“Just hand the gun over already,” I grumbled. “I’m going to teach you how to do this if it takes us all afternoon.”
The park was filled with its usual mixture of tourists and truant teenagers, but few of them were interested in the overpriced duck hunt that had been my sole plan for today’s date. Part of my plans had arisen from an honest desire to teach her how to handle a gun, but I’d have been lying if I didn’t also admit to a perverse desire to show off.
I could hardly be blamed for it. Getting the better of this woman—in life, in love, in anything—was virtually impossible. No matter what kind of a curveball I threw at her, she caught it and tossed it right back.
If I found her out in the middle of a lie? She’d keep lying until she was out again.
If I paraded her in front of a team of federal agents? She’d smile and laugh until each one was putty in her hands.
And if I told her how I felt, as though the ground was shifting underneath my feet, crumbling my previously unshakable foundation of good and bad and right and wrong? Hell. I had no idea. She might have infinite reserves of courage, but I didn’t. I wasn’t ready to hear her admit that I was nothing more than a game to her.
“All right, Agent Emerson,” she said as she handed over the gun. “Show me how this is done. Save me from the bad guys.”
I tossed the man another bill and nodded at him to set the ducks going. I waited just long enough to get a feel for the cadence of the thing—they vary the ducks’ speed with every game in an attempt to throw you off—before popping off my shots.
BANG. Thump.
BANG. Thump.
BANG. Thump.
A warm, tantalizing curl of air wrapped around my ear, causing my fourth shot to go awry. In preparation for the fifth, I could feel Penelope’s entire body, lithe and ready, by my side. Nowhere did she touch me, nowhere did she allow her long, dexterous fingers to brush against my skin, but the damage was already done. I couldn’t fucking concentrate.
“We’re not going to win any stuffed bears this way,” I warned. “I only have one more shot.”
“Then let me help,” she said in a low, beckoning voice. Before I could stop her, she assumed the position that had been mine only a few minutes earlier, her body bracing mine from behind. As if that weren’t bad enough, she nudged her leg between my thighs. My stance was impeccable, but she wanted me to suffer.
And suffer I did.
From there, she let her hands linger on my hips, holding me in place while she adjusted her posture so that every soft, round part of her rubbed against my back. As if I needed a reminder how her body felt against mine, of all the promise contained in five feet three inches of gorgeous, playful jewel thief.
“Don’t hold the gun like it’s going to bite you,” she said, echoing my orders from before. I could hear the laugh in her voice as she lifted her arms to support mine. She took her time with the task, fingers trailing up and down my forearms, her hands coming to rest on the gun in a way that had even the carnival hawker flustered. “I swear, Grant. Haven’t you ever had one of these in your hands before?”
“I can’t help it,” I said, driven to full honesty. “You make me nervous.”
That startled a laugh out of her. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” I gave up all pretense of shooting the gun. Fuck the ducks. Fuck the stuffed bear. Fuck all the people passing by, wondering at the man in shirtsleeves unable to pull the trigger and seal the deal. I whirled so that we stood face-to-face, her gaze dragged up into my own. “You have no idea how much you shake my resolve—how much you shake me.”
As always, any sign of affection—of sincerity—startled her. She tried to pull back, but by that time, I had my arms around her and held her close.
“You have more power over me than you realize,” I said. I didn’t allow my eyes to stray from hers, but I did adjust my posture so that I stood sideways, perpendicular to the duck booth. Without looking, I lifted the gun and fired off my last shot.
BANG. Thump.
“The gentleman wins a prize!” the man in the apron called, but I paid him no heed. The prize I wanted wasn’t even close to won yet.
“Good thing I know how to take care of myself, too,” I told her. “This round goes to me.”
Her eyes were big at the showy success of my shot, bigger still with the realization that I wasn’t going to let her off the hook so easy. Especially when I brought my lips to hers and claimed my victory kiss—loving the way she went pliant and welcoming at the first taste. How a woman so physically soft and yielding could be so damned hard in every other way was beyond me.
But then, a lot of things were beyond me. Including the fact that as Penelope’s mouth opened to let me in, I realized there was no way I could let her slip out of my life as stealthily as she’d slipped in.
Penelope Blue was a terrible shot and a lying thief, but she made one hell of a delightful adversary. It was almost enough to make a man not dream of all the more there could be—to make him content with what he had.
Almost.
Penelope and Grant’s story is far from over. Read on for a glimpse of what’s coming next in
SAVING MR. PERFECT
COMING AUGUST 2017!
1
THE HEIST
Infiltrating the FBI is a lot more difficult than you might think.
The seventh-floor waiting room in the New York field office is one I’m intimately familiar with. There are no windows to penetrate from the outside and no air vents big enough to squeeze through, which means it’s impossible to access this floor unless security clears you first. The fifty-something woman at the desk seems nice, what with the glasses perched on the end of her nose and the fresh flower pinned to her chiffon blouse, but she’d shiv you sooner than let you through the door.
I know this because in addition to the gun she carries, Cheryl also has a letter opener that doubles as a throwing knife strapped to her upper thigh.
