Ever since that semiproposal in West Virginia, I’d done everything I could to convince myself that it was another game, another trap. Agent Grant Emerson was just trying—and succeeding—to get under my skin. Even the fight with Riker had been me convincing myself that marriage was an impossibility.
But watching Grant get dressed, seeing the way he struggled to keep it all together, made me question everything.
Maybe he meant it. Maybe what he offered was real.
He shoved his feet into his shoes and shrugged back into his holster, running a hand through his hair as he surveyed my apartment for signs of anything he missed. But the only thing remaining unattended was me, naked and unsettled and raw.
When he spoke, however, it wasn’t to press me to give an answer I wasn’t prepared to give.
“Are you okay?” he asked. He drew close enough to run his hands up and down my arms—a gesture of affection, a gesture of comfort. “Is there someone else I can call to keep you company? Maybe Jordan?”
My eyes swam. The man had just been cut off mid-proposal, called back to duty while at his most vulnerable, and the thing he was worried about was me. “No. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” He crouched so we were on eye level. I was sure he could see the tears forming in mine, so I nodded vigorously.
“I’m better now, I promise. The mess is gone, and I’ve calmed down. Riker won’t—”
I didn’t know how to finish. Riker wouldn’t what? Return? Blow up at this new turn of events? Throw more lamps?
“Riker won’t bother me,” I said. “Thank you for coming when I needed you.”
“Anytime,” he said and dropped a kiss on my hairline. From the way he looked at my lips and down to my bare breasts, I felt sure he wanted to kiss more of me, but Simon was waiting. Duty called. It always would.
“I have to run, but think about what I said, okay? You and I are not done talking about this.”
I nodded and managed a smile to send him off. Had he lingered a few seconds more, he would have seen that smile transform into a frown, watched me sink to the floor in a slump that showed just how not okay I was.
That was the second time Grant had almost proposed to me, the second time he turned my world upside down with just a few warm words.
One more, and I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to turn him down again.
24
THE RESCUE
(Present Day)
“Pushing your feet against the floor isn’t going to make the car go faster.” Riker cuts off a taxi amid an outpouring of honking and curses. The other guy’s curses—not his. “We’re not that far behind anymore. I can see the van up ahead.”
“They’re going to shoot him, aren’t they?” I ask. Even though I’m trying not to move my feet, I can’t help them from straining against the Road Runner mats Riker has in his car. “Because he’s a fed? Because he’ll be able to identify them now?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course they won’t shoot him.”
I cast an anxious look at Riker’s profile, but he’s concentrated on the dark van currently weaving through traffic. “Are you lying to me?”
He seals his lips in a tight line. “Yes.”
I must have released a wail or something, because he indulges in a quick glance my way. “I’m sure he’s fine. It’s not like he isn’t trained for this kind of thing. He knew what he was getting into the moment he took that necklace and cast it out as a lure.”
On a cognitive level, I know that. None of us has chosen a safe path in life, and there’s always been a chance things could go wrong, especially where Grant is concerned. He often works on cases—big cases, scary cases—where shoot-outs are a real possibility, and he sometimes comes home after a long day with bruises he won’t explain.
But in all my catastrophic visions, I was the one heading to a jail cell for the rest of my life. I was the one being shot by a vigilante Samaritan with justice on his side. Grant is the good guy. He’s supposed to win.
“I’m not so sure about that anymore,” I say.
“That he didn’t know the stakes?” Riker laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “Oh, he knew. That man always knows.”
He doesn’t. The genuine shock in his voice when he heard that Erica Dupont is my grandmother—my grandmother, for crying out loud—is proof of that. Whatever it is Grant thinks he’s buying with that necklace, it’s clear he doesn’t yet have all the puzzle pieces. At this point, I doubt any of us do.
But he’s the one with a gun to his head, probably mouthing off and daring them to shoot him. He’s the one sitting in the back of an unmarked van, believing I don’t care if he only has five minutes left to live.
I know, now, what I’d say to him in that moment. It’s not I promise to wear black or I’ll put on a veil. It’s not even I love you. It’s nonsense words I’d kiss into his skin and hair until there was no more life left in either of us.
“You were the one who said Blackrock isn’t a man to cross,” I point out, my voice wavering. “You said he’s dangerous.”
“He is.” The tight line of Riker’s lips thins even more. He swerves to the right as a pedestrian fails to wait for the crosswalk signal. We’re headed out of Jersey, which means we might cross into Manhattan soon, or we might bypass it entirely. The destination doesn’t matter to me so much as this journey. We can’t lose Grant.
“Just how dangerous is he?” I demand. “Why were you doing business with that kind of maniac in the first place?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Riker snaps. Predictably, he’s angry, but for once, I can’t blame him. It’s a lot to undertake, chasing after a man he despises, putting his own life on the line for someone he’d rather see dead. “Is there a chance Grant’s life is in danger? Yes. Is Blackrock dangerous and unpredictable enough to take us all down? Of course he is. They all are.”
