“I’m fine,” I say and swat her hands away from my face. “Let’s just go find my room.”
“Aye, aye,” she replies with a laugh. She bustles me off the main deck, which is comprised primarily of the swimming pool and an outdoor bar, to find someone to assist us. She does, too, much quicker than I expect. My initial surprise at her efficiency fades away when I notice the man in the royal blue polo, khaki shorts, and sailor-style hat bears a not-so-remarkable resemblance to Oz.
Oz is, as always, a bland and comfortable vision—and I don’t mean that as an insult. He has one of those faces everyone has seen before but no one bothers to remember. It’s one of my favorite sights in the whole world. He gives me a tight salute and clip of his heels, causing me to almost blow my cover by laughing out loud. I don’t know how he got himself hired on to the Shady Lady’s crew—if he even is an official part of it—but I know better than to question his methods. Nothing could make it easier for him to deliver messages and eavesdrop in places we can’t go.
“This one’s headed for 506,” I say and hand him the bag along with the fifty-dollar bill. “But I can take my own, thanks. I’m sure you have enough to keep you busy as it is.”
He salutes again, and this time, I give in to my urge to laugh, shaking my head as I watch him depart. I’m almost certain that, like me, he’ll take a look inside that bag as soon as he rounds the corner. He’s probably searching all the luggage he carries and finding a heck of a lot more than prophylactics in the bargain.
“Damn. For a laugh like that, I’d have volunteered to deliver it myself.” A deep voice hails us from behind, and I turn, expecting to see one of Jordan’s admirers. But the owner of the voice falls into the “less classy” category, his expression difficult to read behind his aviator sunglasses.
Like most of the men I’ve noticed on the cruise so far, this one oozes power without making a mess of it. I don’t know what the trick is, but it has something to do with the way they carry themselves. I mean, this guy looks more like a gym rat than an elite poker player, what with his deep bronze skin, closely shaved head, and too-tight microfiber shirt, but there’s no doubt in my mind he’s here to play. Not spectate, not hang on the outer edges. Play. Confidence is part of it, the way he’s looking at the pair of us as if sure of his welcome, but there’s also a kind of gritty suavity that can’t be denied.
Riker has it, too. He’s got the hard edge of a man who’s not afraid to fight with his fists—and win—but he’s also a pretty boy who knows all he has to do is smile and the ladies will come running.
This man tries a smile on me now. “Since I can’t be your errand boy, can I at least help you with those, ah, are they suitcases?”
I look at my suitcases with a frown. They’re not that bad. Okay, so the duffel bag I threw my wadded-up underwear into has seen better days, but I love my weathered and slightly frayed hard-shell case. It has a secret X-ray-proof compartment built into the frame for quick and easy jewel smuggling. They don’t make them like this anymore.
“No, thanks,” I say in as repressive a tone as I can muster. “I’ve got arms.”
“I noticed. And legs and a head and everything. The full package.”
I strongly suspect him of mocking me. “I’m sorry, is there something I can do for you?”
“Yeah. You can hand me a tissue. I’m going to cry.”
I look to Jordan to see if she has any idea what this guy is talking about, but she just casts me a helpless shrug.
“Handkerchief?” he suggests when his plea fails. “Napkin? Ah, no. I forgot. How about a pair of gloves? You never used to leave home without them. Didn’t want to leave any messy fingerprints behind.”
My eyes flare as I once again survey the man. All the parts are still there and still the same, but once I mentally add a crop of sleek black hair and drop fifty pounds of muscle, realization hits. “Oh, my God. Hijack? Is that you?”
“Penelope Blue.” His arms open, and before I know what’s happening, I’m falling into them. “Guess I won’t be needing that tissue. You do recognize me.”
His hug is a familiar one, though it feels weird to have any arms except Grant’s wrapped so possessively around my torso. It’s a feeling that’s magnified when Hijack pushes me back enough to plant a firm kiss on my mouth. Romantically speaking, it’s not much of a kiss—more of a friendly smack, really—but I pull back, startled at the strange taste and texture of another man’s lips on mine.
