Stealing Mr. Right

by Tamara Morgan

  “As in, the theories of?”

  “As in, I borrowed both a dress and an iron from Jordan, but I have no idea how to work it. You could make yourself useful while I finish getting ready.”

  He blinked. “You don’t know how to iron?”

  Not even a little. It was yet another in a long line of common sense, real-life skills that had never crossed my path before. The number of everyday tasks I didn’t know how to do was much longer than this man would ever realize.

  “No. I don’t know how to iron. I also don’t know how to cook, how to bowl, how to ride a bicycle, what the square root of any number is, or how to break down the thematic elements of The Catcher in the Rye. Do you want me to keep going? I’ve got all night.”

  His lips pressed in a firm line to hold the laughter at bay. “A bicycle? Really?”

  “Listen up, Emerson. You can stand there judging my life choices, or you can speed things along so we can get this date started.” I pointed to where the iron sat in a corner, mysterious and filled with water—which made no sense to me, because I thought water and electricity equaled immediate peril. “The sooner it starts, the sooner it ends, if you know what I mean.”

  He knew what I meant. “Go get me the damn dress.”

  * * *

  “Okay, okay. Now it’s my turn,” I said, sitting back in my chair. I was drunk on laughter and chocolate cake, growing sleepy with the lights of the restaurant dimmed so low, we had to eat by candlelight. “What’s your most prized possession?”

  Grant drummed his fingers on the tabletop, either thinking about the question or pretending to think about it—I couldn’t tell which. I couldn’t tell much of anything at that moment, to be honest. Either this man had studied my profile so deeply that he knew how to plan an absolutely flawless date from start to finish, or this game of who-can-outsmart-the-other was going to be better than I’d thought possible.

  The sheepish way he shrugged highlighted his sincerity and his sex appeal in equal proportions, doing little to help me make sense of it all. “Will I sound like a total tool if I say it’s a painting I found at a flea market a few years ago?”

  “A little.” I smiled to show I meant no harm. He could have told me it was his gun or a knife he planned to hold to my throat later, and I’d probably have gone along with it, foolish smile and all. I was that far under his spell. “What’s the painting of?”

  “This is going to make me sound even worse, but it’s not really of anything—that’s why I like it. It’s in the style of Willem de Kooning, though, of course, it’s not the real deal. He’s out of my price range.”

  Art was yet another thing I knew virtually nothing about, right up there with philosophy and literature and all the other classical arts. My dad used to talk about stepping up our game and making the shift from jewelry to art; I could remember a few afternoons spent wandering the Met, scouring the walls and coming up with exit strategies under the guise of scholarship, but I never learned anything other than the rotation schedule of the security guards.

  Like most ambitious men, my dad had always stuck to one very narrow, very crooked path, which meant that art mattered only insofar as it could line our pockets. We stopped going to the museum after a few weeks, and when I asked if we were ever going back, he just tugged on my ponytail and told me he had other plans. Thus ended the artistic education of Penelope Blue.

  “Don’t tell me you’re an art connoisseur on top of everything else,” I said with a groan. It was becoming impossible to keep up with this man. “You’re starting to give me a serious inferiority complex. Let me guess—you’re a painter and poet in your spare time.”

  He tilted his head and looked at me with one of those long, penetrating stares, a scope straight to my soul. I tried my best not to squirm under the intensity of it.

  “It’s a fairly recent interest,” he said cautiously. “One I originally picked up for work.”

  “Ooh, was it a big art heist?”

  “Something like that.”

  I relaxed. For once, I wasn’t worried by the innuendo in his tone. If he was fishing to find out if my team planned to hit up the MoMA next, he’d need a different kind of bait. Like I said—that sort of thing was above our typical pay grade.

  “Well, I recognize the name, but not much else,” I admitted. “What’s he done?”

  Grant’s head didn’t move from its cocked position. “Abstract stuff, mostly—the one I have is a complicated mass of orange and red, which is why it reminds me of him. He used a lot of bright colors.”

  I felt like he was searching for a specific response, but I’d always thought abstract art was kind of silly—like something a five-year-old could do. So I did what any woman trying to impress her date would in that situation: I lied. “Oh yeah. Now I know who you’re talking about. His stuff is pretty.”

  Just like that, Grant’s head moved back into place. His easy smile once again warmed the table. “Now that I’ve admitted my secret and shameful love of Dutch abstract painters, it’s your turn. Quick. Save my reputation and tell me your most valuable possession is something worse, like handcrafted doilies.”

  I didn’t have to think very hard about it, but I took my time anyway, enjoying our surroundings and the fact that I was having an honest-to-goodness fantastic time without even trying. Grant didn’t tell me where this magical third date of ours was going to take place, but he’d decided to bring us to that great Italian place an hour upstate where I’d stood him up the first time. I understood the implication—ha-ha, very funny—but he actually had the audacity to pull over at both of the telephone booths along the way to point out the various times at which I could have called to let him know I was lost.

  You’d think that him being so obvious and mocking would place a damper on the evening—put up walls and encourage us to retreat behind them—but it turned out to do the exact opposite. It’s okay. I know you’re an underhanded sneak, but I like you anyway, Grant seemed to say. Now try this pasta.

