Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Tamara Morgan

  Hijack accepts my deflection by pushing us toward one of the tables near the back. “That, at least, sounds like the Penelope Blue I remember.”

  * * *

  The claustrophobia hits about the same time as the fish course is brought out.

  Unlike the airplane ride, I’m not expecting it this time. The shaky, panicked feeling hits me like a sack of rocks to the chest. I think it must have something to do with the overwhelming gold of the room, the lack of windows and open air. There are just so many people in such a contained setting… The walls are practically closing in.

  Or, I think as the feeling of panic rises up from my chest to my throat, it’s because you know there’s no way out. For you or for Grant.

  “Is something wrong?” Jordan asks as I begin my breathing exercises in earnest. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I don’t feel so good,” I admit, my voice weak.

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  Other than finding Johnny Francis in the next five minutes to end this charade, I can’t think of a solution, so I just squeeze my eyes shut and will the moment to pass. “I’m feeling a little dizzy,” I say. “It’ll go away in a second.”

  Her hand covers mine and squeezes. “Take a deep breath, Pen. In and out, in and out. There’s a good girl.”

  I try to follow her low-voiced commands, but the heat in the room seems to be rising about five degrees per second. The knowledge that I have an audience doesn’t help much, especially when I was just starting to get used to my shiny new reputation. Usually when I’m combating my fear of small spaces, I do it in a dark, confined hole with only myself for company. My shame doesn’t love witnesses.

  “You know, maybe I just need some air.” I rise from my seat, flinging out a hand when Jordan tries to follow. “No, please stay and finish eating. I’m going to step outside for a few minutes.”

  I can tell she wants to argue, but she lets me go as I dart toward the nearest exit. I have every intention of making it out the door alone and with my dignity intact, but my other dinner companion proves himself to be much more solicitous than I remember.

  “You look like hell. Come on. I know a shortcut.”

  I want to tell Hijack where he can stick his interference, but as my gait is stumbling, I accept his company—especially since it turns out he really does know a shortcut. Bypassing the main exit for a door marked Restricted Access, a few seconds tick by before we end up on an outdoor terrace with sweeping views of the star-studded sky.

  I barely see it, busy as I am gulping the night air, bent over double as I regain my calm. I’m so preoccupied that I barely register Hijack rubbing his hand in soothing circles on my bare back.

  “You’ll be all right,” he murmurs. “Just keep your head down. Funny that I forgot about your…little problem.”

  Nothing could have been designed to work faster as a balm on my fears. My little problem has never prohibited me from taking what I want. It may be unorthodox for a jewel thief to fall prey to bouts of claustrophobia, but I always get the job done. Always.

  He moves his hand to the nape of my neck, his thumb and forefinger pressing firmly against the place where spine meets skull. That action alone is bad enough, but from there, he slips his fingers into my hair and begins rubbing at my scalp in a way that feels alarmingly intimate. With one final deep breath, I force myself into a standing position and step backward.

  I don’t step very far. Now that my nerves are no longer intent on humiliating me, I’m able to take full note of our surroundings. This isn’t, as I’d originally assumed, an empty terrace. Several linen-covered tables are set up overlooking the water, and we’ve drawn the attention of the dozen or so diners fortunate enough to have landed a seat at what I’m rapidly coming to realize is the VIP dining lounge I’d skipped in favor of eating with Jordan.

  Before my foot has a chance to touch the ground, my back comes into contact with a fleshy wall that I could swear wasn’t there a moment ago. A pair of strong hands grab me by the waist to ground me, the grip familiar for the fraction of a second it lingers.

  “Whoa, there,” says a low, rumbling male voice. “Take it easy. You don’t look too steady on your feet.”

  Even if I had been steady on my feet, I wouldn’t be now. I know those hands, and I know that voice—and more importantly, I know the body that houses them both.

  “She’s fine,” Hijack says for me, his hand once again taking a proprietary place on the small of my back. “She’s not used to the constant movement of the ship yet, that’s all.”