“They?”
He hits the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, but I can’t tell if the action is directed at me or the person who just cut him off. Me, probably. His next words confirm it.
“They, Pen. The men who pay us to steal things. The buyers who don’t care where something comes from or how it was acquired so long as it makes them money. I know you think I’m a big, condescending jerk for hogging the driver’s seat all these years, but I only did it to protect you.”
Protect. There’s that word again, but I don’t find it as unpalatable as I might have a few hours ago. There’s something to be said for hiding your head in the sand while someone else takes care of everything.
“You did?”
“There’s a reason I kept you away from that side of things,” Riker says. “Yes, some of it was because I liked picking the jobs and planning the heists, but it’s also because you wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes with most of those guys.”
“Hey—” I protest, but Riker isn’t moved.
“Possibly less,” he amends. “You’re one hell of a jewel thief, no one disputes that, and your dad’s legacy might have helped you out of a few tight spaces, but you have no idea what these men are capable of when they see a beautiful, unprotected woman who doesn’t even know how to shoot a gun.”
I bristle. “I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t have done anything careless.”
“You’re also not mean.”
I don’t understand, and Riker knows it. He glances sideways at me. “You’re a nice person, Pen. A good person. I know you like to think you’re this badass criminal up to all the tricks, but you’ve never belonged to this world the way I have, the way Oz and even Jordan do.” He draws a deep, shuddering breath. “Before you and I met, there were things I saw, things I did… No one should go through that kind of hell, and I won’t apologize for trying to shield you from it.”
“What did you—?”
He shakes his head, refusing to say
more. “When I found you on the street, this sad, lost girl with more courage than common sense… Fuck, Pen. Of course I never wanted you to descend as far as I did to survive. I knew I could spare you from the worst of it by making myself responsible for your safety, so that’s what I did. And if you think Grant didn’t do the exact same thing by throwing the mantle of his badge over you the first chance he got, then you’re being purposefully blind.”
“What are you talking about?” I demand.
Riker slams on the brakes, propelling me against the seat belt as we come to a stop. “He didn’t marry you to get at your father’s treasure, you idiot. He married you so he could protect you from guys like Blackrock. He married you so he could protect you from guys like me.”
“Riker…” There are no words to capture the way my heart breaks for him right now, all those shards slicing my lungs open.
“Don’t. It’s done now, and I wouldn’t change things even if I could.” He stares straight ahead, unwilling—or unable—to look at me. “You were right back there at the motel, you know.”
“About which part?” I ask hesitantly. Riker doesn’t admit to being wrong very often, and I’m almost afraid to hear what he has to say next.
“All of it. Everything. When you said we were done. When you said there was nothing more you needed from me.”
No. That’s not true. That will never be true.
“Riker, look at me.”
He doesn’t comply.
“Look at me,” I repeat, my tone sharp. All I get is a slight tilt of his head in my direction, but I take it. “You will never say that to me again, do you understand? I know I haven’t always handled things with you and Grant well, but I do need you. I’ll always need you.”
He releases a soft snort. “Oh yeah? What for?”
“To be my friend.”
His head turns the rest of the way, facing me head-on. He’s wearing neither smirk nor scowl, his expression open and honest in a way that magnifies his good looks tenfold. Someday, that man is going to realize his value and leave a trail of broken hearts in his wake.
“Thank you for protecting me all those years,” I say softly. “Thank you for protecting me even now, when it’s the last thing you want to do. I don’t know what I did to deserve having you in my life, but it must have been something amazing. There aren’t ten men in a million who would sacrifice as much as you have for me.”
He groans. Sentiment has never been his favorite thing.
“I mean it,” I say and reach for his hand. He lets me, which says a lot, and even suffers through my meaningful squeeze, which says more. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“Maybe not, but you sure as shit would have tried.” Something approaching a smile lifts the left side of his lips. “I know this is probably hard for you to believe right now, and I’m not saying I like the guy or anything, but I’m glad he makes you happy. You deserve to be happy. Now can we get out of this car and finish the job? I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re here.”
I glance up, surprised to find we’ve stopped about a block from the van. It’s parked in front of a ten-story office building, which stands discreet and understated against the Jersey City skyline.
“We’ll get him back, Pen.” Riker nods at the van, his eyes locked on the doors as he makes assessments and counts bodies. It’s the look of calculating determination I’ve seen echoed on Grant’s face in the middle of the job. “You have my word on that. If he’s what you want, you know I’m all in.”
* * *
Oz taps a few keys on his laptop, his expression grim. Instead of interrupting him to ask what kind of horrible visions he’s getting from the security feed across the street, I look to Riker, who’s perched over his shoulder.
“That’s not good,” Riker mutters.
I reach for Jordan’s hand.
“We’re sure those blueprints are accurate?” Riker lets out a low whistle and points at the screen. “Is that—?”
Oz nods.
“Shit. There’s no way we’re getting around that.”
