Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Tamara Morgan

  Peter walks around to stand in front of me. He looks, to put it simply, pissed. His linen suit is rumpled, and there’s a huge scorch mark up one arm, leaving him looking almost like a love letter that’s been tossed into the flames.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice ominously controlled. “A long, enforced period of unconsciousness can be arranged. All you have to do is say the word.”

  “Touch her, and you’ll regret the day you ever heard the name Penelope Blue,” Grant growls from my back.

  “I don’t think you’re in any position to make orders, Mr. O’Kelly. I believe our deal was that I’d keep your wife alive only as long as the tiara remained secure.”

  “Oh, the tiara is plenty secure,” I promise. “In fact, I’d argue that it’s now in the safest place it’s been since this whole thing started: as far away from you as possible.”

  The blow comes from out of nowhere. To be honest, I didn’t think Peter had it in him—he always struck me as the sort to hand the physical violence off to someone else for fear of staining his clothes with blood. As it turns out, he’s more than capable of landing a punch, even on a woman half his size.

  I’ve never been hit like that before, so it takes a moment for the shock to wear off and the pain to settle in. It’s a strange combination—the dull thud of blunt force trauma to my jaw and the fiery sting of his ring cutting my lip open. A metallic tang fills my mouth, and I do my best impersonation of a Bond villain spitting blood out of the side of his mouth.

  But my lips are numb, and I mostly dribble. I’m glad Grant’s back is to me so he doesn’t witness the attempt.

  “If you feel the need to hit anyone, I’ll ask you to extend the honor to me,” Grant says in a voice I barely recognize. “I promise you aren’t going to like what I do to you if you touch my wife again.”

  Peter doesn’t blink. “You’re tied up on my boat, surrounded by my bodyguards. Are you sure that’s the tone you want to take with me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I know the blow is coming this time. I’m not sure if it’s the growing bruise that makes the second one hurt so much more or if it’s because I can see the incoming fist before it lands, but my head whips back and cracks against the back of the chair, leaving me reeling.

  “Any more witty comebacks from you two?” Peter asks.

  My head still rings from the blow, so his voice sounds distant and tinny. Grant’s furious silence, however, is easy enough to interpret. I can feel how much he wants to speak—how much it’s costing him to sit idly by while I take the beating for him.

  Triumph shouldn’t be my primary emotion, but I can’t help it. See, husband dearest? It’s not so easy to stand back and let the love of your life undergo physical trauma. One might even argue that it’s worse than the pain itself.

  Something, in that moment, shifts between us. Maybe it’s the feeling of ineffectiveness, which neither one of us has ever been good at, or maybe it’s just his exhaustion and pain finally catching up. But for what feels like the first time in our relationship, I can sense Grant handing over the reins.

  It’s a scary sensation, that kind of responsibility. It’s also a powerful one. As the recent events on board the Shady Lady have proven, my husband’s complete confidence and trust is a thing that doesn’t come easy. It’s taken me years to earn it—and I don’t mean to squander it now that it’s mine.

  “Now.” Peter hitches his slacks and squats to my level.

  I’d like to attempt another one of those badass blood-spitting moves, but I restrain myself.

  “I appreciate the effort you’ve gone through to steal the tiara and clear the boat of your competition, but you appear to have forgotten that I don’t take being crossed lightly. You’ve made me appear foolish in front of a lot of people.”

  “Yeah, I thought that part might sting,” I say and wince as he lifts his hand to punch me again. He doesn’t, though, which is almost worse. I don’t like the uncertainty.

  “Call your father or that angry one Lola likes and have them bring the tiara back.” He extracts what looks like a walkie-talkie from his jacket. “I want that diamond returned to my ship by nightfall, or you’ll see what happens to those who make a fool out of me.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m not going to call anyone. And they’re under strict instructions not to release the tiara to anyone but me. If you want to see it again, you’ll need to keep me alive.”

  And intact, I think, grateful for small favors.

  “You may think your father will protect you, but he’s not here right now. You, however, are.” Peter’s lip lifts in a sneer that he directs over my shoulder. “As, I might add, is your husband. It would be terrible if anything were to happen to him in your stead.”

  I laugh. Amused is the last thing I’m feeling toward a man who just basically threatened Grant’s life, but I like the way Peter reacts to the sound, like it curdles his blood. “Except that my husband is the only man on this ship who knows who Johnny Francis really is,” I say—or, I guess it would be more appropriate to say, I lie. Johnny Francis remains the loose end in all this, the person no one was able to identify.

  But Peter doesn’t know that, and the one thing he wants more than the tiara is Johnny. Much as he will be loath to admit it, he needs the pair of us. Both of us.

  And we’re always strongest together.

  Now it’s Grant’s turn to laugh. His is a genuine sound—meant, I know, for me. “She’s got you there, Sanchez. I don’t know where the tiara is, and she doesn’t know Johnny’s identity. If you want to win this round, you’re going to have to let us both walk.”

  Peter’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t lose his cool veneer. “On the contrary, I don’t have to do anything of the kind. Let me assure you that there’s nothing either of you can do to force my hand while you remain captive on my ship. There are enough supplies for the Shady Lady to stay in operation for weeks. You and your husband are at my mercy until I decide otherwise.”