And I know that because I’m the one who gave it to her.
“Hey, Penelope,” Cheryl says with a smile that welcomes me and warns me not to make any sudden movements at the same time. “It’s lovely to have you visit us today.”
Loosely translated, this means: I know you’re a thief, and I’m packing. What do you want?
“I’m so happy to be here,” I reply. My own smile stretches wide and full of meaning. “How are the kids? And Dan?”
In other words: I’m not scared of you. Also, I know where you live.
“They’re good, they’re good. Dan got that promotion he was after, so that’s been pretty nice for us. We finally bought that gun safe we’ve been eyeing.”
Meaning: We keep extra weapons at home. Don’t even think about it.
“Safety is so important,” I agree.
“Do you want me to let Grant know you’re here, hon?”
“If you don’t mind. He’s not expecting me.”
“Oh, how lovely,” she says. You’d think, from the way she beams at me, that she means it this time. She doesn’t. “Is it a surprise lunch date?”
It’s a surprise something, that’s for sure. But all I do is offer her a bland look and say, “In a manner of speaking.”
“I’ll buzz him.”
And with that, I’m in as far as I’m going to get on my own. Only once in my life have I made it past Cheryl’s desk, and that was in handcuffs. It’s not an experience I’m keen on repeating.
To pass the time until my husband’s arrival, I settle into one of the austere metal chairs set against an even more austere white wall and struggle to suppress my air of expectation. A buzz of adrenaline is common before a big job, and since it’s been more than six months since I’ve so much as looked at a lock the wrong way, my expectations and my buzz are flying.
The fact that things are progressing exactly as planned only helps
my high. I haven’t always loved the FBI—what with their spying on my every move and the arrest of my father earlier this year—but I can always count on their love of protocol.
To Cheryl’s credit, she doesn’t make excuses as the minutes tick by and there’s no sign of my husband. To my credit, I don’t let my anxiety at his delay show. There’s a small window of opportunity for this particular job, and I need him to appear before Riker—my best friend and coconspirator—gets things started down below. In about five more minutes, I’m going to have to do something drastic (like fake a seizure) to get Grant out here.
Fortunately, my acting skills aren’t put to the test. A shadow appears in the doorway before I hear the impressively faint sound of footsteps, and I know it must be Grant. No one moves as silently—or as deadly—as my husband.
“You’re here!” I cry. All six feet two inches of him fill the room—and my heart. Even considering what I’m about to do, I’m honestly happy to see him. He didn’t come home last night until the wee hours of the morning, and he left for work while I was in the shower—a schedule that’s been on repeat for much longer than I like. The occasional late night is par for the course when you’re married to an FBI agent, but tacit avoidance has become our default mode as of late.
In any other marriage, such a thing might indicate waning sexual interest or a general lack of communication. In our marriage, it means one of us thinks the other has started stealing again.
I’ll let you guess who.
Grant accepts my proffered hug warily, one eye on the door, the other on his watch. I’m tempted to tell him it’s exactly 2:13 in the afternoon, give or take thirty seconds, but that might give too much away. I only pay such close attention to the passing of time when I’m up to no good—a fact he knows from personal experience. I want to throw him off guard, not set him on high alert.
“My sweet darling, how I’ve missed you!” I say instead, dialing my beaming smile up to twelve. “I’ve been waiting for the chance to wrap my arms around you all day.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my wife?”
“That’s unfair.” I feign outrage with a flick of my ponytail, the more-blond-than-red hair pulled back in the lifelong style I can’t seem to shake. As my role in the breaking and entering circuit used to involve squeezing into tight spaces, I grew accustomed to minimizing the amount of space I took up—hair included. Nothing is more disastrous than squeezing yourself inside an air conditioning duct only to have your hair sucked into the blades. “Can’t I be happy to see you?”
“You could be, but you’re not.”
I fake a pout. “How can you tell?”
“For starters? Not only have you never called me my sweet anything before, but your skin is flushed, and your pupils are dilated. What are you up to, Penelope Blue?”
I bite back a laugh. His air of distrust is offset by the familiar playful rhyme, a singsong form of address he’s used since the day we first met. It’s always been one of my favorite sounds—that combination of suspicion and adoration in Grant’s voice. I like to think it’s how he shows his love.
“I’m not up to anything.” At least, I’m not up to anything yet. The action isn’t set to start until 2:20, which means I’ve got about five more minutes to keep his attention focused by being suspiciously charming and wifely. “Maybe I’m flushed because I’m happy to see you. Did you ever think about that?”
“Once. Maybe twice. Then I learned better.”
His eyes narrow as he continues assessing me from top to bottom. I attempt to keep my breathing mostly even and my posture just a little too relaxed—I want him to be suspicious, but I don’t want him to catch on that I want him to be suspicious. It’s harder than it seems under his special brand of scrutiny. Grant is very good at his job.
He’s so good at it, in fact, that his face doesn’t register even a flicker of surprise when he reaches my feet and catches a glimpse of my footwear. Normally, I’m all about functional flats and comfort soles, but this is a special occasion. Today, I’ve paired my black skinny jeans with bright-red peep-toe heels that threaten to topple me with every step.
