“I mean that one of our agents accidentally spilled his coffee outside the broken window where the thief cut himself,” I said with painstaking calm. “From the state of things, I’m guessing he must have been very thirsty.”
The forensic tech groaned. “Oh, geez. You got partnered with Leon again, didn’t you?”
A grim smile was my only response. A grim smile was generous, given the circumstances. Not only had I been pulled off my own case, which included a promising date with a certain strawberry blond, but I was being forced to clean up after a man who made Inspector Clouseau look like Sherlock Holmes. Some days, he seemed to be a perfectly capable investigator, dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s with all the efficiency one would expect from a man in his position.
Other days… Well. Let’s just say I wasn’t the only agent who’d noticed how often a vital piece of evidence went awry when Christopher Leon was on the job.
“Make do with what you have, but I doubt you’ll find anything,” I said. Just caffeine, milk, and the remnants of Christopher’s ineptitude. Unfortunately, I’d learned the hard way that laying any of the blame on the man responsible would only result in a slap on my wrist and a threat to strip me of my badge. The man had friends in high places, as my wrist could attest. It still stung from the time I’d questioned his clearance to become a field agent. “And thanks.”
The tech gave me a mock salute and went back to work.
I should have gone directly back to the crime scene after that to salvage what I could, but my phone buzzed with an incoming text.
I’m just sitting all alone at the café where you booked us a table, it read. Did you know you can see straight into Tiffany’s from here?
I laughed out loud. Of course I knew the vantage point from our proposed date. I’d chosen it—and paid off the manager—for the exact purpose of trying to get a reaction out of my quarry. True to form, Penelope hadn’t shown any dismay at the last-minute cancellation, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear tomorrow that Tiffany’s suffered an overnight break-in. A woman scorned was capable of anything. And that woman scorned…
“What’s so funny?” Christopher materialized in front of me, peering forward to get a look at my screen.
My instinct was to snatch the phone away and tell him to back off, but I forced a smile and flashed him the screen instead. “Just working the Blue case,” I said as though it were a matter of supreme indifference. I wasn’t giving this man any ammunition. You remember? The one you tried to go over my head and take away from me?
“Oh, yeah,” he replied, casual to the point of suspicion. “How’s that going?”
Two could play this game. “It’s going as well as can be expected,” I said. “I’m not going to wring any answers about her father’s whereabouts overnight, but anything worth doing is worth doing well.”
“You know, you could always bring her in—” He looked up, midsentence, to find me staring at him. He knew my cold look well enough by now. “Never mind. I’m sure you’re handling it.”
“Thank you,” I said without emphasis. “I don’t suppose you found any new leads?”
Before Christopher could open his mouth all the way, I added, “On the missing Picassos.”
He hunched his shoulders and looked away. “No, not yet. I really am sorry about the coffee, by the way. I don’t know what came over me.”
There was something about a man so wholly out of his depth that I couldn’t help but give him an out. “It’s all right. I still like the security guard for it. He had access and opportunity—and unless I’m mistaken, he was also employed at the University of Maryland, where those Roman busts went missing last year.”
Christopher looked interested. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I pushed off the wall and began covering the ground at a clipped pace. The sooner I could get this thing finished, the sooner I could get back to my own work. Until Christopher screwed up another case and I got called in to fix it anyway. “Under a different name and social, of course. And he may have even gotten a nose job in between. I doubt I would have picked up on the link if it wasn’t for the car.”
Christopher kept easy pace with me. “The car?”
“Oh, yeah. He might have been willing to change his identity and undergo the knife for the sake of a few bucks, but he wouldn’t let a ’71 Hemi ’Cuda go. I mean, I’ve always been more of a Camaro SS man myself, but…” I released a low whistle. Owning any car in New York was ridiculous, but there were times when a man had to sit down and face the traffic. For me, it would have been a ’69 Chevrolet Camaro SS—a lingering teenage fantasy and the one car I’d have sold my soul to own. For my suspect, it was a vintage Plymouth. I almost couldn’t blame him for it. “He had to register the car at both schools to get a parking permit. I’ve already requested the VIN from both. We should have an answer in the next few hours.”
Christopher stopped in his walk down the hallway. I turned back to look at him, unable to suppress a smug grin at the look of perplexity lowering his brow. “Does this mean you aren’t going to look at other suspects?” he asked.
“If he’s guilty?” I gave a short laugh. “No. That’s usually how it works. You find the bad guy and move on. Was there someone else you wanted me to arrest?”
“No. No, of course not.” He spoke quickly before checking his watch in a clumsy show. “I’m just relieved, that’s all.”
I didn’t know why he was relieved. Any other agent who botched a job that bad might feel grateful at having been handed an easy win, but any other agent wasn’t Christopher Leon. No fear of punishment ever crossed his mind. In fact, it was much more likely that I’d be the one to take the fall if the security guard theory didn’t hold. He’d probably get a fucking promotion.
My phone buzzed again, and I glanced down to see another incoming text from Penelope. Interesting. Did you know that the guards at Tiffany’s stagger their arrival times?
