Stealing Mr. Right

by Tamara Morgan

  And I’m very annoyed right now.

  My fingers twist at an odd angle, working a knot near my side. I’ve almost got it to the point where I can nudge the jagged edge of my fingernail under the loop. I may end up with bloody nubs for hands when all is said and done, but I won’t care as long as I can still use those nubs to wring Grant’s neck.

  Before I can rip the rope—or my fingernail—to shreds, there’s a knock at the front door.

  “Oh, sweet baby Jesus.” My cry is half surprise, half relief. For all my illegal and hard-edged ways, I didn’t really relish the thought of bleeding my way out of this situation. “Hello? Who’s there?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Pen. You know who it is. Let me in.”

  I didn’t know who it was before, but that irritated shout could only belong to one man. “Sorry, Riker—I can’t let you in. I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

  I can’t help it. I snicker. Now that the cavalry has arrived, I’m turning giddy.

  “Not amused. I have about three thousand other things I should be doing right now. Either let me in, or I’m going home.”

  I kick my legs in a panic before I remember that no amount of kicking is going to loosen these Boy Scout knots. “No, I’m being serious. Don’t leave—don’t go—wait.”

  The following pause goes a long way in turning my stomach to—what else?—knots, but Riker’s weary voice eventually picks up again. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m literally tied up. As in, to a chair, with real rope. You’ll have to break a window.”

  “Any window I want?”

  He makes it sound as if he’s thought about this before. “Don’t get too excited. I’d prefer if you could avoid drawing attention to it. You might be able to get in through the kitchen one.”

  He doesn’t respond right away, and I’m afraid he’s going to leave me here as punishment for not taking the necklace when I had the chance, but the sound of shattering glass in the kitchen soon puts those fears to rest. Not all my fears, since the string of curses Riker releases indicates that he, too, might leave me here to stew in my life’s mistakes.

  “Goddammit,” he mutters, taking his sweet time on his way to the living room. “I sliced open my jacket trying to get in. It’s brand-new Italian leather. Look.”

  I do look, but only because that’s the direction my head is pointed and I don’t have any other choice. The jacket is sleek and cut close to his body, as most of his clothes are, but I’m not in the mood to admire it. “You look like a bargain bin mobster.”

  “What are you talking about?” He frowns at himself. “Jordan said this cut is very classy on me.”

  “Jordan is the queen of conciliation. She’d say you look good in the actual skin of a cow if you asked.”

  It’s only then that he glances up to see me. His surliness and irritation disappear in an instant, and I know he’d have taken a knife to his precious leather coat himself for a chance to enjoy the sight all over again. “Holy shit, Pen. You’re tied to a chair.”

  “Am I really? How odd, when that’s exactly what I told you five minutes ago.”

  He responds with a crack of laughter that causes Grant’s stupid red-and-orange abstract painting to tilt even more from where it hangs askew over the open safe. I’m really starting to dislike that thing.

  “Laugh it up, my friend. Get it out of your system. I’ll give you this one time, and then we’re never speaking of it again.”

  “Oh, we’re speaking of it again. We’re speaking of this every day for the rest of our lives. What the hell happened here? Why aren’t you gagged, too?”

  I tactfully ignore the second question and nod at the safe. “We were robbed, that’s what happened. Now, would you get me out of this chair, please? My thighs are chafing.”

  Riker’s mouth opens, about to spout a thousand questions, but his eyes light with understanding as he takes in the crime scene. Considering how much energy we’ve spent arguing about that safe lately, it’s no wonder he takes this moment seriously. Flipping out his switchblade, he begins sawing through the rope.

  He works deftly and silently, freeing my limbs much more slowly than I’d prefer. It’s probably for the best, since my hands and feet lie limply as they prickle back to life. My skin is raw where the rope rubbed against me, but there doesn’t seem to be any blood. Which is disappointing, in a way. I want battle wounds, scars, physical signs of my captor’s cruelty.

  All I get is one sore fingernail and a few sleeping limbs. Go figure.

  “Okay,” Riker says. “Grab a bag and start tossing what you’ll need in it. Clothes, shoes, any personal items you don’t want to leave behind. If there’s money somewhere—an emergency fund or jewelry we can hawk—be sure you grab that, too. What else?” He takes a slow turn, eyes roaming over every horizontal surface. “Is it worth going through Grant’s office? Any papers that might come in handy for blackmail purposes? A gun he keeps in a locked drawer?”

  At the mention of a gun, I stop massaging my foot. We’re not ones to resort to armed violence, and we never have been. With the right amount of planning and foresight and safely controlled explosives, there’s no need.

  “Whoa—slow down, Riker. It’s not like that. There’s no need to make a run for it.”

  He looks at me as if I’m the stupidest person on the planet, which, to be honest, I feel like right now. “I know you think you can bend the mighty Mr. Romance to your whims, but not even the best blow job of your life is going to get you out of this one. The second he comes home to find that necklace gone, you’re culprit number one.”

  Um… “Actually, that’s not true. This is the one time in my life he’ll believe I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t stick around to find out if you’re right.”

