Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Tamara Morgan

  I look at him in surprise. “What are you talking about? You were the one who recruited him in the first place.”

  “Yeah, six years ago. When we didn’t have Oz and Jordan and needed a getaway driver. I was desperate.” He makes a disgusted sound. “I meant to get rid of him as soon as possible, but then you got all attached, so we were stuck. You always have had shitty taste in men.”

  I bump him with my hip. “Excuse me. I dated you, didn’t I?”

  He grimaces. “Exactly.”

  The grimace lingers a second too long, the downward pull of his lips tugging on my gut. In all my concern over Grant and Lola, I’ve been neglecting him.

  “Riker, are you okay?” I ask as gently as I can. “I mean, really okay? With all the poker playing and bets over the tiara… You’re not doing anything I need to worry about, are you?”

  I expect my question to needle its way under his skin, cause him to fly out, but all he does is sigh. “For once in my life, no. I’m not. Not at the gaming tables, anyway. I don’t have a chance to. Two-Finger Tommy has the dealer in one pocket and a stack of aces in the other. I was screwed before the first hand was even dealt.”

  As a metaphor for the rest of his life, that’s pretty bleak. And accurate.

  “You don’t seem very upset about him cheating,” I say.

  “I am upset. I’m furious.”

  Never, in all his life, has Riker sounded less furious about anything.

  “But this isn’t the time or the place to deal with him,” he says, doing little to reassure me about his current state of mind. “With the way things are situated right now, I can’t give the game—or him—the attention they deserve.”

  “Riker…” I begin again, though I’m not sure why. To apologize? To plead?

  He cuts both those options short. “Oh, stop it. For once, this has nothing to do with you. I only came in the first place because Tara—” He stops and casts me a quick glance.

  “Because Tara wanted you to keep her company?” is my hopeful guess. Somehow, I don’t think I’m right.

  “Yeah. For that.” His mouth is a flat line.

  “Do you want to throw water balloons at Two-Finger to make yourself feel better?” I ask. “We have a few left.”

  The short, sharp bark of Riker’s laugh is one of the most welcome sounds in the world. “Thanks, but I value my skin where it is.”

  “I wish other people on this boat would care more about theirs,” I say.

  Riker casts me a sidelong look. “He’s going to be okay, Pen. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “You think? Then he’s the only one who does. I certainly don’t have any idea what he’s up to. He hasn’t sent me a message in forever.”

  I don’t mean to be so negative, but I can’t help it. It’s easy for people like my dad and Riker to say that Grant is capable of seeing this thing through on his own, but that’s because they don’t know him the way I do. Playing complex, twisted games with dangerous men sounds fun—I know, because it’s one of my favorite pastimes—but there’s a difference between doing it on solid ground and doing it out at sea.

  The fact that my legs are dangling off the edge of the deck and there’s nothing but the deep blue ocean in every direction serves as reinforcement. We’re as alone as we could possibly be out here. The whole ship could be taken over by pirates, and no one would come to our aid.

  “You don’t need a message to know what he’s up to.” Riker recalls me to a sense of my surroundings with a nudge. “He’s finding Johnny Francis, remember? That’s the whole reason you’re here.”

  At first, I don’t do more than register the fact that Riker spoke. I’m too busy dwelling on the agreeable image of pirates taking over the ship and throwing both Hijack and Peter Sanchez from the bow.

  “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s found him already,” Riker continues. “Or at least that he has a solid plan for drawing him out. Otherwise, why would he have pulled us off the search to keep watch on Lola instead?”

  I whip my head to stare at him. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Riker says, alarmed at my sudden vehemence. “Just that I assume he’s found Johnny by now—or close enough to count, anyway. That’s why he’s not sending you any messages. There’s no need.”

  I groan and clutch the railing with a force that feels strong enough to snap it. “Oh, my God,” I breathe. “That’s it. That’s what he’s doing. That’s why he took charge of the tiara’s security.”

  “Um, Pen? What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.” I slide my feet from the edge of the boat and stand on angry legs. The combination of adrenaline and churning water makes me dizzy. “I can’t believe he’d do that to her—to me.”

  “Pen?”

  “You said it yourself—he’s drawing him out.” I shake my head, my windblown hair whipping my face. “He hasn’t found Johnny Francis yet. Lola, Hijack, Eden St. James…none of them have any idea who he is. They said so themselves. The only thing any of us knows for certain is that he’ll stop at nothing to get his hands on that tiara.”

  “So? That’s common knowledge. It’s why we’re all here.”

  “Yes, but what’s Grant’s favorite way to lure out unsuspecting bad guys?”

  His lips lift in a quirked smile. “Um. Marrying them?”

  I’m not amused. “No, he loves to dangle bait in front of them.”

  The man once tried to bait me with a diamond necklace; he succeeded in baiting my dad with me. It’s his favorite negotiating tactic. If he has access to a tool to draw someone out, he’ll use it. It’s the one aspect of our relationship that’s remained constant from the start.

  “Think about it, Riker,” I say. “What’s the one thing Johnny Francis wants most on this boat—the one thing that will draw him out of his hidey-hole?”