“Is that her again?” Christopher asked.
I bit back the chuckle that had risen to my lips. “Yes, it is,” I said in a way that should have repressed further communication.
It didn’t.
“You might want to be careful there, Emerson,” he said, and in a warning tone I’d never heard from him before. “A woman like that isn’t going to stick around for long. It won’t do to get too attached.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not,” I replied.
He didn’t believe me any more than I believed myself, but short of calling me a liar and pulling me up in front of the ethics board, there wasn’t much he could do about it.
“Was there anything else you wanted to add?” I asked.
He wanted to, that much was evident. But by that time, he was fast learning that there were some issues closed to negotiation, and Penelope Blue was one of them. I might not have the power to get him pulled from cases he was too inexperienced to lead, but he didn’t have the power to take Penelope away from me.
Though not, I knew, from lack of trying.
“No, I’m good,” he said.
I let it sit at that—and not only because I was done having a conversation that would lead nowhere. It was also because the sooner I called those colleges and saw about those VIN numbers, the sooner I could put a stakeout detail on Tiffany’s. I could hardly wait.
Penelope might not have any long-term plans about sticking around, but I could at least enjoy the game while I was still in it.
7
THE PARTNERSHIP
There’s an apology gift waiting on the kitchen counter when I wake up the next morning. It’s not a bouquet of flowers (which I have little use for), and it’s not jewelry (which, oddly enough, is something I don’t wear much of). The cobbler’s children don’t have any shoes, and the jewel thief sticks to simple, understated pieces. That’s how I prefer it.
Grant knows this about me, w
hich is why I’m delighted to find a pink bakery box with my name scrawled across the top instead. Donuts are a universal peace offering, and they’re one I gladly—and voraciously—accept. There’s nothing like criminal intrigue to get a girl’s appetite going.
Going too well, apparently. I’m holding a half-empty box and considering how to arrange the remaining pastries to make it look like I only ate a dainty few when Grant sneaks up behind me.
“Hello, wife,” he murmurs into my neck. It’s a smooth move rendered even smoother when he tightens his grip to catch my spasm of surprise. I seriously need to put a bell on that man one of these days. “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy waking up to your beautiful face?”
“Jesus, Grant. Were you hiding in a corner this whole time?”
His chuckle is a warm flutter of breath against my skin. “Do you mean did I witness you inhale those three maple bars? No. I was in the bedroom.”
I bump him with my ass in mock annoyance, but his hands slide down to my hips and hold me there. It’s the perfect position to have me pinned between a rock and a hard place—namely, him and the kitchen counter. Most of the rocks and hard places in my life include Grant in some form or another, but at least this one comes with a kiss that takes my breath away.
He starts, as he so often does, with my neck. I’ll never know what it is about that part of a woman’s anatomy that interests him so, but from the way he plants a line of soft kisses along the slope of my shoulder and up to my jawline, it’s clear he intends to take his time—and enjoy himself in the process.
He’s not the only one. Most of Grant’s body is a solid wall of sinew and bone, difficult to break and hard to deny, but his lips have always been incredibly soft. They’re also as insistent as the rest of him, growing increasingly demanding the further north he goes. By the time he reaches my lips, he’s tilting my face to meet his mouth with my own.
“Mmm,” he groans as his tongue sweeps against mine. “You taste like maple and sugar. I should get you breakfast more often.”
More arousing words have never been spoken, and I couldn’t move now even if I wanted to. One of his hands holds me in place, grinding me against the counter. The other grips my chin so he can continue his assault unabated. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue stroking until I’m grateful that he’s holding me up.
I might dissolve otherwise.
If this man ever learned how much power he has over me, I might be in real trouble. He breaks me down and holds me up at the same time. He makes it impossible for me to live with or without him.
I swear I’d hate him if his kisses didn’t feel so damn good.
“How was your evening?” he asks. He spins me to face him, murmuring the question against my lips. “Did you discover any more crimes you’d like to convince me you didn’t commit? Maybe you could break into a bank to try and prove it to me.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.” I weave my fingers through the silky strands of his hair and nip playfully at his jawline. It’s my favorite place to leave telltale marks of affection, since it forces him to keep his scruff a little scruffier than usual to hide it. “I’ll have you know that sort of plan doesn’t come up with itself. It took us a long time to decide on the best way to crack your office.”
“You’ve always been good at your job.” He speaks mostly to the slope of my shoulder, which he’s exposing inch by careful inch. But his hands—and mouth—stop before he frees so much as the swell of a breast.
My breath catches with impatience and desire, my body straining for him to touch it again.
But of course, he doesn’t.
“Wait a minute,” he says. “Did you say the best way to crack my office?”
Despite the frustrated fizzle building between my legs, I have to laugh. “Well, you wouldn’t want us to use the worst way, would you? Have some pride in our workmanship.”
He grips me by my naked shoulders, the familiar look of exasperated amusement settling over his expression. “Like hell I will. How many ways are there?”
“Off the top of my head? I’d say about a dozen.”