“I can’t believe it’s actually you,” I say, making a big show of reconciliation to cover for the awkwardness of the embrace. Also to cover for Jordan’s inquisitively raised brow, which doesn’t fail to notice the kiss or my reaction to it.
“I thought you fell off the face of the earth,” I add. “It’s been, what, six years?”
“Six years, eight months, and I’d say around two and a half weeks, but who’s counting?” He shakes his head before I can answer. “You haven’t changed at all. I saw the hot strawberry blond in cutoff jeans and couldn’t believe my luck. I thought I’d gone back in time.”
My heart gives a dainty flutter at the compliment, even as my brain recognizes it for the ham-handed flattery that it is. That’s what happens when your nearest and dearest gang up and tell you how haggard you’re looking lately—every sweet word is like manna.
“Oh, please. You’re the one who looks amazing. I didn’t recognize you with all that”—I make a vague motion over his body, sleekly outfitted from head to toe and probably aerodynamic to boot—“athleticism.”
He glances down at his biceps and grins. “Super fruit and protein powder. Who’s your friend, by the way?”
“Oh! I’m sorry. This is Jordan. She’s an amazing chemist and one of my favorite people on the planet. Jordan, this is Hijack—who, if you can’t tell from the name, is something of a whiz when it comes to vehicle acquisition. Riker and I knew him eons ago.”
“You didn’t tell her the best part.” Hijack smiles again, and even with the sunglasses covering the upper half of his face, it’s hard to imagine how I could have mistaken him for anyone else. Crooked eyeteeth and wide lips give him a charming, if slightly lopsided, grin. “Penelope was the love of my life. At least, she was until she broke my heart one rainy Brooklyn afternoon.”
He places a hand over his pecs as if to prove it.
“Please,” I scoff. “It was Queens, and it was ninety degrees outside. You’re thinking of some other girl.”
“Spoken like a true heartbreaker. It took me years to get over her, and now here she is, as gorgeous and cruel as ever.” He turns to Jordan. “I hope you don’t plan to treat me the same way. I couldn’t handle being rejected like that again.”
I feel myself coloring up, unsure how I’m supposed to respond. While it’s true that Hijack and I were once a thing, it was a very brief thing, neither one of us all that serious or committed. He was my post-Riker boyfriend in my pre-Grant life. Although there’s no denying he’s got his good qualities, I remember him mostly as a scrawny hustler with a wandering eye and the ability to hot-wire a car in under twenty seconds. If it wasn’t for the latter, I doubt I’d have put up with the former.
“What have you been doing with yourself all these years?” I ask. “When we parted ways, you were heading to Germany to join up with a bank crew.”
“I did. You should’ve come with me. Germany is amazing—so much old money, so many old buildings. You can carve through some of those vault walls with a spoon. I won’t tell you my net worth now. It’ll make you jealous.”
“You know I wanted to stay stateside,” I reply, not nearly as jealous as he’d like me to be. Money, though nice, has never been my root evil. Depending on who you ask, that would be willful self-sufficiency and/or a tendency to flippancy. “Besides, the buildings in the U.S. aren’t that hard to get into the normal way.”
“Only if you’re the great Pene
lope Blue. Your talent is the stuff of legends.”
I can’t help it—my shoulders come up. I’ve always wanted to be a legend.
“Speaking of, I heard you got married.” He casts an obvious look at my left hand, his smile widening when he sees no sign of a ring. “Ha! I knew it couldn’t be true. Especially since they said you married a fed.”
“Oh, um.” My shoulders move back down again. “Actually…”
“You didn’t.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, I swear.”
“A fed? Come on, Pen. That’s consorting with public enemy number one.”
“I know, but he’s a lot handier to have around than you’d think.” It’s not a lie. Federal clemency is a real boon in my line of work. “And you wouldn’t believe the kind of inside access he gets me.” Also true. Just look where I’m standing right now.
