I glance at our hands and back up at his face, sure I’m imagining things. This has to be the first time I’ve heard Riker willingly offer to walk away from money. He loves to act like this whole situation with Grant is my doing, my obsession, my fault, but that’s not fair. He never complained when I used my position to lure Grant away from the crime scene, never asked twice when Grant let something slip about his investigation into my dad’s disappearance. As long as the funds and information flowed freely, he was happy to turn his scowl the other way.
Which is why I’m so floored now. “Without the necklace? You’d really do that?”
“Absofuckinglutely. Let’s make this a clean break, Pen. Let’s end this. Let’s go back to the way it was before.”
Before. It’s hard to tell what he means by that. Before, as in before I made contact with Grant? Before, as in our youthful attempt to be more than friends? Before, as in those hand-to-mouth days when our meals were never guaranteed?
In the end, it doesn’t matter what he means, because I can’t do it. There’s nothing clean about this scenario—in fact, I feel dirtier now than I have for all the other parts of this arrangement. Grant and I might exist on opposite ends of the law, and our marriage might have been doomed from the start, but I’ve never once considered sleeping with another man the entire time we’ve been together.
Call me sentimental, but that means something.
“I’m sorry, Riker.” His hand stiffens, and even though I know he can tell what’s coming next, I say it anyway. “I can’t just let it go. This isn’t how things are supposed to end. We use him, remember? We uncover the truth. We win.”
“There’s still time. We’ll find another way to win.”
No. That’s not how this works. I’ve never been less triumphant in my life. I feel like I’ve collapsed just a few feet shy of the finish line, and I won’t ever get up and walk again.
“It’s no good,” I say, my voice cracking. “I have to see this through. He doesn’t get to make me feel like this.”
He doesn’t get to break my heart.
Riker’s arms are around me before I know what’s happening. It’s familiar here, wrapped up in his solid embrace, my head fitting perfectly in the crook of his neck. I almost forgot what he’s like in his softer moods, how much I like him when he’s able to turn off the demons of his past and let himself connect with another human being.
Our problem is that we could never sustain this kind of connection for very long. It’s only a matter of time before he remembers how much he owes his bookie or I say something flippant about his hair. I wish I could make him the love of my life—how much easier everything would be then—but some relationships are simply never meant to be. We’re too explosive, too volatile, to be anything but a mistake.
“If it makes you feel any better, she’s not nearly as pretty as you are,” Riker says.
I release a watery laugh. “That doesn’t help.”
“She’s older, too. Thirty, at the very least.”
“That’s not older.” I pull away and slug him in the arm. “That’s a woman in the prime of her life.”
“What are you going to do?”
The fact that he’s even asking shows how much he cares. “I’m not going to confront him, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’m not going to steal the necklace and skip town with you either, so you can wipe that excited smile off your face.”
“What’s keeping us, Pen? I mean, really keeping us? In an entire year, we’ve discovered nothing about your dad we couldn’t have found out somewhere else, made no real progress toward any of our goals. What are we waiting for?”
I don’t have an easy answer. Part of me wants to do exactly what Riker says, to draw up the divorce papers and put this whole mess behind us. Another part wants to march inside, take the necklace, and damn the consequences. But the last part—an admittedly large one—wants something else, something so elusive, I’m not sure what it is anymore.
“I’ll handle Grant,” is all I say.
It’s clearly not the answer he’s looking for, and our moment of affinity is gone as quickly as it came. “So that’s it? You’ll get tested for STDs and turn the other cheek? Keep pretending you love that man for the sake of a few solid leads? What kind of plan is that? What kind of life?”
I recoil against the chilly anger in his voice, drawing into the warmth of my house instead. “My life, Riker. That’s what kind it is.”
“Is it? Is it really? Because from where I stand, there are three other people whose lives you affect by hanging on like this. Keep it up, and we’ll all come crashing down together.”
It’s all I can do not to slam the door in his face. I know that. I know I owe him and Jordan and Oz so much more than I’ll ever be able to repay. My entire life has been a burden other people are forced to carry. My dad didn’t have time for me. My stepmom didn’t want me. My friends have to put up with me. And Grant…
I bite my lip so hard, I can taste the metallic tang of blood rushing into my mouth.
Grant is worse than all the rest. He thinks I have something he wants, but the second he finds out I’m as clueless about the whereabouts of my dad’s fortune as he is, it’s obvious he’ll have no problems moving on.
Oh, Penelope Blue, what are you going to do?
“If this is about the money, I’ll buy your share out,” I say coldly, knowing—and hoping—the words will send him running. I’m not sure how much more of this day I can take. “I have lots saved up from the last few jobs we pulled. Tell Oz and Jordan, too. I’ll make sure everyone gets a fair cut before you leave.”
“Fuck you, Pen,” he says, pulling away. “This isn’t about the money at all. If you ask me, you and Mr. Infidelity deserve each other.”