  And the pasta was good. The pasta was amazing.

  Even more amazing was the fact that he’d had the restaurant cleared for the night. I didn’t know how or why he’d pulled out all the stops, but we were alone in the cozy Tuscan-inspired interior, save for a discreet waiter who’d occasionally bring more food before retreating back to the kitchen.

  Yeah. Not my typical date, if you’d believe it. In fact, the only other time I’d done anything remotely like this was when Riker and I broke into a Spaghetti Warehouse in the middle of the night and swiped a party-sized tiramisu.

  “You’ve seen my apartment, so you know I’m not one to hold on to things,” I warned.

  Grant leaned over the table ever so slightly—a man hanging off my every word, though I couldn’t say whether it was because he found me fascinatingly attractive or because he thought my answer would be something like the pair of Fabergé cufflinks my dad lifted off the French prime minister in the eighties. He’d been on a run of high-profile thefts at the time. You know, before I was born and ruined everything.

  “The one thing I really love is this Sgt. Pepper album that belonged to my dad.” There. See? Maybe it wasn’t jewelry or art, but it was enough information about my father to keep Grant interested. I knew how to play the game—and it just so happened I was also telling the truth.

  His brow lifted. “You a big Beatles fan?”

  “Not really. But ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ was kind of our song.” As was the entire Diamond Dogs album by David Bowie, the Rolling Stones’ “Ruby Tuesday,” and “Diamond Girl” by Seals and Crofts. “He had this great portable record player, and he’d put that song on over and over again. It’s silly, but it’s the only thing I still have of him.”

  I hadn’t intended to get so maudlin, but I could almost see my dad grabbing the record and putting it on, taking me by the hands to twirl around the living room. W
hen I was really little, I’d stand on his feet while he showed me the steps. As I got older, I mostly wanted to run and hide whenever he pulled out the vinyl. It was the only dorky-dad thing I remember him doing. If things ever get tough, baby doll, you’ll always have our song, he’d say.

  I still did, technically. But just the one record, the one song, stashed inside a kitchen cupboard for lack of a better place to put it.

  “That’s all he gave you?”

  I shrugged in an attempt to deflect further questioning. It was the only thing I had of him—God, how much easier my life might have been if he’d left more—but I didn’t want Grant to know that. If he didn’t think I could lead him to my father’s mythical fortune, he wouldn’t have a reason to keep seeing me.

  Pathetic, right? I warned you what kind of trouble an ex-football player can get you into.

  “It’s all I have,” I said, emphasizing the last part. In reality, there’d been clothes and a watch I’d pawned, a few more records and personal belongings that helped ease my way. None of it had lasted much beyond the first few months. “I’ll show it to you sometime. Maybe you can even rustle me up a record player so we can listen to it.”

  “I’d like that,” he said. Now he definitely leaned across the table, interest kindling in his eyes. “I like you, Penelope Blue.”

  Oh God. I liked him, too. Liked him so much I was afraid to tell Riker and the rest of my team the truth—that I enjoyed his company to dangerously unhealthy levels. I was going to have to reevaluate my motives—and soon.

  But not at that moment. Just then, with the lights down low, our stomachs full and our hearts open, his lips parting as they angled toward mine, I wanted nothing more than the kiss he promised me. And I was going to get it, too.

  Or so I thought.

  “I see what you’re trying to do here, and it won’t work.” His mouth was close enough to mine that I could feel the vibrations of his voice, warm and enticing, but he placed a finger on my lips before I could make contact. “Shame on you. I said at the end of the date, and I meant at the end of the date. I hope to make you realize I’m a man of my word.”

  “That’s the funny thing about men of their words. Eventually, they have to stop talking.”

  “And then what do they do, I wonder?”

  I didn’t wonder. I knew. They left.

  But that wasn’t the game we were playing, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment by being morose. I was about to answer with a saucy remark about the other things he could do with his mouth, but a cell phone went off with a shrill break in the air.

  “Goddammit.” Grant groaned and sat back in his chair, looking grumpy at the interruption and no less appealing because of it. There’s something about an unsated and clearly driven man that gets to me every time. “I’m sorry. I have to answer this.”

  It was the first of many such interruptions, and I acted then as I have every time since. With a wave of my hand and a forced smile, I let him at it.

  Predictably, he rose from the table to take the call somewhere private, leaving me alone with crusty breadsticks and congealing alfredo sauce. I picked at the crumbs silently, doing my best to overhear the strains of conversation coming from the bathrooms. But just as Grant could move around in complete silence, so too could he drop his voice to indistinguishable levels.

  It was something I’d need to remember for the future.

  There were several things I needed to remember for the future—including the fact that Grant was doing a much better job of ferreting out my secrets than I was of his. So far, all I knew was that he had a professional interest in the Blue Fox, he was aware of my relationship to the man, and he was willing to go to highly unethical means to get information.

  Warning bells should have been clanging loud and clear, but the only thing I could think was that I hoped his ethics grew very, very thin. So thin, in fact, they’d practically be naked.