  Riker blinks. “The Luxor Tiara?”

  “Exactly.” I wish I could be more triumphant about my breakthrough, but my legs and arms are shaking. I can’t help but remember how pleased Grant looked when I invited Lola to stay in my room with me. Of course he was pleased—I was playing directly into his game, helping him set the trap. “He planned this whole thing. Every part of it. Lola walking around wearing the tiara, me taking care of her, all you guys watching her every movement. She’s the bait. He’s waiting for Johnny Francis to strike so he can catch him red-handed.”

  “You think? Putting an innocent girl at risk? He’d go that far?”

  “I can’t come up with any other scenario that fits,” I say. And it makes sense. Not content with putting himself in harm’s way, he’s sentenced the rest of us to doom with him. “It would also explain why he refuses to tell any of us what’s going on. He knows how I’d react. He knows I’d pull the plug on this operation in a hot second.”

  In fact, he’s been so worried I’d pull the plug anyway that he’s committed himself to distract me through any means necessary. The Kit O’Kelly flirtation, the playful way he’s conducting himself—it’s all an attempt to get me to look the other way. Grant knows from extensive personal experience that the best way to control me is with a pair of strong hands and a blinding smile.

  And the worst part is, it’s worked.

  “Pen, where are you going?” Riker leaps to his feet. “You can’t go after him. You can’t say anything. He’s probably surrounded by Peter’s men right now.”

  “Oh, I’m not going after him,” I say, my teeth clenched tight.

  “Then what are we doing?”

  “Keeping an eye on Lola, of course. Isn’t that what His Majesty decrees?”

  Riker releases a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Since when have you followed anyone’s decrees but your own?”

  “Never,” I reply tightly. And I’m not about to start now.

  1
7

  The Attempt

  My luck turns the second I start trying to lose.

  “I’ll take three cards, please,” I say sweetly to our dealer. It’s the same guy we’ve had the entire time, but I don’t dislike him as much today. Mostly because he’s as eager for this game to end as I am. “And if you could make them all hearts, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he replies and proceeds to deal me exactly what I asked for. Three bright, shiny hearts—all I need to give myself a flush and a stack of chips that, at first glance, looks to contain about two hundred thousand dollars.

  “Oh, fuck. She’s got them.” The man seated to my left tosses his cards down in disgust. “Look at her face. She can barely believe it herself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I protest, but one by one, everyone at the table follows him. Fold, fold, outraged fold… The pot is mine for the taking.

  Well, with the exception of one player.

  “I’m not buying it. No one has that bad of a poker face. She’s bluffing.” Eden turns her head to stare at me. “I call.”

  I watch with a sinking heart as she pushes a stack of her chips to the middle of the table. It’s so tall, a few topple over and come rolling my way.

  “Sorry,” I say with a wince. I flip the cards over. “I actually do have that bad of a poker face. I can’t lie to save my life.”

  Her own poker face is pretty good. You wouldn’t think, to look at her, that she wants to reach up and strangle me, but I know the urge is there. It’s in the pulse of the vein that bisects her forehead. When she’s calm, her forehead is like smooth porcelain, but the more I win, the more pronounced that vein is getting.

  I’m sorry, I want to tell her. I’m trying my very best to lose.

  In fact, I’ve been trying to lose for the past four hours to no avail. I’m not sure yet what my plan is for bringing this FBI operation to a grinding halt, but I do know that I can’t accomplish anything when I have to dedicate eight hours of every day to this stupid table. I’d hoped to be out within fifteen minutes, but no matter how recklessly I bet or how many cards I do—or don’t—take, my pile has been growing steadily larger all day.

  It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so annoying. I have things to do, dammit.

  “A jewel thief who can’t lie?” Eden asks in her clipped voice. She sounds calm, but I doubt the emotion goes very deep. “That must be a liability when you’re on a job.”

  “Not really.” I start pulling the chips my way, heedless of the untidy piles. “Most of the time, I don’t bother hiding what I’m doing. It’s easier that way.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “What are your plans for stealing the tiara?”

  I don’t miss one, either. “I don’t have any. I don’t need them. If I keep playing like this, I’m going to get my hands on it the good old-fashioned way.”

  My insult hits home. I’m so busy gloating over her forehead vein’s new proportions that I don’t notice the dealer trying to get my attention.

  “Are you going to ante, miss?” he asks.

  “Oh. Yes. Sorry.” I toss a chip in the center of the table before returning my attention to Eden. “If we’re exchanging truths, does that mean I get to ask what you were doing in my father’s room?”

  “I can’t stop you from asking,” is her tart reply.

  “You’re not going to pry any secrets out of him, if that’s what you’re hoping,” I say. “He’s much more professional than that.”

  “Professional? Is that what you’d call it?”

  I flush. I most decidedly would not call his late-night activities professional, but I’m also a big fan of family solidarity, so I don’t give my dad the public denouncement he deserves. “It just seems like a cheap ploy is all I’m saying. I’d have thought a woman like you could be a little more creative than that.”

  The dealer coughs gently, forcing my attention back to the table. “Ms. Blue?”