11
THE WHISKEY ROOM
(Eighteen and a Half Months Ago)
At first glance, the Whiskey Room was the least intimidating watering hole in all of Manhattan. There was something about a pub-style bar amid all the bass-thumping, overpriced social clubs that made me feel instantly welcome. It might have been the sticky wood-grain bar top, the beer taps that splashed foam all over the glass, or the way people walked through the door and immediately loosened their belts.
Literally. Ties were unknotted and jackets shrugged off. Shirtsleeves were pushed to the elbow, and high heels dangled from toes. The men and women inside this bar were clearly coming down from a hard day at work and looking to drown their problems.
I could respect that. I didn’t necessarily agree with it, but I could respect it.
Then I noticed how many of those jackets came off to reveal shoulder holsters and heard the guffaws of a pair of men crowing over a successful five-hour standoff. A girl could be blinded by the glint of so much honor and good intentions collected under one roof.
“Are we sure this is the wisest decision right now? I thought we were supposed to hide from the FBI, not seek them out.” Jordan looked much more at home here than I did. She wore a pencil skirt and a silky red blouse, and she could probably pass as just another agent-at-arms ready to wind down for the night. Me, I’d opted for black leggings and a black T-shirt—all I needed was a dark beanie, and I’d look like every criminal these guys ever bagged. My entire wardrobe was, unfortunately, a product of my career choice. It was either this or my jogging gear again.
At least the shirt plunged in a deep V at the front and was fitted to my body. I noticed a look of approval or two on the way in.
“Oh, it’s a terrible idea,” I agreed and ushered her toward a booth in the back. It was fairly isolated and gave us a good view of the door, which suited my purposes just fine. I had a man to catch, but I didn’t necessarily need an audience while I did it. “You were a fool to come with me. There’s a fifty-fifty chance we’ll walk out of here in handcuffs. More like sixty-forty, if I’m being honest.”
; Jordan slid into the seat opposite me, one brow raised in concern. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Not really, but I liked being upfront about our chances of success. “What’s that saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? Look around. You can’t get any closer to the enemy than this.”
The brow stayed firmly raised, and she didn’t take me up on the offer to peruse the bar’s impressively fit clientele, causing a healthy chunk of my confidence to slough away. She was wavering, I could tell—questioning the wisdom of entering an FBI bar, of being part of my team, of continuing an acquaintance with me, period. I couldn’t blame her—that was the worst part. I wouldn’t have stuck by me, either.
“It’s okay if you want to go.” I tried not to let my voice sound as wobbly as it felt. “Riker didn’t bother to hide his feelings about this idea, and there’s no guarantee Grant will show up anyway. He only mentioned the bar in passing that one time.”
“But you think he’ll come?”
I did. I couldn’t have said exactly why I thought he’d be here, waiting for me, expecting me, but the feeling was unshakeable. He was unshakeable. I saw him everywhere I went these days—not in real life, of course, but you know what I mean. A flash of his broad shoulders here, the low timbre of his voice there, the image of him shirtless all over the place.
What? An imagination can be a tricky thing if you let it in the driver’s seat, and my imagination had shoved me out of the car days ago.
After the initial debacle at the library, my reaction was to go into hiding. My whole body thrummed as I realized what—or rather, who—I was dealing with. An FBI agent, yes, but more importantly, a man who knew things about my past. Dangerous things. Profitable things. See, Grant wasn’t interested in me as a person. Oh, I think he liked flirting with me, and I was sure it suited his masculine pride to know that all he had to do was smile and touch my lips to make my insides turn to mush, but other than that? I was a conduit, a source of information. Nothing more.
He wanted my dad’s fortune, not me. No one ever wanted me.
That was when I realized I had nothing to fear from him, imaginary or otherwise. The jerk thought I might know something about the whereabouts of my father’s long-lost treasure, and he’d hit on the idea that a love affair was the fastest way to access it. He was that low. He’d use his charming wit and disarming smile to try and take the one thing from me that no one had gotten over the years.
People had tried—believe me, they’d tried. My stepmom, friends of my father who cared more about the money than whether or not I had somewhere to sleep, so-called friends who chatted me up only to drop me when it turned out I wasn’t sleeping with diamonds under my mattress… My entire life was a testament to the allure of cold, hard cash.
Well, fine. Two could play this game. I could smile wide and bat my eyes, too. I could lower his defenses and probe for information. He wasn’t the only one who wanted to know where the Blue Fox hid his fortune—and he wasn’t the only one willing to go to unscrupulous lengths to find out.
We’d see how he liked it when I turned his insides to mush.
“He’ll be here,” I said firmly.
“And you really want to do this?” Jordan asked. “You want to start this war with this particular man?”
Yes. Absolutely. Without question.
In fact, my heart picked up as I pictured him sauntering through the bar door, at how smoothly he’d assimilate me sitting here so he gave nothing away, at how quickly I’d let him. He was the professional, but I had street smarts. He held the cards, but I called the game.
Damn, but it was going to be fun seeing which of us would eventually come out on top.
“I know it’s crazy, but yes, I do. I’ve never been this close to someone who might have hard evidence about my dad’s disappearance. I think I might actually be able to make this work.”