  I manage a feeble smile and look up into my husband’s face. It’s a testament to his skills as a federal agent and a man of steel that no signs of his emotions are apparent. At least, no signs of his emotions are apparent to anyone meeting him for the first time. As I know full well, that unreadable look in his eyes only appears when he’s hiding something.

  Amusement, if I’m lucky. Anger, if I’m not. At this point, it could go either way. I guess I’m not the only one who noticed Hijack’s hands in my hair.

  Grant lifts a brow. “Good thing she has you to take care of her. And to speak for her, it seems. Does she have a name?”

  “As it so happens, she does.” I offer him my hand. “Penelope. Penelope Blue. And you are?”

  “Kit O’Kelly, at your service.”

  I fully expect him to shake my hand or, given the formal way he introduced himself, bow at the waist, but he lifts my fingers to his lips and drops a light kiss on the surface instead. Between the tuxedo molded to his godlike form and the dark hair that gleams in the moonlight, it’s all I can do not to swoon at the contact. Especially since he lingers a moment longer than necessary, the touch of his mouth soft and warm against my skin. The whisper of his breath is a reminder of everything I want right now—and everything I can’t have.

  “Penelope Blue, Penelope Blue…” He says my name with the affectionate inflection he normally reserves for our private time together. “The name is familiar, but I can’t think why. Should I know you?”

  I struggle to keep a laugh from springing to my lips. The question is a ridiculous one. There’s no man on earth who knows me better than this one; even before we were married, he had an alarming amount of insight into my inner workings.

  “Probably not,” I say. “I’m a pretty small-time thief. But you might know my father, Warren Blue.”

  He pretends to think about it for a moment before shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. Were you in Prague last year?”

  “Uh, no. I’ve never been.”

  “Paris in the winter of ’14?”

  “I’m sorry. You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “Impossible. I never forget a face, especially one as beautiful as yours.”

  I can’t help it. I blush. It’s the cheesiest and most overused compliment in the world, but the way Grant’s eyes—no, the way Kit O’Kelly’s eyes—are devouring me makes me feel as if I’m standing on deck without a scrap of clothing on. It’s been less than two days since he and I parted ways, and already his absence has become a physical ache.

  This is a man I cannot live without, I think. And this is a man who’s never been in more danger than he is right now.

  Despite the balmy air of the Caribbean, I shiver.

  He sees it, of course. The stubborn idiot is unable to hide his concern over my well-being and starts to shrug out of his jacket.

  “You’re cold,” he says. “Let me.”

  I jump back, determined to put as much space between us as possible. If he touches me again, if he keeps being solicitous and caring to a perfect stranger, Hijack is going to notice. My ex-boyfriend is far too interested in my FBI husband for my comfort level. The last thing we need is him asking more questions.

  “I’m fine,” I state, even as goose bumps break out on my arms. “It was just a cold
breeze.”

  Hijack clears his throat, and I turn to him with a smile, grateful for the distraction he offers. “This is Hijack,” I say, nudging him forward. “I don’t think you’ll have heard of him either—he’s even smaller time than I am.”

  Both men laugh obligingly.

  “Hijack?” Grant offers his hand. “That’s an interesting name. Am I to take it literally?”

  “Not while we’re on board the Shady Lady.” He shakes Grant’s hand, both their fingers gripped way too hard for a friendly greeting. “Except for the ship itself, there’s nothing here for me to hot-wire. We’re sorry to have interrupted your meal, but like I said, the lady needed some fresh air. She wasn’t feeling well.”

  The lady still isn’t feeling a hundred percent, but no way is she going to show it. If Grant thinks for one second that I’m not able to see my side of this job through, we’re both done for. I’m supposed to be the one worrying about him out here, not the other way around.

