility. But Riker somehow managed it.

  And, I should note, almost lost his fingers in the process. It was a good thing I was carrying a bag of loose diamonds in my shoe at the time.

  Riker opens his mouth to protest, but I stop him before he manages to inflate his lungs all the way. “I didn’t come to argue about my poker-playing skills or lecture you about gambling,” I say. “I came to ask a favor. There’s one more friend of mine who plans to join the game.”

  “Who? You don’t know anyone else.”

  “I know Grant.”

  It takes a second for that one to sink in, and Riker almost chokes once it does. “Grant is playing? As in, your law-abiding husband? As in, the man who brushes his teeth every morning in the reflection of his FBI badge?”

  “Yes. He’s going undercover.”

  “Why?”

  “To find a bad guy.”

  “He’ll have plenty to choose from. Is this a general dragnet, or does he have someone specific in mind?”

  “He’s after someone named Johnny Francis. Have you heard of him?”

  Instead of answering me like a normal human being, Riker just laughs.

  “Are you finished?” I ask after a full twenty seconds of his unchecked mirth. He’s going to give himself an aneurysm.

  “Almost.” He draws a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I thought I heard you say Grant is going to try and find Johnny Francis.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Okay, phew. He’d have better luck finding Jimmy Hoffa wrapped up in Amelia Earhart’s skeletal embrace.”

  “I didn’t say he was going to try. I said he was going to do it.” I pause. “And we’re going to help him.”

  He stares at me, unblinking. “I think maybe you should start this one from the beginning, Pen.”

  So I do. I do a good job of it, too, only voicing my displeasure over the plan twice. Two and a half, if you count that aside about all the stupid men in my life and their stupid inability to recognize a bad idea when it’s staring them in the face.

  As soon as I’m done, Riker’s laughter is nowhere in sight. “You weren’t kidding, were you?” He lets out a low whistle. I can tell from the sound of it that he’s as intrigued by this plan as I am. “It’s a hell of a stretch, but never let it be said that I denied a man his chance at beating the long odds. I don’t know what makes the FBI think I’m going to be any help, though. I’ve never met Johnny Francis—never even been in the same city as him, as far as I can tell. I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup.”

  “Me either, but the alternative is for Grant to go in without any kind of backup. They can’t get any other agents on board without drawing suspicion, so we’re taking the place of his usual support team. Oz can provide technical assistance, I’m sure Jordan could manufacture a bomb out of her dinner should the need arise, and you and I can sneak around behind the scenes. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than sending him in solo.”

  Of course, that’s half the story. The other half is a much darker, much less pleasant tale.

  “You know what these guys are like,” I say, unable to keep the quaver from my voice. “You know what they’re capable of when they’ve been crossed. What do you think is going to happen to him if he’s discovered out there on his own?”

  Broken kneecaps. Dismemberment. The complete and methodical takedown of everyone he holds dear. Riker has been on the receiving end of these kinds of threats far too often not to recognize how much danger Grant will be in the second he boards the Shady Lady.

  “Please say you’ll help,” I beg. “He needs you. I need you.”

  Riker pauses, and I can practically see the cogitations of his weaselly little brain. I don’t mean that as an insult. Riker might be sneaky and underhanded, but he’s sneaky, underhanded, and smart. It’s not a bad combination when life hasn’t exactly been generous with the handouts.

  “If I do this,” he says slowly, “if I agree to put my own life at risk so your husband can play cops and robbers, what do I get in return?”

  “I don’t know.” Strange it hadn’t occurred to me to ask that. Normally, I’m all about the monetary compensation, but I’ve been too worried about Grant to care. A living, breathing husband is all I ask for. “What do you want?”

  Although I used to have him pretty well figured out, I have no idea what Riker wants anymore. I’ve already given him quite a bit; as loath as he is to admit it, he’s been granted more leeway than regular criminals thanks to his association with me. I’m valuable to Grant, and Grant is valuable to the Bureau, and that’s been an equation that’s worked well in our favor so far. But beyond that?

  “I want the Luxor Tiara,” he says.

  “Well, obviously,” I reply. “We all want the tiara. Why do you think I agreed to this in the first place?”