  “Um, sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

  “I gathered as much. How many cards will you take?”

  Gah. Stupid poker. “I don’t care,” I reply with a wave of my hand. “You pick.”

  When the dealer coughs again, this time more insistently, I push a single card from my pile his way. “Fine. One. I’ll trade this one. And I’ll match whatever’s in there.”

  “Are you sure about that?” The dealer’s hand remains poised on the deck of cards.

  I cast a quick glance at the table to find that the pot is much larger than I realized, the mound bigger than any I’ve seen thus far. It spills over like treasure. All three of the other men at the table have put the last of their small piles into it, making this their final hand. Even Eden looks slightly alarmed at the lackadaisical way in which I’m playing this—especially since I haven’t looked at my cards yet.

  It’s not nice of me to play so haphazardly with other people’s fortunes, but I can’t help myself. I want to lose, and I don’t mind causing Eden a minor heart attack in the process. So why not?

  “You know what? I changed my mind. I’ll keep my cards the way they are. And you can just go ahead and put the rest of my money in there.”

  A collective murmur from the crowd informs me that my theatrics haven’t gone unnoticed. I wish I could say that the attention makes me blush, but I’m feeling rather maverick.

  Eden narrows her eyes to shrewd slits. “What kind of game are you playing now?” she asks.

  “No game,” I reply, holding my smile. “Just trying a new technique.”

  “Aren’t you going to look at your cards?”

  “No need. I like the way they feel.”

  “You like the way they feel?”

  I nod. “Do you want to touch them? I don’t mind. Maybe my luck will rub off on you.”

  I start to push the cards across the felt toward her, but Eden commands me to stop showing off before shoving her own stack of chips to the mound in the center.

  I sit back, almost dazed. That’s it. That’s all of it. One of us is going to walk away from this hand the winner.

  I’m not the only one aware of the implication. The audience’s gasp is loud as Eden calls the pot—almost as loud as the pounding of blood through my ears. Win or lose, this is unquestionably the most fun I’ve had at this table so far. If it wasn’t so painful to whistle a million dollars away for no reason other than to save my husband’s stupid life, I could get used to this kind of thing.

  “The honor goes to you,” Eden says with a lifted brow at my hand.

  Since this is the last time I’m going to get the chance, I decide to prolong her agony as much as possible by flipping the cards over one by one.

  The first is revealed to be a five of hearts. It’s not very exciting, and the relief that washes over Eden’s face at the sight is almost comical, but when I flip over the next one to reveal another five—this time with a diamond attached—her look of murderous intent returns.

  “I told you I’m not so easy to bring down,” I taunt as I prepare to flip the next card. I can feel all eyes on me, the drama of the moment suspended until even I can’t take it anymore.

  That’s when the room goes dark.

  I mentioned before that the dining room on this floor is gilded from top to bottom to make up for the lack of windows and natural light streaming in. The cabaret lounge is exactly the same. Because it’s an interior room—and because it was chosen for its fortresslike exits and entrances—the darkness reaches a pitch-black level rarely seen in this day and age. It takes three seconds for people to pull out their cell phones and flash the screens, three seconds more for staff members with flashlights to start swinging their beams to and fro.

  It’s six seconds too long. I feel Lola’s scream before I hear it. It ends almost as abruptly as it began, punctuated by a sickening thump before every vo
ice in the room picks up in earnest.

  My years as a jewel thief hiding in dark holes haven’t given me the full ability to see in the dark—I still have to wear night-vision goggles for that—but I’m better at discerning shapes and shadows than most people. Driven partially by adrenaline and partially by fear, I knock over my chair and push my way to where Lola and Jordan were sitting. Several people jostle me along the way, hands grabbing at my waist and breasts, but I don’t pay them attention. What’s a little inappropriate groping when there’s real danger to worry about?

  I reach Lola’s huddled body about the same time the lights come back on. Jordan sits with a dazed hand to her head, blinking at the sudden brightness, but Lola is curled up in a ball next to her.

  “Lola?” I ask as I drop to my knees. “Lola, sweetie, are you okay?”

  Her response is a wheezing breath that sounds almost as though it’s stuck in her chest.

  “Lola, I need you to talk to me. You’re okay. It’s over now. No one is going to get you.”

  Although she makes an attempt to push herself up to a seated position, she’s still not talking. Her head lifts and falls as though she’s breathing, but the sucking rattle of her chest indicates otherwise.

  “Oh, shit.” I might not have any experience with her symptoms, but I can make an educated guess what’s causing them.

  Panicked, I search her body, her pockets, any fold of her clothes where she might have stashed her inhaler this morning. Nothing.

  “Jordan, she can’t breathe,” I say, my own breath having a hard time reaching a normal pattern. “She needs her inhaler. Did you see her grab it this morning?”

  “I can’t remember.” Her own voice is weak enough that I look over in alarm. She still has a hand to her head, a trickle of blood starting to ooze out from under her fingers. She could probably use some first aid herself, but that doesn’t stop her from helping me search. A trail of bloody fingerprints showcases her efforts. “Wait. I do recall that she brought a bag with her,” she says. “It must be around here somewhere.”