“But you did take it,” I accuse. “You took it and you kissed me and you made me cry.”
He winces. “I’m so sorry. If it’s any consolation, it was the record that made me realize I’d fallen in love with you.”
There’s that word again. Love. Not adoration, not devotion, not obligation. Love.
“The moment you claimed to have painted a hundred-million-dollar de Kooning as a five-year-old child, I knew you were just as naive and wonderful as you seemed.”
“I’m not naive.” Or wonderful.
“I knew that even though you were a thief and a liar and a beautiful, magnificent tease, the anguish you felt for your father was real. That vulnerable girl, the one who opened herself up to me even though she fought it every step of the way, was the end of me. I’d already fallen in love with you, but that was the first time I allowed myself to admit it.”
“You lie.”
“Not this time. And not next time, either. Not ever again, if I can help it.”
Any attempts I might have made to continue holding him back crumble in that moment. I should have been angry that he stole a hundred million dollars from me and angrier still that my father was being forced to compromise his position for the sake of government intelligence. I should have been panicked at the thought of giving up my life of crime for something as silly—and as wonderful—as a man.
But looking at him, knowing how guilty he feels for the role he played, knowing full well he’d do it all over again if he had the chance, I only feel admiration.
This is exactly why I married this man in the first place. To keep my friends close and my enemies closer, to be near the intel and the action, to live in a fast-paced game of cat-and-mouse where every day is a new opportunity to win.
And also because I can’t imagine my life without him in it.
“Penelope, I know I promised I’d never ask, but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t wake up to you each morning without telling you how I feel. I can’t make love to you every night without showing you how much you matter to me. Since the day you jogged into my life, so full of courage and fire that you’d confront your biggest enemy head-on, I’ve been entranced by you. Every day that goes by, I fall further under your spell.”
“Grant, I—”
“I know you don’t necessarily share my feelings, but is there a chance that might change? Do you think, if given time, you could love me even a little? That’s the only thing I need to know—the only question I have to ask. I have to know if it’s all been a game for you or if at least part of you feels the same way.”
“Of course I love you,” I say.
He doesn’t register my words right away, brushing over my barely audible response as he continues to plead his case. “And if you can’t reciprocate my feelings, please know that you have people you can turn to for help. I haven’t had much time to talk to Erica—your grandmother—yet, but it sounds like she had as much trouble tracking you down as your dad did. Apparently, that’s why she let us use the necklace as bait in the first place. You and Tara left the hotel before she could find you, and it’s weighed on her ever since.”
“Grant, I said I love you.”
“And if you need space or time or a divorce—”
“Grant!” I speak sharply enough that several people turn to stare, but that’s fine with me. Breaking down in public has never stopped me before. “I freaking love you, okay? I love your nerdy childhood relics and your strange relationship with your mother and your determination to beat me at my own game. I love that you’re sneaky and underhanded and that you’d go to these lengths to protect the people I care about. I even love that you know everything about me and somehow still want me.”
I realize, as I say it out loud, that they’re the truest words of all. “You see me,” I add. “You accept me. You always have.”
That’s when he reaches for me. I know what happens next. He’s going to cup my face. He’s going to run his fingers over my lips. And I’m going to let him.
Of all the embraces this man and I have shared, it’s that one—simple and sweet, a gesture of love that says everything our words can’t—that undoes me the most.
He knows it, of course. He always has.
“I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you,” I say. “Riker might have saved me from the darkest parts of my past, and I’ll always love him for that, but you…” I offer him a tentative smile. “You’re my future, Agent Grant Emerson. You’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. You’re the one I’d do anything to keep.”
“Anything?” he asks in a rumbling voice.
“Anything,” I say. I turn into his embrace like a cat.
“Then I want you to marry me all over again.” He replaces his fingers with his mouth, a sweep of a kiss that leaves me breathless. “And this time, my love, you better mean it.”
32
EPILOGUE
As usual, Grant gets his way. The official celebration of our one-year anniversary takes shape as the big family wedding we never had the first time around. I know, it’s pretty excessive to renew your vows after only twelve months of marriage, but he was adamant that we do it the right way.
By right way, he means with my father here to give me away and everyone we know in attendance. This is no small ceremony in a dark room—every cousin and acquaintance was pulled out for the event, and there are even caterers buzzing around in the background of the courtyard we’ve hired for the day. My side of the seating arrangement is pretty sparse, but I’ve got Riker, Jordan, Oz, my dad, and even my grandmother, which seems like an abundance of love and support from where I’m standing.
Of course, we’re also doing the marriage a little differently this time. We’ve promised no more lies about who we are or what we want out of this relationship. Grant even got me a new ring to celebrate our fresh start. This one has an infinity knot to match my necklace. Paulson Jewelers is going to see a lot of our business over the next few years. I think he feels guilty for all the trauma we put them through.