  “But is it your ship?” I ask. “Is it really?”

  “You tell me,” Peter replies. “You’re the one who’s tied up and surrounded by my men. Maybe, if you’re very good and do exactly as I say, I won’t resort to torture.”

  I smile, the sore side of my mouth burning at the attempt. “And maybe, if you’re very good, I’ll dock my ship somewhere there aren’t dozens of U.S. agents lying in wait for you.”

  The quick narrowing of Peter’s eyes is all the indication I need to know I’ve made my point. “What are you talking about?” he demands.

  “You may not have noticed in all the screaming and panic of the fire,” I say, “but by now, the ship is heading for the nearest Florida port. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but your boat has been…ah, how can I put this delicately?”

  I laugh, as there’s no other word for it.

  “It’s been hijacked.”

  * * *

  As I’d hoped, Peter leaves us with his two favorite gun-wielding bodyguards while he goes to investigate my claims. I can’t be a hundred percent certain that Hijack accomplished his goal of forcing his way onto the bridge and taking over the captain’s controls, but I feel pretty confident overall. The old Hijack used to be able to commandeer just about any kind of vehicle out there—if it had a motor and a steering wheel, he was in. Even then, the steering wheel was optional. I once saw him drive off with a BMW using a screwdriver.

  “You have some serious explaining to do, Penelope,” Grant says in a low voice the moment Peter disappears from sight. “You stole Peter Sanchez’s cruise ship?”

  “I think one of my front incisors is loose,” I say by way of reply. I run my tongue over the front line of my teeth, but other than an alarming amount of blood, my teeth appear to be intact.

  “You deserve it,” is his prompt reply, but then he hesitates and his voice lowers to a harsh, “I
’m sorry I antagonized him. I didn’t think he’d retaliate like that. Did he hurt you?”

  “Not enough to make a difference,” I reassure him. “And he won’t do it again. Not while we hold all the cards.”

  “We?” he asks ruefully. “I sure as hell don’t have any cards, at least not while I’m tied to this chair and can’t strangle him. Can you reach the rope from where you are?”

  I strain my fingers toward his bound hands. Although I can technically reach them, my fingers grazing the edge of the rope, it doesn’t do either of us much good.

  “What if we tipped over on the side?” he suggests. “How contortionist can you get in a situation like this?”

  “Do you mean, can I lift my legs over my head and underneath my tied hands without drawing the attention of the two armed guards over by the door?” I shake my head. “No. If I had that kind of skill, I’d have escaped the last time I was tied to a chair like this.”

  “I did not tie you like this,” he says and struggles anew.

  It doesn’t do him any good. In addition to his skills at decimating human bodies with pliers and murdering unfaithful wives, Peter Sanchez is quite adept at tying people up. We have nowhere to go and nothing to do until he returns.

  “If we’re going to die like this, I want you to know—” Grant begins, but I stop him with a nudge.

  “Would you relax?” I say. “This is all going according to plan.”

  “Your plan was to get tied up and beaten by Peter Sanchez?”

  “Well, no,” I admit. “I’d hoped we’d sit at a table together and have a rational conversation among adults. But this works, too.”

  A soft chuckle escapes him. “What exactly is the endgame, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Our lives. The tiara. Peter Sanchez in handcuffs—preferably Simon’s.” I pause. “I know he’s not Johnny Francis, Grant, and I’m sorry, but he’s all I can offer you as an alternative.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that I might not want him as an alternative?”

  “Yes, it did.” Even though Grant can’t see me, I put on my most resolute expression. “But you know what he did to Lola—know what he will do to her the second he’s off this ship. That girl deserves way more than to be used as a pawn in her father’s evil games. There’s no way I’m letting him walk away now.”

  “Good.”

  With that one word, everything in my world clicks into place. Grant and I might not always agree about who gets to call the shots, but when it comes to the things that matter—the people who matter—we’re always on the same page.

  “Just be ready to act on my signal, okay? I promise to let you get your hands on Peter without interruption, but not just yet. We’ve got to get him away from his henchmen first.” I hesitate before adding in a voice that mimics the one he used in the engine room, “I’m afraid things are going to get worse before they get better.”

  He heaves a mock sigh. “They always do.”

  “Psst.”

  The sound comes from the wings of the cabaret stage. From where I’m sitting, it’s impossible to see much except a dark panel and a few dangling ropes. At first, I think the sound is a figment of my imagination or the result of repeated blows to the head, but it sounds again.

  “Psst. Penelope.”

  It’s louder this time—and much more frightening because of it. With increased volume comes recognition. I recoil against my bindings in a renewed attempt to free myself.

  “Oh, Lola. No.” My words are little more than a moan. I will her to stay where she is, out of sight and out of mind. The guards can’t see the backstage area from where they’re standing, but the second she walks out to where we are, she’s going to be at their mercy.

  But my warning is no good. She skulks out of the wings with a look of determination. Her delicate jaw is set, and her wide eyes are zeroed in on where Grant and I sit in full open view.