“Write them down,” he says. Much to my dismay, he drops his seduction and snatches the pad of paper we use for grocery lists. “I want all twelve. In elaborate detail. Don’t leave anything out.”
“Hey, some of those are trade secrets.”
“Not anymore.” One hand steers me to a stool; the other grabs a pen and points it at me. It’s not exactly how I wanted to spend my morning, but what’s a girl to do? When Grant switches to business mode, there’s not much in this world that can sway him.
Seriously. He’ll stand there, aroused and with a look of intense longing in his eyes, frustrated and surly for hours, before he’ll budge so much as an inch.
“You know I can’t betray the team like that,” I say, though I take the pen and nibble on the end with feigned thoughtfulness. I’m not about to tell him that preying on his natural suspicions was all we could come up with. Gotta keep the mystery alive. “Riker would kill me. He knows guys who would pay top dollar for this kind of information.”
“You’re not getting up from that chair until you start writing.”
“Or you’ll do what?” I ask archly.
“Never bring you baked goods again.”
That’s not a threat I take lightly. “Fine. If you’re going to be mean about it…”
To assuage the domineering beast in my kitchen, I jot down random and wholly unlikely scenarios, like driving through the front glass of the building with the Batmobile or getting plastic surgery so I look identical to Cheryl. I cover the paper with my free hand so he can’t see what I’m writing, hoping he’ll take the hint.
When he doesn’t move away, I turn to him with a glare. “I can’t confess my sins while you’re hovering over me. Get thee to the coffeemaker, husband, and make yourself useful.”
He plants a kiss on the back of my neck and mutters something about ungrateful temptresses, but it does the trick. Mostly, anyway. Before he gets too involved in the process of transforming coffee beans into miracles, he pauses and watches me with an unreadable expression.
“You’ll talk to me next time, right?” he asks. “Instead of going to Riker and Jordan to set up a mass-scale invasion? We’ll have a good old-fashioned conversation between husband and wife?”
I’m reluctant to agree to those terms without an addendum, which says a lot more about me than it does him. That mass-scale invasion was the only interesting thing I’ve done in months.
“That depends,” I say carefully. “Are you going to let me help catch the Peep-Toe Prowler?”
A perfectly readable expression comes over his face then.
“I saw my dad yesterday,” I say in an attempt to stop his outburst before it begins. “I visited him at his hotel.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like where this is headed?”
“He wasn’t there alone. He’s got a roommate.”
I pause and wrinkle my nose. Now that I think about it, there wasn’t any sign of Tara putting down roots. She’s not a messy person, at least not to my recollection, but I didn’t see a single suitcase or article of her clothing. Not even a discarded glass with a lipstick print on the rim. There’s always a chance she was there for a booty call—which, gross—but her stay didn’t look like a prolonged one.
“At least, I think she’s his roommate,” I amend. “She could have been stopping by for a visit.”
Grant is quick enough to catch the implication, and he releases a low whistle. “You’re kidding. Tara’s back in town?”
I nod, feeling smug and guilty at the same time. The former comes from a rare sense of euphoria at knowing something Grant doesn’t, but I can’t help feeling like I’m betraying Tara in the process.
Ugh. I hope this isn’t going to be a thing—having actual human emotions for
that woman.
“She didn’t want me to say anything to you about it. But then, I’m a very loving and law-abiding wife, so what else could I do?” I’m not sure I care to hear his answer, as loving and law-abiding aren’t two qualities anyone would accuse me of having in abundance, so I follow up with the part of my visit with Tara that’s troubling me. “Is Christopher really your boss?”
The sharp turn of Grant’s head my way is all the confirmation I need. “She told you that?”
“Among other things. She didn’t confess to the crime, though, if that’s what you’re hoping. Of course, if you’d let me help with the investigation, I might be able to coerce more information out of her. She mentioned wanting to have lunch next week. What do you think that’s about?”
I’m genuinely curious to hear Grant’s answer, since he has experience dealing with Tara and might have insight into the dark and twisted inner workings of her mind. Unfortunately, he dismisses my question with a wave of his hand. As an only child who’s the shining gold apple of his mother’s eye, Grant doesn’t understand the complex hate-hate relationship one can have with a close relative.
“Do you know how long she’s been in town?” he asks.
“No, but I’d be happy to find out for you. Anything else you’d like while I’m at it? Her whereabouts last night? What size shoe she wears? Ooh, do you want us to sneak in and ransack my dad’s place to find evidence? Riker has this new grappling hook he’s been dying to try.”
My offer goes unheeded. From the way Grant begins pacing across the kitchen floor, all thoughts of coffee forgotten, I get the feeling it’s going to be another long-night-at-work sort of day.
“I don’t think she’s sloppy enough to show herself to you if she’s the Prowler,” he muses, mostly to himself. “She must have known you’d come to me, or at least that I’d find out through the grapevine. But then, that could have been her goal from the start—to throw me off balance. You Blue women have a tendency to do that.”
Stealing Mr. Right Page 38