He looks gorgeous, of course. He’s decked out in a tuxedo, filling it in all the right places. He cleans up the way most rugged, dashingly charming FBI agents do—like James Bond on his best day. I know I’m supposed to listen as he recites the vows he wrote for me, but he already whispered each word into my neck last night. And this morning. And about ten minutes before our guests arrived.
They’re good vows, I’ll give him that much. Incredible vows. Vows I won’t mind enjoying later tonight, if you know what I mean.
He hasn’t heard mine yet, so when I hear my cue, I turn to him with a smile. My dress is beautiful—it’s a long, flowing satin gown with an open back that Grant can’t stop touching—but most people are fixated on the jewels around my neck. The Dupont necklace is quite a crowd-pleaser, and I promised Jordan she could try it on later. It’s only on loan to me, my grandmother’s first attempt to heal the breach that opened when she failed to hold her end of the bargain with my dad. I think she’s half convinced she’s never going to see this necklace again.
I’m only half convinced she will, too. There’s an energy crackling around Riker I don’t trust.
Unfortunately, any plans of his to take the necklace will just have to wait. I’ve got a long speech planned about how Grant works too much and too hard, about how I’ll always be second in his heart next to Sterling Simon, and about how even a second-tier space in his heart is worth it. I don’t know what a claustrophobic jewel thief like me did to deserve a spot in there, but I do know that I’ll fight like hell to stay.
Blues don’t give up easily. We climb in and hold on. We live and love with everything we’ve got. And sometimes, when we’re lucky enough, we find someone who makes it worthwhile.
After that, I hope everyone gets good and drunk so Grant and I can sneak out early for our second honeymoon. We’re going
antiquing in Vermont. He’s got his eye on this rolltop desk that some president or another used to write love letters to his wife, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to use some of my hidden cache of cash to bid on it.
As for my professional life? Well, let’s just say I’m on a temporary sabbatical—emphasis on the temporary. These vows might have me promising to love and cherish, but there’s nothing in there about obeying.
Not even a man like Grant could make me do that.
Order Tamara Morgan’s next book
in the Penelope Blue series
Saving Mr. Perfect
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Dying to see more of Grant and Penelope’s courtship? Want to hear Grant’s perspective on their emotional game of cat and mouse?
Please enjoy this EXCLUSIVE BONUS SCENE from the early days of STEALING MR. RIGHT!
GRANT
(Sixteen months ago)
“If you’re going to successfully shoot the bastard, the first thing you need to do is firm your stance.”
Although I knew it was dangerous, I placed my hands on Penelope’s hips and nudged her thighs apart with my knee. Her body responded to my directions the way I knew it would—gracefully and with suspicious compliance.
Legs open. Check.
Hair tossed back. Done.
Ass pressed firmly against my groin. Fuck.
This was going to be a lot more difficult than I’d expected.
“And don’t hold the gun like it’s going to bite you,” I said. My voice came out gravelly, but I was too happy to find it worked at all to care. “I swear, Penelope. Haven’t you ever had one of these in your hands before?”
“No, never,” she replied and gave her head another toss. Her reddish-blond locks whipped backward, scoring my cheek and leaving the unmistakable scent of raspberries behind. “I’m not a fan of violence.”
This time, I had to struggle to keep the laughter at bay. Penelope Blue: world-famous jewel thief, insouciant girlfriend to a federal agent, pacifist. The unlikely combination of attributes made zero sense, yet here we were.
“I don’t see what the big deal about shooting wooden ducks is, anyway,” she added with a glance over her shoulder. There was challenge and laughter in that glance—another pair of remarkably attractive attributes that belonged to this woman and this woman alone. “If I really wanted one of those stuffed bears, I could just ask that man to give me one. I’m sure I could convince him.”
The man in question stood watching us from the other side of the Coney Island carnival booth, his red-and-white striped apron clutched in his hands. His indulgent grin was all the proof I needed to agree with Penelope. There were few people in this world who could resist her when she chose to put in the effort. I sure as hell wasn’t one of them.
Besides, if she couldn’t charm a bear out of him, she’d come up with an elaborate scheme to steal one instead. Knowing Penelope, it would involve at least one explosion, a mad climb up the side of the Wonder Wheel, and a handoff from where she’d no doubt be hidden inside the hot dog vender’s cart at the park’s entrance.
But no guns. The lady disliked violence.
“This isn’t about a stuffed bear,” I said as sternly as I could. “This is about protection. How can you expect to survive in this world if you can’t shoot a moving target?”
“By my wits, of course,” she replied with a laugh. “But I guess your way is fine, too, if you don’t have any of those.”
“I have plenty of wits,” I growled.
It was true. Wits were a must when dating a woman like Penelope Blue—wits and a sense of humor and an infinite reserve of patience. The gun helped, too. Two months into this relationship, and I was still shocked I hadn’t had recourse to shoot her yet. She’d done more than enough to warrant it.
“Of course you do,” she cooed. “So many wits.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the high road by ignoring the provocation. Then, because the high road and Penelope Blue were two mutually exclusive entities, I added, “You know, some girlfriends would appreciate a boyfriend who pulls out all the stops for a date like this.”