The shoes were a gift from Grant—a gift and a reminder, and a large part of the reason I’m here today. It’s a thing with him, a tradition of sorts, to give double-edged presents. The habit goes all the way back to our early courtship, where each date could end with an arrest as easily as a kiss. Instead of confronting me with his suspicions like a normal man, Grant likes to toy with me to see if I’ll break.
I’m on to you, Penelope Blue, he all but said with a few shiny pieces of patent leather. The Peep-Toe Prowler better not strike again.
Which is totally unfair, by the way. Even if I was the burglar currently working her way through a string of Upper East Side homes—which, for the record, I’m not—I wouldn’t wear heels while I did it. I prefer to make my getaways quick and painless, thank you very much.
“Well? Am I a threat to national security?” I ask when it appears he’s finished his assessment. I even give my foot a sassy kick for good measure, but I elicit no response and almost lose my shoe in the process. “Do you want to place me in one of the interrogation rooms until you get the all clear? I’m partial to the one Simon uses. Such fond memories I have of being held there against my will.”
Grant sighs, his exasperation causing a crease to form down the middle of his forehead. I resist the urge to smooth it away. Don’t get me wrong—my husband is and always has been devastatingly handsome, and no amount of annoyance can change that. His hair is the blondish-brown you typically find on frat boys and surfer dudes, and he has these huge brown eyes that exude sleepy innocence and puppy-dog friendliness. It’s the perfect look for lulling unsuspecting cat burglars into falling in love and spilling their secrets.
“This better not be one of your tricks, Penelope.”
“It’s not!” I lie.
“You said you were having lunch with your grandmother today.”
“She had to cancel,” I lie again. “I never see you anymore, that’s all.” I run my finger up the line of his suit jacket. It’s loose and crumpled, which says a lot about his current state of mind. He usually wears his suits like they’re made of neoprene. “You’ve been spending all your free time at work lately, and even when you come home, it’s like you’re not there. I miss you.”
“Stop batting your eyes at me. I’m not falling for it.”
“I’m blinking. You want me to stop blinking?”
“I want you to tell me why you’re really here.”
“My profound love for you isn’t good enough? Thanks a lot.”
His lips twitch in amusement, though I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a smile. When Grant really smiles, he does it with his whole face. His eyes crinkle at the edges in a way that sets my heart skittering and makes me wonder what I did to deserve such a gorgeous, strapping beast of a man in my life.
“I mean it.” He places his hands heavily on my shoulders. “I’m in the middle of something at the moment. There’s been a new development in the case I’m working.”
Aha. Now we’re getting closer to something interesting. By new development, I can only assume he’s talking about the ruby bracelet that went missing from one of New York’s elite inner circles last night. This makes half a dozen pieces in all, each one worth more than the last. They’re saying this one clocks in at over a million bucks.
I almost feel sorry for Grant having to head up this investigation. With such high-profile victims as the CEO of a chain of hospitals and an energy tycoon known to contribute in presidential campaigns, he must feel the pressure to find the culprit before any more rich people are outraged.
But the thief—again, not me—is a good one. According to the newspapers, there have only been two clues worth note. The first is a bathmat bearing the imprint of a woman’s size s
even shoe. The other is a maid who claims to have seen a pair of peep-toes poking out from under a curtain in the same room where a diamond watch later went missing. It’s not much to go on, but I assume Grant has dozens of theories and facts he’s not sharing with the world.
Theories and facts that appear to be pointing to yours truly.
“What kind of development?” I ask.
“Nice try. I know I’ve been distracted lately, but I’m not that distracted.” He squeezes my shoulders again, and there’s a finality to it that lingers long after the pressure is gone. “I’m sorry, love. I appreciate you coming all this way to see me, but I need to get back. I’ll have Cheryl show you out.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” And not only because I need to keep him distracted for a few minutes longer. The truth is, I don’t like feeling shut out of his life—of our life.
But all he does is sigh in frustration. “Why don’t you go home and enjoy the rest of your day? Aren’t you supposed to be finishing that novel for your book club?”
“I tried, but it was about zombies. It gave me nightmares.”
“What about your plans to overhaul the garden?”
“Too many bugs.” I give a delicate shudder. “They also give me nightmares.”
“There’s always that volunteer gig at the rare books room you were talking about…”
I let him trail off, refusing to pick up the bait. Of all the book clubs and garden plans and volunteer opportunities Grant keeps dangling in front of me, that one is by far the most appealing. I’ve always loved the New York Library, and that room, in particular, has personal meaning for me. But the larger issue isn’t about how I spend my leisure time—it’s about how he doesn’t trust me to find a productive way to fill it. To him, the succession of long, empty days I’ve faced since renouncing my life of crime is nothing more than an opportunity to get in trouble.
It’s sweet that he’s so concerned for my well-being and all, but it’s almost enough to make me want to give the real Peep-Toe Prowler a run for her money.
Stealing Mr. Right Page 32