“Shit. You’re serious, aren’t you?” He doesn’t, as I’d feared, appear to be alarmed by that revelation. If anything, he looks intrigued. “I refused to believe it until I heard it from your own lips. Is he here?”
“Are you kidding?” I squeak. “A federal agent on this boat?”
“This is our annual girls’ trip,” Jordan says. “I’m just here for the sunshine and booze, but Pen wants to try her hand at the Luxor.”
Hijack’s interest picks up even more. “Is that a fact? I never took you for much of a gambler.”
“I’m not, but I’d kick myself for the rest of my life if I didn’t at least try to win it,” I admit. “A girl doesn’t get a stab at the Luxor Tiara every day. Besides, I’m no worse than half the people I know are playing. Have you seen it?”
“No one has. Word is they’re going to reveal it tomorrow at the opening ceremonies.” Hijack hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “When you say you’re no worse than half the people playing, does that mean Riker is here, too?”
Poor Riker. His terrible reputation precedes him. “Yeah. I haven’t run into him yet, but he should be around here somewhere. Man, he’s going to be happy to see you again.”
“No, he won’t. I know all his tells.”
I laugh. I know all his tells, too. Riker is unable to hide his glower when he’s dealt a bad hand—which is just about always. Riker’s foul moods are probably why I was so drawn to Hijack back when we first started dating. Every other word out of his mouth is a lie, and he’d sell his own soul for a few hundred dollars, but he’s so charming, it’s hard to fault him for it.
As if he’s also remembering the good old days, Hijack reaches over to tweak my nose. It’s an affectionate yet condescending gesture. I’m glad my husband isn’t here to see it.
“Do you have dinner plans yet?” he asks. “If you do, cancel them. I want to walk into the restaurant with the two most beautiful women on this ship.”
I hesitate, unsure whether I should commit myself before I receive any instructions from Grant, but Jordan answers for the both of us. “We’d love to.”
“Perfect. I’ll swing by your room to collect you around seven.” He turns to me and stares for a drawn-out moment, as if memorizing my features. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you again, Pen. Leaving you behind was my biggest regret. We were good together, you and I.”
Until he appeared on the deck of the Shady Lady, I hadn’t given Hijack more than six minutes’ worth of reflection over the span of six years, but I find myself nodding all the same. We had been good together, if only because of how simple it was—casually dating, planning small jobs, enjoying opportunities the moment they knocked. Those were my carefree days, when my biggest worry was whether or not I could remember where I stashed my latest take and then deciding it didn’t matter, since I could always steal more.
“Life sure was easy back then, wasn’t it?” I agree. “We had some fun times.”
He holds his hand up in a mock toast as he bids us goodbye. “Here’s to hoping we have a few more.”
Jordan waits until the back of Hijack’s shorn head disappears around a corner before turning to me with one carefully raised brow. “Well, that certainly was interesting.”
That’s Jordan for you—always discreet.
“If by interesting you mean a big problem, then, yes, it was.” I sigh. I’m going to have a hard enough time lying to strangers. Lying to my ex-boyfriend? That’s a whole different level of complicated. “Why did you agree to dinner?”
“Because we have to eat. Besides, if you’re going to know every single person on this boat, we’ll find you-know-who in no time. All you have to do is cross off the names of everyone you’re related to, have helped commit a crime, and/or slept with. That’s half of them right there.”
“I can’t help it if I’m criminal royalty,” I tease, but a nagging worry settles in the pit of my stomach. The idea was to keep our heads down and our profiles low. Hijack isn’t exactly a low-profile sort of guy.
He’s also not a very helpful one. After all his smooth words, he never actually lifted a suitcase and made good on his offer. Jordan and I are left alone to hoist my bags and head in the direction of the elevators, pushing past people who don’t take kindly to being jostled, well-versed as they are in the habits of pickpockets.
