Stealing Mr. Right

by Tamara Morgan

  “Is it?” I couldn’t help asking. How could he possibly know?

  He didn’t answer right away—at least not in words. With a low, rumbling growl, he dropped his head to mine for a kiss unlike any other we’d shared. Uninterrupted, private, and fraught with a passion so intense it couldn’t be feigned, the feeling of his lips moving intently over mine was one I’d never be able to forget. It wasn’t just that he was good at it—though he was definitely good, his tongue flicking expertly into my mouth, tasting and savoring and demanding I do the same in return. It wasn’t even that he kissed with his whole body, holding me so firmly against his hard muscles that I was practically absorbed into his skin.

  The gentleness is what undid me. Back at the store, our kiss had been more challenge than anything else, the pair of us pushing and pulling to determine a victor. I’d wanted to force him over the edge, make him go beyond the boundaries he’d set for himself, get him to admit that he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

  There was none of that urgency here. I don’t know what I did or said to change things, but the way Grant held me—as if I were something precious, worth cherishing—shook me in ways I was unprepared to face. His arms crushed me to him, his kiss deepening until he was the only thing I tasted, breathed, knew.

  In that moment, I felt eternal. Danger could come. Circumstance could rip us apart. The world could fall away beneath us. And still, Grant would hold me close and kiss me like I was the only thing that mattered.

  For that brief space of time, I mattered.

  By the time he pulled away, my breath was shaky and uneven, my entire body rattled. He pressed his forehead against mine, but the action didn’t do anything to settle my pulse. If anything, the intimacy of the gesture only made my heart take flight all over again.

  “That’s how I know it’s real.” His words were a groan. “You could ask anything of me right now, and I’d do it. Any question, and I’d answer it. Any promise, and I’d make it. You know that, don’t you?”

  I did. Partly because of the way he looked at me, with stars overtaking the darkness in his eyes, but mostly because I felt the same way. I’d give up everything I had and knew if only he’d kiss me like that again.

  “Why don’t you try to sleep with me?”

  My question startled us both. He blinked and shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I beg your pardon?”

  Now that I’d spoken the words out loud, I couldn’t take them back. I could only commit, so I swallowed heavily and tried again. “You said I could ask you anything. Why don’t you try to sleep with me? What’s stopping you from taking a kiss like that to its natural conclusion?”

  He pushed me away, laughing without humor. His hands raked his hair in a gesture that spoke of the same desperation I felt. When he looked up, I could detect genuine pain mirrored back at me. “You don’t want to know why I have to leave and go to work this afternoon?”

  I shook my head.

  “You aren’t curious what caused me to run out on our date at that Italian restaurant last month?”

  I shook my head again.

  “You honestly don’t care about anything else I may see or do as part of the U.S. internal intelligence network?”

  Oh, I cared. I wanted to know. I felt the urge to turn the key to this man’s soul and climb right in.

  But I would never do it like this—not when I had him at a disadvantage. Not when it was unfair. I could be accused of many wrongdoings throughout my life and career, but I always, always played fair.

  I shrugged. “We all have secrets.”

  His laugh that time was more assured—and warmer. Richer. As if he’d just found out the world wasn’t such a terrible place, after all.

  “Then I have one very easy answer,” he said.

  “Yes?” I leaned in, unable to help myself.

  He pinched my chin, stopping me before I got too close. “Because I’m trying to woo you, Penelope Blue. The good, old-fashioned way. The way you deserve.”

  * * *

  After a declaration like that, it was no wonder I grew mushy as I pulled my dad’s record out of the kitchen cupboard.

  Grant sat cross-legged next to my new record player, fiddling with the dials as he waited for me to return. It was such a normal and boyfriend-like thing, that relaxed jeans-clad pose of his, and I felt another pang of regret that my life was so far out of the realm of ordinary.

  I wanted to deserve this man and the gentle wooing he’d undertaken. I wanted to be the kind of woman who could make him happy. Instead, I was awkwardly clutching a record worth a grand total of fifty cents to my chest. It was, at once, the most and least valuable thing I owned.

  “Is that it?” He looked up, his lopsided and crinkly-eyed smile as familiar to me as my own. “Remind me to buy you a few more so you don’t wear that one out.”

  That was it. That was all it took. A kind word and a seductive hint of the future, and I padded across the room to hand over the only thing left of my father—to the only man with the power to use it against me.

  “It’s not worth anything,” I warned, lest he get any funny ideas about it being an original signed copy or something. “Just memories.”

  The crinkles around his eyes softened. “Memories are worth something.”

  Not nearly as much as he thought. A girl couldn’t spend memories, couldn’t eat them, couldn’t curl up with them during cold winter nights without a roof over her head. “Then I should be living like a queen,” I joked.

  It was everything and nothing and all I could say in that moment. Grant seemed to understand, pausing as he waited for me to place the record in his waiting palms. When I finally did, his pupils went wide for a fraction of a second before they flared back to normal.

  I pointed at the record’s case, which was not the traditional psychedelic image associated with the album. I’d spilled milk on it when I was a kid, so my dad had been forced to store the record in an alternate sleeve, which he’d carefully covered in plastic so it wouldn’t get ruined again. “I told you it’s not worth anything. I actually made that cover.”