  “Oh, I’m right.” I can’t help it—I’m a little smug as I deliver the next part. “He’s the one who stole it.”

  Riker’s mouth opens and closes again. This has to mark the first time in our long history that I’ve ever rendered Riker speechless, and I take a moment to bask in it.

  My triumph is short-lived as I try to get to my feet. My nerve endings are still firing up, and the adrenaline of my capture is ebbing away, leaving me shaky. I have to sink once again into that stupid chair to avoid another maidenly swoon. No way am I fainting twice in one day.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Riker asks.

  I know my sense of humor can be dark sometimes, but I don’t joke about my husband running off with a two-million-dollar necklace. I don’t think I could. “I wish,” I say.

  “Grant really stole it?”

  I nod.

  “Which means Grant also tied you to that chair?”

  I nod again.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.” The scowling side of his mouth takes over, but I can tell he’s not angry. He’s perplexed. “Why would he do that? He’s the one who called me to come get you.”

  I’m stunned for all of five seconds before realization creeps over me, slow at first and then gaining speed. It leaves a fiery path of indignation in its wake. “Oh, hell no. What exactly did he say?”

  “Not much. Just that you might need a friend right about now.”

  “That motherfucking bastard.” I make a vain attempt to reattach my bonds, but Riker did too good of a job cutting them. “It would serve him right if I died in this chair. Withered away and left him nothing more than my dusty bones.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Tie me back up. Make it even tighter this time.”

  “I’m not tying you back up.”

  “Then I’ll do it myself.” I know I’m working myself up for no reason, but I can’t stop. What I feel isn’t just anger. Anger is hot and explosive and makes my head feel tight. This is a full-body emotion, fury taking up residence in every nerve end
ing I possess. “He knew the whole time he was going to send you to free me. The stupid jerk. He wanted me to think I’d be stuck here forever so I’d do something drastic like gnaw through the ropes to escape.”

  Grant had been laughing at me. I’d been betrayed and abandoned and overwhelmed, and he had the audacity to turn it into a joke.

  “I’m going to end him,” I say. “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to impale him with a stick and carry him through town for everyone to see.”

  “I don’t understand most of what you’re saying right now, but I like that last part. Let’s do it.”

  That’s when the laughing starts. It’s mostly hysteria, the sound of hundreds of tangled threads working into a knot and slamming into my gut, but once I get going, I can’t seem to stop. Grant, Tara, the necklace…it’s too much.

  After a minute, Riker joins in, which just goes to show what a good friend he is. He has no idea what’s going on, but that won’t stop him from breaking down right alongside me. That’s solidarity, right there.

  “Okay, Pen,” he finally says, laughter fading. “What really happened today? Maybe you better start this story from the beginning.”

  “I will, but the beginning goes a lot further back than you think. Before today, before me and Grant, before me and you, before everything.”

  Riker’s jaw doesn’t fall, but it does tighten. “Back to your dad?”

  “Back to my dad,” I confirm with a nod. “And a certain someone I once called stepmother.”

  15

  THE PLAN

  We decide to set up a base of operations at Jordan’s apartment. My house is too hot, especially since we aren’t sure what plans Grant has with Tara and the FBI, and Riker took over my apartment lease when I got married, so you already have an idea about the quality of living space there.

  I’m not sure where Oz lives. Which is weird, now that I think about it. I wouldn’t put it past him to sleep in a new location every night—a drifter without ties, a man on the run. The drama is nice, but he probably just crashes on Jordan’s couch. It’s pretty comfortable, and she has about eighty throw pillows, so it always feels like falling into a cloud.

  I could use a cloud right now. Clouds and rainbows and an ironclad plan of vengeance—in no particular order.

  Actually, there is a particular order. I’m starting with vengeance.

  “When we find Grant, I’m the one who gets to punch him. I know there are some here who maybe want to take a swing”—I shoot a very obvious gaze toward Riker—“but let’s get that out of the way right now. I call dibs.”

  “You can’t call dibs on hitting someone,” Riker says, though he’s not nearly as upset at being denied first blood as I’d expected. “There could be extenuating circumstances. What if I have to take him out from behind?”

  “Then you tackle him, pin his arms back, and hold him for me. Let’s not argue over details. The point is that I want to be the one to hurt him. Agreed?”

  Riker nods. “Fair enough.”

  I feel better now that we have everything settled, but Jordan coughs discreetly. “I hate to ruin this moment, but is there an actual plan for finding Grant? You know, before we start tearing him limb from limb?”

  “Um, that’s where things might get complicated,” I say. I have no idea where Grant is or where he might be heading with Tara. The obvious answer—somewhere inside the Federal Bureau—doesn’t make sense, because the necklace was in their possession to begin with, and he could have taken it to them at any time.

  Which means, of course, that it’s time to face reality. It’s cold, it’s hard, and it’s been staring me in the face far too long to feign ignorance any longer.

  Grant has finally discovered the whereabouts of my dad’s fortune. It’s the one thing he’s never bothered to hide his interest in, the one thing he values more than his stupid job, and the one thing that’s kept him married to me all this time. Unfortunately, I have no idea how the necklace or Tara tie in to his plans. Believe me—if Tara knew where that money was, she’d have ferreted it out years ago.