On the way, I notice and am noticed by three more familiar faces—two bruisers who have worked with my father before and a woman I recognize as Riker’s favorite fence—and that nagging worry hardens into a rock.
I might not be criminal royalty, but I am a lot more recognizable than I realized. These are people I know, people who know me back, people who would never forgive me if they find out my federal agent husband is lying in wait somewhere on this ship. We’re playing a dangerous game here, and I don’t mean poker.
Oh, how times have changed since my carefree Hijack days.
6
The Survey
Being descended from one of the world’s most successful jewel thieves sure does come in handy sometimes.
No sooner does Jordan leave me at the door of my stateroom than I find myself facing what has to be the most luxurious six hundred square feet I’ve ever seen. Enough of my life has been spent residing in hotel rooms that I’m fully aware of how many creature comforts can be packed into a small space, but the Shady Lady architects outdid themselves.
As soon I set foot inside, I notice the foyer divides into two neat halves. One side is taken up with a living room done up in white and beige—admittedly not my favorite shades, but understandable when set against the floor-to-ceiling glass doors at the back, where the ocean provides a dazzling burst of color. The second half of the stateroom is a bedroom, complete with a king-size bed that stretches forever and—oh, how magnificent—a bathroom with a marble whirlpool tub. I’m not normally one for long soaks, but there’s something about that cool slab of white stone that calls to me. My proposed nap, which sounded so heavenly before, pales in comparison to the idea of submerging myself in water and refusing to come out until I’m shiny and new again.
“Thank you, dear Dad, for being so formidable and rich,” I say as I head toward that bathtub. I’m pretty sure I have the person on the other side of the adjoining door leading out of the living room to thank for the extravagance of my current surroundings. Little old Penelope Blue might warrant a window—and maybe she could manage to finagle an extra bar of soap in the shower—but this full royal treatment isn’t something people extend my direction very often. Nor am I averse to taking advantage of it when I can.
The tub is a quarter of the way filled and I’m out of my clothes when I hear a knock at the door.
“Go away!” I call. The running water must muffle my voice, because the knock sounds again. “I mean it. I’m busy!”
“It’s room service,” comes the equally muffled reply. They’re the sole three words in the English language—with the possible exception of Grant needs you—that could get me to abandon those entic
ing wisps of steam. With a halfhearted grumble, I shove my arms into the provided robe and unlock the door.
But on the other side there are only lies. And Tara.
“How dare you?” I accuse. “You don’t have any food.”
“It got you to open the door, didn’t it?” she asks as she pushes past me. Like Jordan, she’s dressed to impress, her short, tennis-style dress ideal for giving the impression of wealth and athleticism. Or so I assume. I mostly see the back of it as she takes a survey of my new digs.
“Well done, Pen,” she says with a whistle. “This room is incredible.”
“Gee, thanks. Why don’t you make yourself at home?”
My stepmother casually ignores me, as she almost always does, opening closet doors and helping herself to a sparkling water from the minibar. “Our room is half the size and doesn’t have nearly the same view—your dad must have pulled some heavy-duty strings to get you in here. Is that what you’re planning on wearing?”
I cinch my robe tighter. It’s soft and white, and I fully intend to smuggle it out of here as soon as the cruise is over. “Yes. I was just about to take a bath.”
“No, you’re not. Put something else on. Something pretty. You look like a crazy cat lady who spent the night with her head under a sink.”
Honestly, this is just getting cruel now. “I don’t look that bad! I swear, between you, Jordan, and my dad, I’m developing a complex.”
Instead of taking back the insult, she purses her brightly painted red lips and tries not to look at the door leading to the adjoining stateroom.
“When a man like your father is moved to comment on your state of dress, it’s time to take action.” She hesitates, and I can tell from the way not a single muscle in her face twitches that it’s a calculated pause. “Is he in there right now?”
“My dad? I don’t know.” Nor am I sure I care to be having this conversation with her. “I doubt he and I are going to be doing much in the way of bonding on this vacation. He thinks I cramp his style.”
Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 5