I can’t take it anymore. “What? What are they doing to him?”
“No idea,” Riker says, his brow furrowed. “We can’t see anything on the tenth floor. The rest of the building is financial offices, but as soon as you hit the top? Nothing. No cameras, no elevator access, no emergency exits. It’s a dark floor.”
“A dark floor?” I ask.
“Yeah. That’s where you go to do the stuff you don’t want anyone to know about.”
My lower lip quivers. While I’m grateful for our sudden attempt at honesty and transparency, I wish Riker would paint his words with a few more rainbows. Tara and Grant have been inside that building for several hours now—enough time to sell a necklace and be on their merry way ten times over. Something is wrong.
“So what now?” I slump to the floor. We’re holed up in an empty apartment across the street. There was a huge pile of newspapers on the doorstep and several days’ worth of mail in the box downstairs, so we decided to break in and make it our base of operations. This place has all the signs of an owner on vacation.
“As far as I can tell, we have two options.” Riker is almost apologetic as he slips into his usual role of command. I want to tell him it’s okay—that I appreciate his ability to take charge in ways I never realized before—but there isn’t time. We have to get in there and save Grant before it’s too late. “Option one: we involve the feds.”
A collective groan fills the air, and mine is the loudest. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less.
Riker raises his hands. “I know, I know. It’s not ideal. But we may have to face the possibility that they’re better equipped to handle this than we are. The men I saw go into that motel room were heavily armed.”
“But if Grant is breaking protocol or—God forbid—the law, he could get into a lot of trouble,” I say. I can’t just hand him over to the authorities like that. Given how many opportunities he’s had to do the same to me and my friends over the past year, I owe him that much. “We’re talking substantial jail time. And like you said before, he’s trained for this sort of thing. He wouldn’t appreciate us calling this in if he has everything under control.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Jordan asks gently.
I crush her hand. There is that.
“How about we call it our last resort?” I say. “Riker said he had another option. Let’s hear that one.” I look to him expectantly, and I think there’s a smile taking up residence on the left side of his mouth.
“Option two: we do what we do best.” There’s no groan this time, just a spark of excitement, that collective sense of anticipation we all get when a new plan looms on the horizon. “We break in, take what we want, and get the hell out of there.”
“Yeah, but how?” I ask. I hate to be the one to usher in the doom and gloom, but we usually spend months planning a job. There’s reconnaissance, contingency plans for our contingency plans. We don’t have time for that now. “If you can’t even break in to look at security cameras on that floor, how are we supposed to get inside and extract two human beings? It’s not like I can squeeze through a vent and pull them out. Tara might fit, but Grant would get stuck at the first turn.”
“I don’t know,” Riker says.
This has to mark the first time he’s admitted to not having all the answers. It’s been a long time coming, and a part of me wants to cheer at how little fuss he makes over the confession, but this must be the worst case of bad timing known to mankind. I need Riker to know what he’s doing. I need his confidence and edge.
He drags a plush armchair across the floor, settling it so the four of us make a circle—me on the floor, Jordan leaning on the windowsill, Oz typing maniacally on his laptop in hopes of finding a back door.
“Okay, guys, this is it.” Riker le
ans on his knees and steeples his fingers. “We’ve got one hour to come up with an ironclad plan, or we have to call the feds. There’s a ten-story building across the street packed with dangerous, armed men, insanely high levels of security, no underground access, and the love of Penelope’s life trapped inside. How do we get in?”
We sit there a moment, silent and transfixed as failure waits on standby. The stakes have never been higher, but there doesn’t seem to be an easy solution to this problem. We don’t have the manpower or the artillery. We don’t have the intel. There’s no getting in without…
An idea hits me. Dazzling and brilliant and planted by Grant himself the day we met.
“We need a hazmat suit,” I say, starting to laugh. “And about six levels of clearance.”
25
THE FIGHT
I storm through the front doors of the office building, assessing the interior as quickly as I can without giving anything away. In the manner of busy offices everywhere, it’s sleek and modern, with a cavernous entryway that doesn’t invite loitering. A reception desk sits near the elevators; a waiting area showcases two uncomfortable-looking chairs and nothing more. In fact, if it weren’t for the man at the desk, who looks about ten times meaner than your average security guard, I’d feel like I’m at the dentist.
“Where is he?” I shout, doing my best imitation of a woman in hysterics. Thankfully, it’s not that much of a stretch, given the state of my nerves. “Where is that cheating bastard sneak?”
Again, not much of a stretch. I’m still holding onto some emotions about the whole Tara thing.
The man at the reception desk jumps to his feet. He’s at least six and a half feet tall, and he doesn’t look happy to see me. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to stop right there.”
“Are you covering for him? Is that it?” I make a pretense of looking around the empty waiting room. “Did he put you up to it? Manfred! Manfred, get out here this minute!”
“Ma’am, you need to calm down.”
Stealing Mr. Right Page 25
