Stealing Mr. Right

by Tamara Morgan

  Warren. Thunk. My heart turns to lead inside my chest, and I’m suddenly suffocating underneath these disgusting towels. The one nice thing about being abandoned as a teenager and finding your own way in this world is that few people want to talk about your parents. The people who raised you have no bearing on the harsh realities of street life, so they’re rarely mentioned. And anyone who did know about my dad usually had professional ties, so they referred to him as the Blue Fox rather than by name.

  Hearing it now is like having him conjured in front of me. Warren: a fox, burrowing inside dark and warm places to avoid being caught. Warren: a man so obsessed with his own talents, he ended up dying in pursuit of the next big thing.

  Warren: a father.

  The cart rolls deeper into the room, which I assume means our cleaning lady has moved on to the bathroom. For a moment, I’m afraid—and almost grateful—that this will take me out of earshot, but even though the cleaning lady seems to have disappeared, I’m closer to the conversation. I think I might be wedged between them.

  “I already told you how this is going to work,” Grant says. “You follow my lead. You go where I say. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll see that you get fairly compensated.”

  Tara makes a huffing noise that perfectly captures her displeasure. That’s the Tara I remember—the one who liked things her way or not at all. “Technically, I’m the one with the most rights to that money. I was his wife.”

  The sudden pressure of Grant’s leg against my hiding spot is the only thing that prevents me from springing out of the laundry basket and pulling out all her hair. That tiny bit of contact—my husband so close, I can feel him—works as a balm on my soul. It’s corny, but there’s no other way to describe it.

  Grant soothes me. Grant makes me feel like there’s more to life than bouncing frantically between jobs in search of something that doesn’t exist.

  “Forgive me if I disagree,” he says. The pressure increases, though this time I suspect it’s building inside my chest. “Penelope has the most rights.”

  Tara laughs, but it’s a forced, unnatural sound. “Of course she does—that’s what I meant. We can split it three ways. I’ve always wanted to do more for her.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you do more for her?” Grant repeats carefully. “To hear her tell the story, you walked out on a fifteen-year-old who’d just lost the only person she had. Seems a little cold, if you ask me.”

  I squeak. I can’t help it. Since the other reaction bubbling up inside me is a rallying cheer, the squeak seems like a reasonable alternative.

  The cart rattles in reply, and I feel pressure from above, heavy and consistent. Grant is leaning on it—on me.

  “It wasn’t that simple,” Tara says.

  “No?”

  “No.” Her voice is defensive, stiff. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Penelope can be…difficult to live with.”

  The cart shakes with his laughter. “I noticed,” Grant says.

  “It might be funny to you, but remember, I was little more than a kid myself at the time. Irresponsible and fun-loving and yes, I know it’s hard to believe, but in love. I grieved over his loss, too.”

  Bullshit. The only grief she felt was the loss of my father’s income.

  “I had no idea what I was supposed to do with her after Warren died,” Tara continues. “Or before, if I’m being honest. That girl hated me—right from the start, with the kind of hatred you can feel, deep down—and of course she blamed me for his disappearance. He was supposed to retire after we got married, did you know that? We were going to settle down, find a place where we could lay low and figure out how to be a family together.”

  A family? A family?

  “Wouldn’t that have been something?” She releases her signature low-throated laugh, but it’s brittle around the edges. “Me, a mom. Sometimes, I think Warren did us all a favor by dying when he did.”

  At that, Grant’s knee pushes harder into me, deliberate and focused where it lands. With a barely stifled jerk, I realize he knows I’m in here. The nearness, the touching, the comfort—it’s on purpose. I’m not sure whether I did something to give my position away or if he simply knows me too well, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s having this conversation for my benefit.

  He wants me to hear this. He wanted me to find him.

  Understanding grabs hold of me, clenching my stomach from the inside. Everything that’s happening is part of his plan. It’s why he tied me up and taunted me, why he set up the necklace scam in the first place. Whatever he’s trying to do, I’m meant to be a part of it.

  “I begged him not to go after that stupid necklace in the first place,” Tara adds.

  “You did?” Grant’s surprise equals my own. I’d always been sure it was her greed that drove him to take the unnecessary risk. “You weren’t in on it?”

  “Not at all. Warren didn’t want me to help, since he was getting it for Pen.” She pauses long enough for me to think that’s the end of the conversation, but she keeps going. “It’s not like he needed money or anything. It had to do with her mother, a legacy he felt she was owed. Penelope was having such a hard time adjusting to us being married, to the idea that she wasn’t her dad’s one and only anymore. He thought having a physical tie to her mom would help.”

  “Huh. Penelope has always made her mom seem like a big mystery. I wasn’t aware she knew anything about her.”

  I didn’t. I don’t. I can’t breathe in here, and I think I might have just grabbed Grant’s leg through the canvas.