  “No, I mean it. I want a guarantee the FBI won’t interfere with my attempts to get it. If I walk off that boat with the tiara in my possession, I want your husband’s solemn vow that no one will come after me. It’s mine, free and clear.”

  I’ll have to ask Grant to be sure, but I doubt he’ll raise much of a fuss. The chances of Riker winning a poker game against a room full of hardened criminals and cardsharps is slim, to say the least.

  “Done. Is that all?”

  He tilts his head. “How much more do you think I can ask for?”

  “Honestly? Whatever you want. I’m not sure what the FBI plans on doing with this guy once they find him, but a million dollars to board a ship where he might be present isn’t exactly a small investment.” Not to mention the fact that they’re sending in an agent who should, by all medical accounts, be sitting on the sidelines. “They want him, and they want him bad.”

  Riker’s grin lifts the left side of his lips, turning his whole demeanor downright sunny. I assume that means he’s in.

  “You shouldn’t have told me that, Pen,” he says and rubs his hands together. “There’s nothing I love more than seeing a team of federal agents beg.”

  “You could just help out of the goodness of your heart, you know.”

  “No one has ever accused me of having a heart before,” is his quick retort. “And don’t look at me like that—I’m much better off without one. If finding true love means turning into the honorable, law-abiding citizen you’ve become, I want no part of it.”

  I agree with a sigh. He’s right. As much as I love my husband, having to become the responsible one in our relationship does seem like an awfully high price to pay.

  4

  The Journey

  “You don’t know me. You’ve never met me. You aren’t even sure you like me all that much.” Grant holds out his hand. “You’re also very modest and won’t walk around in that scrap of a bikini Tara gave you.”

  I slip the wedding ring off my finger and place it in his waiting palm. His fingers close around mine, holding me tight. Grant might be playing the role of suave, commanding federal agent right now, but I can tell he’s starting to get nervous.

  And no wonder. My dad was able to get me in on the poker game at the last minute, but he made it abundantly clear that I’m to sever all public ties to the man I call husband for the duration of the trip. My marriage to an FBI agent hasn’t been widely advertised, but it also hasn’t been kept a secret, and gossip in the thieving circuit is worse than in a hi
gh school. I have to give every appearance of being the same carefree thief I’ve always been, up to and including publicly renouncing the man I love.

  I balked at that last part, but my dad put his foot down. It’s not being married to Grant that’s a problem for these people, baby doll, he said. It’s that you seem to like it.

  Which sums up my life pretty succinctly. My friends and family don’t mind the times when I use Grant to get ahead. It’s all those times when I’m not using him that trip them up.

  In an effort to reinforce my carefree status, our staterooms are located as far away from one another as we can get, and we’ve sworn a solemn oath to have as little to do with each other as possible. Grant might be adept at going undercover—and he’s sporting a shorter, darker haircut to prove it—but I’m a terrible liar. I always have been. Anyone seeing the two of us interact on board will be sure to sense something. The best thing we can do is keep those interactions to a minimum.

  “Hey.” Grant chucks me under the chin so I’m forced to look up at him. It takes me a moment to adjust to the sleeker, barbered style, but his smile will always be recognizable. It’s practically cemented in my soul. “It’ll be okay. You won’t be alone out there. All your friends will be on board, and your room adjoins your dad’s, so he can be your first recourse in any kind of danger.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about,” I say with a scoff.

  “My room is right next to Tara and Riker’s,” he replies lightly. “And Riker promised to protect me with his life. Well, he didn’t say those exact words, but I slipped it in his contract when he wasn’t looking.”

  I’m not as amused by that as my husband wants me to be. Riker has some pretty decent moves—when he can be bothered to use them—but he’s not going to be around all the time to bail Grant out of trouble. For the bulk of the trip, Grant’s going to be wandering around alone and unprotected.

  “Not that I expect there to be any danger,” he adds, as if reading my mind. “All this is standard operating procedure for going undercover—something I’ve done countless times before. My cover story is in place, and my support team—you—is prepped and ready. All I have to do is ID this guy and make first contact. I’ll be in and out and no one will be the wiser.”