  “Get back in there,” I call, but it’s too late. She’s close enough now that I can see the penknife in her hand. She’s coming to free us, and nothing could be worse for my plans.

  Taking his cue from me, Grant orders her back to the wings. His tone is firm and commanding in ways mine will never be, but Lola doesn’t stop her forward momentum.

  At least, she doesn’t stop until she notices the two men. “Octavian? Laurie?” Her voice sounds small but resolute. “You’re still here?”

  The larger of the two, a man with such a large gut, it looks like he’s gestating twin elephants, takes a step forward. “Lola, what are you doing here?”

  Instead of being afraid of him, she lifts her chin. “I came to rescue my friends.”

  My heart sinks. Lola was supposed to be long gone by now, safe in the keeping of my friends and father.

  “You gotta get out of here, honey,” the other man says. Like Gut Guy over there, he’s wearing an almost softened expression as he looks at Lola. “Your dad isn’t going to like this.”

  “Not without my friends,” she repeats.

  For a moment, I think it’s actually going to work. Whatever loyalty these men have for their fearless leader is nothing compared to their feelings for this sweet, brave girl he somehow sired. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before. If she was able to win a man like Riker over in less than a week, how much more effective would she be against men she’d probably known her whole life?

  But, “He’ll kill us,” Gut Guy says with a shake of his head. “You know we can’t let them go.”

  Her crestfallen expression turns to one of outright dismay as the door is thrown open and her father returns to the lounge. Peter bears the lowered, angry look of a man who tried—and failed—to force his way onto the bridge, but that look changes almost instantly. The sight of his daughter coming near his captives with a knife in hand seems to afford him great pleasure. He doesn’t even seem to mind that his guards are almost as upset by his untimely return as the rest of us.

  “My sweet little Lola,” he says in a faintly crooning way. It sounds like an army of spiders marching up and down my spine. “What a fortunate occurrence. I’m so happy to see you safe and returned to my arms.”

  In her sudden alarm, Lola drops the knife. It clatters to the stage, spinning far enough out of reach that neither I nor Grant can grab at it with our feet.

  “Daddy?”

  “I knew you would come back like a good girl,” he says. “Did you bring me the tiara?”

  “N-no.” Her eyes open wide. “I don’t have it.”

  “Who does?” he asks.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “I think you do.” He draws forward, lulling her with his calm voice and assured air. “I think you know exactly where Penelope has hidden it. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell me.”

  “But I don’t,” she protests. “I just came to…”

  “Yes, Lola? What is it you want to tell me?”

  If Peter had yelled or cursed, revealed himself to be the true villain he is, I think Lola might have been able to make a run for it. Fleeing from visible evil is easy. It’s the kind that hides—in the people we love, the people who are supposed to love us back—that catches us unaware.

  “Just tell me where it is, and no one has to get hurt,” Peter adds.

  Lola begins shaking uncontrollably, her fear so strong, it’s a palpable presence standing on its own two feet. My chest aches to see it. There’s no way that girl can withstand her father’s particular brand of torture, quiet and complete. She’s spent her entire lifetime being victimized by it.

  “You can tell him if you want to, sweetie,” I say. “Go ahead. I won’t be mad.”

  “Penelope is right,” Grant agrees. “Don’t be a hero for us, Lola. We’ll be fine. You don’t owe us anything.”

  Our words have the opposite effect from the one we intended. Lola’s jaw sets
at the same time her shaking stops. She even ranges herself in front of our chairs, putting herself physically between us and her father.

  “I’m not telling you anything until you let them go.” Thanks to her position on the stage, Lola’s small voice carries throughout the entire room. “I’m sorry, Daddy, but they’re my friends. I can’t let you hurt them.”

  Heroism of this sort—the kind that bucks parental decrees and topples every hierarchy a young girl has ever known—doesn’t come easy, I know. I can’t help watching Peter to see how he’ll react to what, in my mind, is true fearlessness.

  He should be proud of his little girl for standing up to him, for taking a side and believing in it so strongly that she’s willing to sacrifice everything she knows.

  He shoots her instead.

  Because the cabaret lounge is designed to carry sound, the sharp report of the gun seems supernaturally loud. So does the cry Lola releases just once before crumpling to the ground like a paper doll folding in on itself. I can’t see where the bullet hit, but I can see Peter standing some distance away, his expression empty as he takes in the sight of his daughter’s inert form. The two guards have almost become statues, staring at the fallen girl in alarm.

  “Well, now.” Peter holsters his gun and approaches us, perfectly at his leisure. “That’s a fortunate circumstance, isn’t it?”

  “If you’ve killed her, you asshole…”

  Peter turns his mild gaze my way. “You’ll what? Steal both my boat and my tiara? Nice try. That only works once. I might have to keep you two alive to get what I want, but Lola is expendable. She has nothing more to offer me.”

  He reaches down to grab the knife Lola dropped, flipping it open and closed several times in succession. “I think what’s going to happen next is that you’ll accompany me to the bridge and inform your friend Hijack that you’ve had a change of heart.”

  “No.”

  “I think you’ll also find that the tiara has become a burden you no longer wish to bear.”