  “Well, I don’t know anything, either, so stop looking at me like I’m the bad guy in this story. I did the best I could under the circumstances. If you want to blame someone, blame Warren. The Dupont mansion has so many security cameras and alarms—it’s practically a fortress. The Mint was easy by comparison, but he wanted Penelope to have her mother’s necklace, so he went against all advice to get it. And then he disappeared, leaving me with a surly teenager who couldn’t stand the sight of me. I know I should have done more and tried harder to take care of her, but I didn’t know how. She wouldn’t let me. If it helps, Penelope is ten times the thief I’ll ever be, even back then. I knew she’d be fine.”

  “Wait a minute—backtrack there a second,” Grant says. He leans over the cart, but I barely register the movement. I’m too afraid to shift, even more afraid to breathe. I’m not fine. I’m not fine at all. “Are you saying it was her mother’s necklace?”

  “Yeah, it was some kind of family heirloom. The Duponts disowned Liliana when she married Warren, and they blamed him for her death. They wouldn’t have anything to do with Penelope unless he relinquished his paternal rights and promised never to contact her again, which, of course, he’d have never done. He adored that girl.”

  “Are you telling me Penelope is related to the Duponts?”

  There’s a thump from a few feet away, and the sound of footsteps signals the cleaning woman’s return. I’m horrified that I might miss this next part—wheeled out before I have a chance to hear the ending to this awful tale—but Grant commands the woman to wait in that stern, authoritarian voice few have the guts to withstand. He turns it to Tara next.

  “What exactly is her relationship to Erica?”

  “She’s her granddaughter. I assumed… Didn’t Pen tell you? I always thought it was odd that she didn’t turn to Erica for help after Warren disappeared. I assumed it was part of her prickly nature. That girl has never been happy unless she’s plunged in the middle of a convoluted mess.”

  The pressure of Grant’s leg disappears even as my mind screams in protest. Turn to Erica for help? I was supposed to have been saved by a woman I didn’t know existed?

  “No,” he says, his voice distant. “No, she never said.”

  “That’s Pen for you. G
od forbid she forms an actual connection with another human being. Well—with the exception of that delicious little friend of hers. What’s his name? Biker? Striker?”

  “Riker.” Grant’s voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it.

  “That’s it! Riker.” She laughs. “Uh-oh. I see that’s not a subject you care to talk about. I’ll stop.”

  “They’re just friends,” he says flatly.

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “He was all she had when you and her dad left.”

  “Not all she had,” Tara reminds him. “He must be something special if she gave up the Duponts for him. You know what they say. Like mother, like daughter.”

  She’s wrong. She’s wrong. I didn’t know Riker at the time. I didn’t know my grandmother. The only person I gave up was Tara, and based on this conversation, it’s a decision I’d make a thousand times over again.

  Grant releases a violent curse. “She promised me there was nothing between them. She said she didn’t have anyone else.”

  “And of course Penelope has never lied to you.”

  I never lied about the things that matter, I want to cry, but I can’t. Not because I’m hiding, but because I’m not sure it’s the truth anymore. Not about whether I lied—there’s no denying that—but whether the things I lied about mattered. It was supposed to be harmless, all those games Grant and I played. Keeping secrets, tiptoeing around our true motivations, pretending to be happy together. As long as we were both in on it, no one could get hurt.

  But I hurt. I hurt so much, I can feel my chest cracking open, lies pouring out like blood. They trap me on all sides—my lies and Grant’s, Riker’s and Tara’s, my dad’s most of all. He never told me why he wanted to go after the necklace. He never mentioned how far my mother had fallen for love. He never saw fit to disclose that I had a grandmother who actually wanted to know me.

  Those things matter.

  Grant matters.

  I matter.

  I know, at this moment, that it’s time to end the game. I’m probably going to give the cleaning woman a heart attack when I pop out of the laundry basket, but I’m not sure I can go another minute without telling Grant the truth.

  I love him. I always have.

  From the moment he turned that crinkly-eyed smile on me and picked up the gauntlet I tossed his way, from the second he declared his intention to woo me the way I deserve, I was done for. Marrying him was the only brave and decent thing I’ve done in my life, and I don’t want to spend another minute on this planet without him knowing that.

  It seems I have to. A loud BOOM reaches my ears, followed by the sound of splintering wood as someone smashes in the motel door. A hissing smoke canister rolls underneath me, but the damp towels serve as thick enough barrier that I don’t inhale it right away.

  That’s when the shouting begins.

  “Get down. Stay back. Hands behind your head.”

  My heart thumps sickeningly. It’s the FBI. Did they follow me here? Did I lead them straight to Grant? I don’t think I could bear it if he was arrested for my mistake.

  There’s a bustle of movement around me. The cleaning woman mutters a prayer on repeat, and I feel the whomp of a body hitting the ground next to me. A few clicks and a grunt are enough to convince me that Grant has just been stripped of his artillery.

  I feel the loss as keenly as I’m sure he does. He needs that gun.

  “Grant Emerson?” a low, rough voice asks.

  “That’s me,” he says. He’s nearer than I expected—almost within reach.

  “We heard you’re interested in meeting with a certain someone.”

  “You heard correctly.” Another grunt from Grant, more pained this time. “I assume this is our pickup service? It took you long enough.”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. Blackrock doesn’t take kindly to ultimatums from the feds.”