Jordan’s head tilted as she examined me. It was one of her long, silent looks, the kind that made me squirm and feel like I was about to be sent to my room without dinner. But when she finally spoke, she surprised me. “Do you remember that time we almost got arrested outside the courthouse?”
“Which time?” Unless I was mistaken, there’d been more than one.
“Um…the first? It was early on. We must have been sixteen or seventeen at the time. Riker was going through his emo phase, so his nails were all painted black.”
Oh yes. That was a phase I wouldn’t soon forget. It had suited him. “We were seventeen, which means you must have been only fourteen or so. God, you were cute back then.”
She wrinkled her nose at me. She was still cute, and we both knew it. Life had been cruel to her in more ways than one, but from the outside, you’d think she was raised behind a white picket fence instead of institution bars. “That cop kept telling us to leave, but you and Riker wanted to wait for the hot dog vendor to make his rounds.”
I remembered it well, and so did my salivary glands. “Oh man. His hot dogs were the best. I think it was because he never changed the water he cooked them in. It was like ten years of flavor in every bite.”
She ignored my reminiscences with a grimace. “You told the cop that exact same thing, so he asked to see the money we intended to use to buy our food.”
“Of course we didn’t have any.” I grinned. We never had any back then. We used to pay for each meal with our wits. “Do you still remember how it all went down?”
“Of course I do. You told him exactly how we planned to get our hands on the food.”
It had been a simple but beautiful plan, as all of ours were. Jordan was set to run across the street and start a garbage can on fire while Oz dropped something metal into a stranger’s pocket to set off the courthouse security alarms. The cop would have to choose which problem to check out, which would leave Riker free to harass the vendor while I slipped up from behind and took all the sweet, semitoxic hot dogs my arms could hold.
“It was a good plan,” I said with a sigh.
“It was a great plan,” Jordan agreed. “And I was sure you’d blown it by outlining all the details in advance, mocking that cop to his face. You were always doing that—breaking the rules, riling up authorities.”
I could see where she was going with this. “That was the most successful job we’ve ever pulled, I think. That poor guy had no idea what to do when the cart arrived and you sauntered across the street, setting not just one, but three garbage cans on fire. He couldn’t believe your audacity.”
“That was technically an accident,” Jordan said. “I only meant to do the one.”
It didn’t matter. The results were the same. The cop knew very well that all four of us were in on it—thanks to my handy tip ahead of time—but he couldn’t arrest us all. In his hesitation deciding which one to go after, we all got away.
Teamwork, that’s what that was. The one advantage we’ve always had.
Even though it was a good memory—a happy one—Jordan’s brows came down in a moment of gravity. “After that, I thought you were the bravest and luckiest girl I’d ever known. I still do. No matter how dire the circumstances, you always manage to make them work in your favor. You were born to do this stuff.”
I knew what came next. This was the part where she pulled the plug. This was the part where she told me the hazards of my friendship were too high, that she was leaving just like everyone else.
“But?” I prompted.
Her moment of hesitation seemed to go on forever, giving me plenty of time to go through all the sensations of loss and despair, the two so familiar by now that I almost welcomed the numbing lash of them.
“But nothing.” She shrugged. “I trusted you then, and I’m trusting you now. Taunt your cop and tell me where to set the fires, Pen. Oz and I have your back. We always will.”
The prick of oncoming tears had me blinking rapidly and pinching
the bridge of my nose. I wasn’t sure anyone had given me such a nice compliment before, recognized that my ability to survive was one of the only things I had to offer the world.
To save myself from the embarrassment of breaking down, I mumbled something about needing a better view and approached the bar, my smile brittle and my determination to see this thing with Grant through even stronger. Jordan was right. The trick when dealing with officers of the law was to throw them off their game. In the general balance of the world, they held all the power. They were so sure of their position, their superiority, their ability to stay on the straight and narrow and come out triumphant. It never occurred to them to question what they’d do if they suddenly found themselves in a thick and tangled brush. Whereas my kind of people had nothing at all. No power, no superiority, no path. We hid in the shadows and grew impervious to thorns. Most importantly, we had each other.
I dared Grant to try and scratch me now.
“Hello, bartender,” I said with a bright smile, made all the brighter by the glitter of tears I refused to let fall. “I’d like a tonic water with a twist of lemon, please.”
Jordan joined me, her presence at my elbow palpable and comforting.
So of course, I ruined it. “And my friend here would love nothing more than an Irish Car Bomb to get her going.”
Jordan grimaced, but she accepted the Guinness-Bailey’s-Jameson boilermaker the bartender handed her in good form. “You’re hilarious, Pen. You should say that a little bit louder next time.”
“Relax.” I hooked my foot on the barstool and appraised the crowd of people playing pool and chatting at tables, none of them paying us the least heed. “These are stout-drinking folk. They’re used to it.”
We sipped our drinks for a minute—well, I sipped while Jordan did her best to stop the overflow of alcohol spilling out of her glass—as I renewed my appraisal of the crowd. Ordinary guard dog, ordinary guard dog, ordinary guard dog…not a single K-9 unit in sight.
“Still no sign?” Jordan asked.
Stealing Mr. Right Page 10