  One of his brows came up as he appraised the colorful scribbles of the makeshift cover. If you squinted and held it at arm’s length, you could almost make out a face in the middle. “You painted this? That’s some talent right there.”

  I gave him a gentle shove. “Don’t be mean. I was little.”

  He looked curiously at me. “How little?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—four? Five? I can’t remember.” I ran my fingers over the familiar image. Clearly, I’d never been cut out for a career as an artist. “I’m not much better now, to be honest. I can only do stick people and clouds.”

  A smile touched his lips. “It just so happens that stick people and clouds are my favorite.”

  Grant Emerson was my favorite, though I wouldn’t have dared to say so out loud. He pulled the record out almost reverently, careful as he blew off the dust and placed it on the turntable.

  It was a waste of energy. As soon as the needle hit the vinyl, we heard a rip and a stretch. I glanced down, alarmed, to find that either time or mishandling had caused a scratch to form around the outer rings of the record. It was unplayable. Useless. Another memory turned to dust.

  I sat back on my haunches and started to cry.

  I tried my best to hide the welling tears and raw ache in my throat—the last thing I needed was for Grant to see how sentimental and weak I was capable of getting over my father—but he took one look at my quivering lower lip and swore.

  It was a violent curse—a harsh and guttural sound that seemed out of place, given the circumstances—but I could only be grateful for it. It was the sound I wanted to make, the sound that had been lodged deep inside me for so long, it had become a part of my soul.

  “Oh fuck, Penelope. I should have realized—” He didn’t bother fin
ishing his statement, choosing instead to crush me against him, his hold so tight, I could barely breathe.

  Not that the wracking sobs threatening to overtake me qualified as breathing anyway. His hand moved in a soothing pattern over the back of my head, and his heart beat against mine in time to his words. “Shh. Don’t cry, my love. I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry.”

  I was so upset, I barely registered his words or the implication they contained. All I knew was that I felt them, felt the reassurance of his presence in ways I didn’t know a human being could.

  “It’s not as bad as it seems,” he continued, still petting and soothing, a man who knew he held a wild and dangerous creature in his arms. “I can get it repaired, I swear. We have tech experts who’ll have it back to new in minutes. You’ll never know it was damaged in the first place.”

  I sniffled, not yet ready to give up the comfort of being held like this. In all my life, I couldn’t remember anyone holding me tight and rocking away my pain. Of all the jewels I’d stolen and all the high-class places I’d broken into, nothing could beat the pure luxury of this moment.

  “Really?”

  “Really.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against my forehead, his hands heavy and reassuring where they rested on my shoulders. “This one is easy to fix. This one I can do.”

  I didn’t ask which ones he wasn’t so confident about.

  “I’ll take it in with me now, if that’s okay?”

  I nodded, getting ready to wipe off the last of my tears, but he kissed them before I had a chance. If I thought it was pleasant to have someone hold me when I was about to break down, nothing could have prepared me for the vast extravagance of Grant’s lips brushing away my pain.

  My throat was tight and the jagged edges of my heart raw as Grant pulled me to my feet again, but there was no time to do anything more than wonder at how quickly things had turned around. A knock at the door signaled the arrival of my takeout, and Grant went to answer it, the record and its sleeve tucked securely under his arm.

  Since I could hardly sit there crying forever, no matter how much I might want to, I managed a watery smile. “Food will help,” I said. “For some reason, I always get emotional when I’m hungry.”

  “That’s good to know,” he said with a quirk of a grin. “I’ll remember that. In times of trouble, food is the answer.”

  “Preferably pizza.” I sniffled.

  “Noted.”

  “Especially from that place on 44th.”

  His only reply was a warm laugh and a promise to write it down.

  18

  THE INTERROGATION

  (Present Day)

  Tracking down a rogue FBI agent and his cat burglar cohort isn’t nearly as easy as it sounds.

  In the movies, all it takes is a few taps on the keyboard to access surveillance cameras or the lucky timing of a GPS tracker placed surreptitiously in a shoe. We are, unfortunately, without cameras or trackers or any other technological advantage that might give us an edge. What we do have, however, is a whiteboard. It’s the one Jordan uses to keep her highly organized lists of grocery items and complex chemical equations, but I’ve taken it over.

  Man Hunting Task List, I scrawl at the top. Now that I know Riker has been arranging clandestine meetings with criminal overlords behind my back, we need to act quickly. We don’t have a lot of time to root around for information—the second Grant lifted that necklace from the safe, the countdown began.

  We started this race a year and a half ago, standing near a sewer grate. Two people not exactly meeting for the first time but doing a heck of a good job pretending we were. Now that the finish line is within reach, I’m ready for the final sprint.

  My heart might be broken and my best friend a traitor, but never let it be said that Penelope Blue gave up without a fight.

  “As far as we can tell, we have three leads,” I say. I tap the marker on the top of the board and start by writing Blackrock in bold letters. “We know they’re going to try and sell the necklace to Blackrock in exchange for information, so Riker, you should start there.”