  “Ah. So you picked up on that part, did you? But I have a criminal associate and everything. Surely that makes us equals.”

  “Just get up.”

  “I would, but your knee is in the middle of my back.”

  The reply is another sickening whack. It sounds like metal against flesh, solid as only true pain can be, and I almost cry out.

  “Funny guy, huh? We’ll see how long that lasts when you’re eating the barrel of my gun. Let’s go.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Grant says and staggers to his feet. I use the term staggers because I feel him lean on the laundry cart to stabilize himself. He lingers with his lips against the canvas, right next to my ear.

  For a moment, I think he’s going to issue an order, tell me where to go and who to contact for help, but he chooses his last words with more—or less—care than that.

  “You could have trusted me, Penelope,” he says. “All I’ve ever wanted is to make you happy.”

  I do trust you. The words are close to escaping and giving up my position, but he’s yanked away before I have a chance to get them out. Amid the crashes, grunts, and hysterical shrieks of the cleaning woman as she’s left behind, Blackrock’s associates force Grant and Tara out the door. I can only assume the screech of tires peeling out of the parking lot belongs to them, but it can just as easily be Riker’s arrival, which he performs in a frenzy, scaring the poor cleaning woman even more.

  “All right, Pen,” he says and yanks the towels off my head. “What the hell did you do this time?”

  23

  THE LAMP

  (Fifteen Months, One Week Ago)

  For Christmas, I got two lamps.

  There were plenty of other gifts in my holiday haul—Jordan got me a subscription to a delivery service that drops off a box of snacks every week, Oz surprised me with a fantastic sneak photo he took of me and Jordan with our arms around each other, and Grant’s mom wrapped a stack of paperbacks with cupcakes and kittens on the covers. They were thoughtful gifts, making me feel unworthy of so much affection all at once.

  I also got the lamps. The first was from Grant. It was hideous, and I loved it. The cast iron base was shaped like a lion cub—to match my guard lion at the door—and it had a fringed lampshade that I suspected was one of his antique finds. There was history in that lamp, both ours and his. There were also strong implications of a future.

  The second lamp was, of course, from Riker. It was waiting in my apartment when I got home from West Virginia, taking over the far wall with its five fully adjustable arms. It had no bows and no tag, but I didn’t need to be told who dropped it off—or why. I also didn’t need that many lamps shining lights into the corners of my apartment. In the semidarkness, it had always been a comfortable enough place to lay my head at night. Small and underwhelming, perhaps, but mine.

  So much illumination meant I could see every chip in the floor, the uneven paint on the ceiling, the spidery cracks reaching up the wall. I saw my life in bright light for the first time, and I wasn’t happy with what I found.

  “We need to talk,” I told Riker over the phone as soon as I had enough time to absorb the implications of both gifts. “Something happened in West Virginia that I think you should know about.”

  Jordan would have been a more ideal choice for a play-by-play breakdown of my romance, Oz would have grunted and nodded and done whatever I needed to make sense of it all, and I had two new lamps that would have made a willing audience. But what I really wanted was my best friend and ally, the man who’d been there during the lowest point in my life and had walked by my side ever since.

  He was understandably upset.

  “You have to end it.” Riker paced through my apartment like a wild animal, eating up the floor with his long strides as I outlined a bare-bones version of my holiday. “You have to break up with him. This has gone too far.”

  “Okay, but if you think about it, this might actually work in our favor. If I say yes—”<
br />
  He stopped. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You’re actually considering marrying this guy?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this to me right now. He’s an FBI agent, Pen. You’re a criminal. In no world does that relationship make sense.”

  I raised my hands, supplicating and holding him back at the same time. “Hear me out for a minute.”

  “What for?”

  I knew, going in, that this conversation with Riker wasn’t going to be easy, but nothing could have prepared me for the way it split me down the middle. Half of me wanted to tell Riker that of course he was right, of course I wouldn’t marry a man he hated, of course it was time to walk away. The other half was still in West Virginia with Grant, lying next to him on his twin bed, our fingers intertwined as we talked about everything and nothing.

  “It’s not as bad of an idea as it sounds. He admitted something over the holidays—about his motivations, about what he’s trying to do. I’m pretty sure he’ll keep tailing us, regardless of whether or not he and I are in a relationship. He’s…I don’t know how to put it. Obsessed? He’s going to keep looking for my dad’s treasure, and nothing I do or say can stop him.”

  “So?”

  So indeed. That was no reason to commit matrimony, and we both knew it. But I didn’t know how else to make Riker understand when I couldn’t begin to understand it myself. I was balanced on the top of an iceberg that went so far down, it touched the ocean floor.

  “My best bet is to keep him close,” I said. “I can watch his movements, see if he makes any progress in his investigation, intercept incoming information. He thinks he’s being clever and sneaky, preying on my emotions like this, but it only works if I’m not aware of him doing it. And you know it’s good for business to have an FBI ally. He won’t let us get arrested if he thinks we still have value.”

  “You’re serious. You’re actually considering it.”

  “No, I’m not. I—”