  When Grant returned, I could tell any chances of that happening were gone. The relaxed, playful mood we’d been in for most of the evening had vanished, replaced by a wide step and a straight back. His mouth was set in a grim line. I’d have been lying if I said that version of Grant—man of action, FBI agent to the core—wasn’t as much of a turn-on as the softer one.

  “I hope you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t get mad when her date walks out halfway through,” he said. There wasn’t nearly as much apology in his voice as I’d have liked, but something about the anxious expression that replaced the crinkles around his eyes put me in a forgiving mood.

  “I don’t know what kind of woman I am in that situation. I’ve never had a date walk out on me before.”

  The anxious expression lightened a touch, and a surge of pleasure moved through me at having lifted it myself. “Do you feel a strong urge to throw that plate of fettuccini at me?”

  I toyed with my fork. “Surprisingly, no.”

  “How about the water? Is there a chance it’ll end up in my face?”

  “Such juvenile tactics you resort to in times of anger.” I made a soft tsking sound. “If I wanted to seek retribution for the outrage I’ve suffered at your hands, I’d be much more subtle than that. My revenge would be years in the making.”

  I got a flash of his teeth, a real smile, before he carefully tucked it away. “That I believe. The bill’s taken care of, and you can feel free to order more dessert while you wait. The cab should be here in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Wait—you’re not going to drive me back to town?”

  He winced. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t. I shouldn’t even be taking this long to get on my way. We’ll pause the date, okay? Pick up again later?”

  Pause the date? Was that even allowed?

  Some of my annoyance must have shown on my face, because he took two massive strides and pulled me out of my chair, holding me so close, our chests bumped and tingled. Well, his bumped; mine tingled. I’d never wanted any man to touch me as much as I wanted Grant to touch me in that moment. It was impossible not to imagine how the solid weight of his hand would feel sliding between our bodies, skimming my curves, settling on the softest, roundest parts, and staying there for hours.

  Something told me that Grant was a thorough man in this, as in all things.

  To my shivering delight, his hand did come up, but only to cup the side of my face. His thumb grazed my lips just long enough to trace the outline before falling away again. I couldn’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure a groan of my frustration escaped before he finished.

  Then again, the sound could have just as easily come from him.

  “I’m sorry. As much as I’d like to bring this date to an end the proper way, I have to run.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me why?” I asked.

  “You know how it goes. I could tell you, but…” He didn’t have to finish. Then I’d have to kill you.

  Despite my frustration—a mounting feeling lodged in my stomach and working like liquid bolts down my thighs—I managed a smile. “Then off you go. Rid the world of thieves and bad guys so it’s safe for the rest of humanity.”

  I was careful not to place myself on either side of that equation.

  Grant nodded and did a quick survey of the restaurant to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything before heading efficiently out the door. Predictably, it didn’t make a sound as it closed behind him.

  As soon as he was gone, I took a moment to make the same survey. The stucco walls, which had seemed so quaint and charming when we’d arrived, now looked dingy. A light in the corner flickered intermittently, and the mandolin music playing softly in the background picked up an almost country twang.

  For the first time, I saw this evening as exactly what it was: a half-assed attempt at seduction, a cheap ploy to get information from a woman who was too stupid to know when she was in over her head.

  Then th
e door flew open again, revealing Grant’s dark, impressive profile against the evening sky. He crossed the restaurant without a word and pulled me into his arms. My head tipped back, my lips parted in anticipation, and my body lit up where it touched his.

  “Fuck it. End of the date or not, I’m kissing you.”

  Grant’s mouth crashed over mine in the arrogant, masculine sweep of energy that characterized everything he said and did. I toyed briefly with the idea of feigning outrage or chiding him for going back on his word, but what was the point? I wanted this as much as he did.

  Who was I kidding? I wanted it more.

  He firmed the kiss, his lips moving insistently against mine until I opened up and let him in. I lost all sense of my surroundings when our tongues brushed together. My world shrank to the four walls of that restaurant and then to the cage of his arms, his mouth. The only places I existed were where he touched. He was hard where I was soft, powerful where I was weak.

  He was in charge—and never more so than when he released a deep groan and pulled away. His breathing was ragged and his skin flushed, but there was no denying that the decision to end that kiss was all his.

  “Well, shit,” he said, watching closely for my reaction.

  I laughed. There was nothing else I could do. It was a giddy, reckless sound, but it was the only way to cover my dismay.

  I knew, going in, that the touch of Grant’s hands on mine was a dangerous thing. But nothing could have prepared me for the touch of lips and tongues and full-thrumming bodies.

  That was catastrophic.

  14

  THE ESCAPE

  (Present Day)

  You might think that being tied to a chair for hours on end would bring a calm reflection about one’s life choices. After all, there’s nothing like the passing of time to put things in perspective and force a little worldly wisdom on your head.

  Wrong. The longer I sit here, struggling against Grant’s damnably tight bonds, the further I get from calm and wise. I’ve spent more than enough time inside air ducts and kitchen cupboards to know that reflection time is rarely good for me. I don’t get philosophical. I get annoyed.