As expected, my casual use of the terms boyfriend and girlfriend held her in momentary check. Poor Penelope. She could scale skyscrapers and laugh in the face of law enforcement, but talk of romance paralyzed her.
Especially when it came to me.
“Fine,” she finally said, recovering with a mock sigh. “Your barbarism wins for today. Let’s murder some wooden ducks.”
Although I could have stood there for hours, verbally sparring and basking in her proximity, I released my hold on the tantalizing curves of her hips and focused on the task at hand. “Put your pointer finger on the trigger, but just barely,” I instructed. “You want to hold the gun firm but your finger limp. You’ll avoid any premature misfires that way.”
BANG.
Penelope’s whole body tensed as the gun went off and the blast of air went wide, but she didn’t scream or jump as I could tell she wanted to. She had far too much control over her reflexes for that. It was the cat burglar in her.
“I hate to criticize, but that wasn’t what I’d call limp,” I said.
Her response was to bump her ass against my groin playfully. “Neither is that,” she teased.
Penelope spoke no more than the truth—my body’s response to hers was a palpable, physical, damn near painful thing. But as I always did in situations like these, I ignored it and her. It was the only way I’d managed to make it this far in this strange relationship of ours. I had to ignore her strongest provocations, subdue the various…emotions she gave rise to, and focus on my end goal: complete and utter victory over the enemy I was steadily falling for.
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were lying about being a terrible shot just to mess with me.” I lifted her arms to the proper position once again.
Her body was small but strong, and she held the gun perfectly parallel to the ground. The yellow wooden ducks marched in their well-timed procession back and forth across the booth, daring her to knock them over.
“How do you know I’m not lying about it?” she asked archly.
I knew. With my hands moving firmly over hers, I pushed the gun to the right. This time, I was in control. Stance firm, arms steady, a quick press of my finger over hers, and BANG. The duck farthest away fell over flat.
“There are some things you can’t hide from me,” I said, chuckling at the tension that had filled her at the sound of the second shot. I’d been around enough guns and enough training exercises to know when someone was faking it, and Penelope was faking it big time. The recoil on these air guns was practically nonexistent—only someone truly uncomfortable with artillery would find them alarming. “No matter how much you might want to, your body always gives you away.”
“It does not!” she protested and yanked the gun from my grasp. “You’re making me nervous, that’s all.”
She then proceeded to take aim and fire the remaining three shots.
BANG. Miss.
BANG. Miss.
BANG. Miss by a mile.
“I wonder if I could,” I mused as she shook the gun in exasperation.
Distracted, she didn’t pick up on my meaning. “You wonder if you could what?” she asked.
I hesitated, timing my response carefully. Penelope might have become adept at physically torturing me, but I was playing a different kind of game—a mental one, an emotional one. Even more, I was playing for keeps.
I waited until her full attention was on me before clarifying. “I wonder if I really could make you nervous.”
As expected, this was one blast she didn’t recoil from. She turned on me, the gun dangling from her fingertip. “That’s not a very romantic thing to say,” she pointed out, syrupy sweet. “Why would you want me to be afraid of you?”
“I don’t,” I said—that wasn’t the kind of nervous I meant—and waited.
Just what I was waiting for, I couldn’t quite say. For Penelope to admit that she felt a fraction for me what I felt for her? For her to say I did make her nervous, that when I was around her heart raced and her blood rushed and her head was so full of ridiculous hope she could barely stand it?
Or maybe more than anything, I just wanted her to tell me the truth—about her life, about her past, about the fact that she was probably carrying stolen jewels in her pockets right now… But of course that would never happen. She didn’t trust me enough for that. I wasn’t sure she ever would.
As if to prove my point, she continued with her slow, careful seduction, refusing to respond to my gentle push for more. “Oh, but maybe I am scared of you. What with you so big and strong and manly. What’s a poor girl like me to do?”
“You could learn a little self-defense,” I said, giving in for now. “Starting with duck hunting. I don’t like the idea of you sauntering around out there unprotected.”
Her lips spread in a wide and dazzling smile—the smile had been my undoing from the start. How a person who had seen the things she’d seen and done the things she’d done could still be filled with such easy joy was one of the many mysteries I had yet to solve. “Aw, Grant. You really think I can’t take care of myself? A street rat like me?”
I knew she could take care of herself. That was part of the problem. She was self-sufficient and fearless and determined to prove it to every man, woman, and child who crossed her path. As a general rule, I found overconfident criminals to be the easiest ones to trap, but Penelope Blue was anything but easy. Her confidence, unlike that of so many others, was borne of competence, which meant she’d earned every scrap of it.
In other words, she didn’t need me. Not the way I needed her. And if she finally grew tired of stringing me along, I wanted to make damn sure she continued to keep herself as safe as possible.
Stealing Mr. Right Page 31