  As if to prove my fears, Grant examines me closely, his eyes sweeping over my body from head to toe. I’m suddenly aware of the bags beneath my eyes and the unsteadiness of my stance, both of which are difficult to hide under such intense scrutiny. I breathe evenly and deeply, hoping he’ll let us go without further incident.

  We almost get there, too. But Hijack, sensing a rival in Kit O’Kelly, places his arm firmly around my waist. “Come on, sweetheart. We’ll find you somewhere to sit down.”

  Damn. And we were so close.

  “If your sweetheart is feeling faint, the last thing you want to do is head back inside,” Grant says, a hard edge to his voice. “The noise and heat inside the dining room are enough to overpower anyone. I have plenty of room at my table. Come. Join me.”

  “Oh, no. We really couldn’t—” I begin, but it’s no use.

  “I insist,” Grant says, and in such a way that neither Hijack nor I are capable of saying no. Without waiting for an answer, he leads the way toward the back of the terrace, weaving around tables as if he was born to this role.

  If I’d doubted that this was the VIP area before, there’s no question of it now. The first clue is when we move past a table where my father and a few of his cronies sit sipping brandy, which he raises to me with a nod and a look of fabricated surprise at my husband. From there, we keep moving until we find ourselves facing a table with none other than Peter Sanchez, who I recognize from the FBI dossiers and from the same long-lashed eyes shared by his daughter.

  Well, crap. So much for Grant keeping a low profile. He’s been on this boat for all of eight hours, and he’s already wining and dining the owner. Someone’s been keeping himself busy.

  “Peter, I hope you don’t mind my asking this nice couple to join us for the rest of our meal,” he says. “The lady found the dining room a touch overwhelming.”

  Peter Sanchez, a middle-aged man with dashing salt-and-pepper hair and a white linen suit cut to perfection, rises to his feet to greet me. Knowing what I do about highly skilled criminals who are closely watched by the FBI, I’m surprised at how mild-mannered he seems. He looks like he’d be more at home dandling babies on his knee than running stolen goods over international borders.

  “Of course, of course,” he says. “Welcome. Any friends of yours…”

  “Oh, they’re not my friends. We just met.” Grant pulls out a chair for me and stands, his hand on the frame, until I lower myself into it. “But I’m given to understand that she’s one of your more exalted guests, so I assumed there could be no harm. Warren Blue, you said your father was?”

  I stifle the groan that rises to my throat. He said that plenty loud for my dad to overhear, plenty loud for everyone to overhear. I don’t know what his game is yet, dining with the elite and playing off these highly visible, extravagant airs, but I don’t like it. He might as well walk around with a neon sign affixed to his back directing people where to stab him.

  “Yes,” I say tightly. “Maybe you noticed. He’s sitting a few tables over.”

  “Of course!” Peter’s eyes, black under the dimly lit terrace, meet Grant’s in a moment of shared intelligence. “What a fortunate coincidence. Mr. O’Kelly, this is the young woman I was telling you about.”

  The queasiness in my stomach is replaced by a knot of dread. I can imagine all too well how that conversation must have gone.

  Did you hear the news? Penelope Blue is going to try and steal my precious tiara. In fact, we consider her one of the most likely suspects. Would you like to make her walk the plank, or should I?

  “That would be why the name was so familiar,” Grant says. “Though not the face. Are you sure you’ve never been to Prague?”

  I stare at him for as long as I feel I can get away with, hoping to catch some clue as to how he wants me to act. Do I pretend to know him? Feign ignorance of any and all past meetings? Act like an ordinary thief who’s plotting to steal a twenty-million-dollar tiara from the man seated across from me?

  In the end, I decide to go with that last one. Of the three options, it’s the one I’m most familiar with.

  “Never,” I say with as much resolution as I can muster. “I’m not much for traveling.”

  “It’s true. I tried to get her to come with me to Germany years ago, but she’s a New York fixture.” Hijack sits back in his chair, one arm draped over my shoulder to make it appear as if we’re hugging. I know Grant has noticed, because he’s been careful not to let his gaze fall there even once.