  “Complicated as in he’s hiding behind a government desk, or complicated as in you don’t know?” Jordan asks.

  “The second one,” Riker answers for me. It’s not a very helpful answer, especially since I don’t hear him offering an opinion of his own, but Jordan accepts it in good form.

  “So what happens next?” she asks.

  “Easy,” I say. “We just need to consider all the possibilities and get rid of the least likely ones.”

  That’s another one of my dad’s favorite maxims. If you can’t figure out the best way in, find all the worst ones instead. It’s a fancy way to describe the process of elimination, but then, he liked to make things a lot more complicated than they really were.

  As the current situation attests. Like it would have been that hard for him to hide our money in a Swiss bank account like normal thieves.

  Riker frowns. “Sure thing, Pen. We’ll work our way through every possible hiding place in New York and work outward from there.”

  That makes for a second not-very-helpful answer, and I’m starting to get sick of it. He’s been like this since I outlined the whole sordid tale back at my house. I was prepared for triumph and gloating—this was the ultimate opportunity for him to lay on the I told you so—but this brooding sarcasm is a bit much, even for him.

  “It’s not like we’re without resources,” I say. What we need right now are plans, not arguments. “Riker, you have all your secret underworld connections—surely someone saw or heard something about Tara in the past few days. She’s the least inconspicuous person of all time. Start asking around to see where she’s been and who she’s been talking to. If she’s on the trail of my dad’s money, you can bet someone has noticed.”

  Oz and Jordan nod their agreement, but Riker maintains his stony front. I choose to ignore it.

  “Oz, you should start hanging around the Whiskey Room under one of your aliases. See if you can pick up any chatter from the feds about Grant or Tara or the necklace. Something this big isn’t likely to go unnoticed, and you know how much those guys talk once they’ve had a few drinks.”

  Oz, ever the trooper, nods in agreement. All that’s left is Jordan’s expectant air. Her willingness to follow me to the earth’s ends is evident in the gentle arches of her brows. “And me?”

  “You and I are going to take a little trip to Paulson Jewelers.”

  Her eyes drop to the infinity necklace that’s still against my sternum. I almost ripped it off and tossed it out the window on the way over here, but I couldn’t make myself do it. I needed that particular piece of jewelry. Not because I was feeling sentimental about Grant—God, no—but because it gave me strength.

  This is the lie he told you. This is the promise he never meant to fulfill.

  I would need to hold onto that anger until we caught him. Maybe even longer. Something would have to keep me warm at night once this was through.

  “Remember the day I came over to ask if Grant could poison me with this chain?” I ask, waiting only for Jordan’s nod to keep going. “How I said it felt like he was toying with me, like he was actively trying to get me to take the diamond necklace from the safe?”

  I wish I’d done it, now. We might be banished to a tropical island somewhere, on the run and wanted by Interpol, but at least I would have been safe in the knowledge that I was the one inflicting pain on my spouse.

  If wishes were diamonds and all that… I shake myself back to attention.

  “I think it’s because he was trying to get me to steal the necklace. He said something along those lines back at the house—about how his first choice refused to take the bait, so he was forced to turn to Tara as a backup plan. I was the first choice. He wanted me to do his dirty work, taking the necklace and leaving a trail of evidence behind. He was throwing that n
ecklace at me every chance he got.”

  “But his backup plan for what?” Jordan asks. “If he wanted us to have it so bad, he could have let us get away with it in the first place.”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” I say. It doesn’t make any sense to me, either, but one thing I know for sure: I won’t rest until I have all the answers. “I’m wondering how much Paulson’s might be in on it. Maybe they arranged the introduction between Erica Dupont and the FBI in the first place. Maybe Grant had them put a tracker on the necklace.”

  “It doesn’t have a tracker.” Riker is perfectly rigid. Usually, when Riker’s overcome with emotion, he detonates with it. This quiet internalization, this turning off, is unlike him.

  “It doesn’t?” I ask. “Did you inspect it?”

  The shake of his head is so small it’s almost imperceptible.

  “Was it a trap to arrest us, then? Catch us red-handed so we’re forced to tell him what we know?”

  That doesn’t make sense, either, because Grant’s had countless opportunities to do that over the past year and a half. So why this? Why now? What is it about that stupid necklace that causes the men in my life to act like incomprehensible beasts?

  I ask a milder version of that last question out loud, but Riker just shakes his head, unable to meet my eyes.

  “What aren’t you telling us?” I ask. My voice grows sharper as I fall further out of my depth. “Was there a clue in that necklace about where my dad hid the treasure?”

  “Not exactly.”

  If my voice was sharp before, it’s like a dagger now. “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  He sighs so deeply, it feels as though he’s dredging up the very bottom of his soul. “The necklace is just a stepping stone, Pen. It’s a bribe.”

  Bribes are something I understand, but not necessarily in this context. “Okay, so it’s a two-million-dollar bribe. I still don’t understand what that has to do with him trying to get me to steal it. It’s not like he can bribe me with it.”