  He looks up from where he’s slouched in the corner. “Why me?”

  I don’t have the time or the energy to placate him right now. “Because you’re the only one who knows what he looks like or where he is. Find him, tail him, and see if Grant and Tara are skulking around. You might be able to intercept them before they can hand the necklace over.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” he mutters. “He’s not just sitting around an office taking appointments. He doesn’t check in on Foursquare.”

  “But you’ve met him before, and you had a plan to deliver the necklace, right?” Jordan asks, much more gently than I was about to. “Can’t you find him that way?”

  “You don’t find Blackrock. He finds you.”

  I wish he’d stop acting like we’re too stupid to understand the intricacies of criminal relationships. The four of us understand nothing but criminal relationships. It’s all we know, all we’re good at. Just ask my husband.

  “So they don’t have any way to contact him either, right?” I ask. The effort to remain calm stretches my smile thin. “We have time?”

  “They have the necklace. That’s enough—especially since you said Grant had Tara leave fingerprints behind.” He looks at me, a cold, hard chip of ice on his shoulder. “There aren’t a lot of things that would get the attention of a man like Blackrock, but an FBI agent tying his wife to a chair and running off with both his mistress and government property is one of them.”

  “She’s not his mistress.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. The woman he betrayed you with in every other possible way. He’s a real prince.”

  Jordan stages another timely intervention. “Can you think of any other way to contact Blackrock, Riker? Side routes, a friend of a friend, a bribe?”

  “I can try, but I’m telling you—he’s not an easy man to find. The one time we had an actual face-to-face meeting, it was in the back of an unmarked van with a gun pointed at my head.” He looks at me again, as cold and angry as ever. “He’s as dangerous as he is powerful. It’s why I was trying to keep you out of it.”

  I’m not sure whether I can believe him anymore, so I ignore the comment and start writing again. “Okay, that brings us to number two on the list—Paulson Jewelers. Jordan, I think you should follow through with our original plan by making a visit and poking around. Take Oz with you and pretend to be looking at engagement rings or something. The staff might let something slip about Grant or Erica or anyone else who might be involved.”

  “What are you going to do?” Jordan asks.

  That’s the two-million-dollar question. I turn my back to the group and slowly write out the last item on the list. Three careful letters—letters I’ve become hauntingly familiar with over the years.

  “FBI.” The marker screeches as I finish. “One of us is going to have to report the theft and see how deeply the authorities are involved.”

  Jordan sucks in a sharp breath. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  Not at all. I cap the pen and survey my board with something approaching triumph. I might not have Riker’s flair for planning a flawless heist from start to finish, but it’s not bad.

  “It has to be done,” I say. “Either the feds are in on this scheme, which means they know where Grant is right now, or he’s using them just as much as he used me.”

  “Which means…” Jordan doesn’t have to finish. If he’s using the FBI as a way to get to my dad’s money, then Grant is even more dangerous than we suspected. That’s a whole different level of treachery.

  “Simon isn’t going to be happy to see me, but I have to talk to him. He knows Grant better than anyone.” Better than me, even. “Fair warning, though—he’s probably going to slap me in handcuffs and throw me in a dungeon. There might be torture in
volved. That man has wanted to waterboard me since the day we met.”

  “What is it you’re always saying, Pen?” Riker asks. “If they haven’t arrested us by now, they’re obviously not going to?”

  “That was before my husband ran off with a two-million-dollar necklace that was supposed to be in their safekeeping,” I say, but there’s no use painting it in any other light. It’s off to the gallows I go.

  * * *

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the illustrious Mrs. Emerson.”

  I stiffen at the sound of Simon’s voice mocking me from behind, but I don’t turn to face him. First of all, I’m not Mrs. Emerson. Grant made the offer of his name when we got married, but I politely declined. And by politely, I mean that I told him the only way I’d ever cease being a Blue is if we swapped last names entirely.

  Unsurprisingly, he didn’t take me up on the offer. Seems his idealized view of being absorbed into another person’s identity only goes one way.

  Second of all, I’m not about to give Simon the satisfaction of subservience. I came in prepared to play nice, but that was before he had me detained and thrown into an airless interrogation room for eight hours while they went over the crime scene. If he wants to talk to me now, he can face me inside the interrogation room like a good little federal agent.

  “Have anything to say for yourself?” he asks.

  That I want nothing more than to climb into the mail cart and hide there until it’s safe to leave? Too bad. I’m not giving him that ammunition. Instead, I smile sweetly and lift my wrists. “Are the handcuffs really necessary? I walked in of my own free will, if you recall.”

  Now that his pecking order has been established, Simon takes the seat across the wood-grain table from me. He’s wearing his customary noose-like tie, his brown hair weighed down with enough product to set the entire room on fire. His nostrils pinch once he sees how unruffled I am, but I’m not sure how else he expects me to react. This is hardly the dungeon of my worst nightmares. Some air conditioning would be nice, but it turns out FBI interrogation rooms are a lot nicer than the inner city ones they show on cop dramas. I feel like I’m inside an accountant’s office more than anything else.