  “Is that so?” Peter asks politely. “How convenient. One will always know where to find you.”

  There’s a thinly veiled threat in there, so I answer with one of my own. “Yes. I can often be found staying with my dad. He moved there to be near me—to take care of me. You, of all people, must know how protective fathers can be.”

  “Aha. I take that to mean you’ve met my little Lola.”

  “I have,” I admit. And then, because it’s no more than the truth, “I like her.”

  At the mention of his daughter, Peter’s smile grows thin. “She has her moments. She’s got a good head for figures and is eager to learn. Unfortunately, she takes after my wife in all other regards—no common sense and even less discretion.”

  There doesn’t seem to be a polite response to that, so I offer a bland, “I didn’t realize you were married. Is your wife on this trip, too?”

  “No. I had her killed years ago.”

  I choke. Not one of the three men seated with me even blinks—either at the confession or my reaction to it—though Grant unbends enough to pass me a glass of water.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my hand on my chest as I attempt to swallow. “I thought I just heard you say that you had her killed.”

  “I did,” Peter says, still with that sweet, almost grandfatherly air. He toys with the stem of his wine glass before holding the bloodred liquid up to the moon. “I told you—no common sense and even less discretion. She cheated on me with her yoga instructor.”

  “Um…” I look to Grant and then Hijack for help, but I might as well be flanked by statues for all they care. Am I the only one who finds this alarming? “That’s terrible. I’m sorry to hear it?”

  “Thank you.” He bows his head slightly, accepting my apology as condolences befitting the deservedly bereaved. “If there’s one thing a man ought to be able to count on in this world, it’s his wife’s fidelity. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. O’Kelly?”

  Grant looks at me, a flash of mischief in his sudden smile. “Absolutely.”

  I open my mouth to protest—hello, misogyny and double standards and, you know, murder—but Grant isn’t done.

  “When I take the leap into matrimony, I intend to protect what’s mine regardless of the consequences,” he says calmly. “No man will lay hands on my wife without feeling the full weight of his regret.”

  As Hijack is technically laying a hand on
me right now, I can’t help but feel slightly alarmed at this declaration.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Peter says. “Which is why I had the yoga instructor killed, too.”

  I take another drink of the water, draining every last drop and wishing I had more. So much for the nice, soft-spoken baby dandler. Peter Sanchez is every bit as ruthless as his dossier suggests.

  “I’m so pleased that you and Lola have hit it off, Ms. Blue,” he says, still in that mild tone. “I’m counting on you to keep an eye on her. She thinks the world of you—she always has. I’ll feel much better knowing she’ll have at least one friend on board the Shady Lady.”

  Considering how he treats people he’s married to, I’m not sure how I feel about being his daughter’s new best friend, but I can hardly refuse. “I’m happy to do what I can, of course, but I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have once the game gets underway. I intend to give the cards my full attention.”

  “Naturally, naturally.” He waves his hand, apparently done with the subject of his family. “Does that mean you’re as adept at poker as your father? If so, my guests are going to be up against a much bigger challenge than they realize.”

  “Not at all,” I admit. It feels good to be on neutral ground again, even if we haven’t fully escaped danger. “I’m more of a casual player than anything else, but I am looking forward to catching a glimpse of the Luxor Tiara. I heard the grand unveiling is tomorrow?”

  Peter inclines his head in assent. “Yes, at the opening ceremonies. It promises to be an interesting event. You’ll have to tell me what you think of my little treasure.”

  “If I know Penelope, she’ll have nothing but good things to say.” Hijack squeezes my shoulder. “Diamond-mad, this one. Always has been.”

  I swear, it’s like he’s purposefully trying to get Grant to blow his cover.

  I cough gently. “I reserve the right to be disappointed. Remember—my expectations are awfully high. I’ve been hearing about this diamond since I was in diapers.”