Stealing Mr. Right

by Tamara Morgan

  I’m startled into another laugh, though this one feels rougher around the edges. “Very funny. The only thing that woman is scared of is her accountant. Well, and maybe the lady who cleans her house. I bet she knows where all the expensive stuff is hidden.”

  He presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “You have no idea, do you?”

  “You think she keeps her valuables somewhere else? That’s smart, given that the Blue Fox is her son-in-law. It can’t be easy, marrying into my family.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken, but that’s not what I meant,” he says. Taking the gray tank top from my hand, he motions for me to lift my arms. With painstaking care, he slips the fabric over my head and shoulders, taking his time as he tucks it into place. If he were serious about seduction, he’d caress the swell of my breasts and grip the curve of my waist, his fingers pressing a familiar pattern.

  This morning, however, his thoughts are elsewhere. Instead of taking my arched back as an invitation to linger, he trails his fingers up the line of my spine and pulls me into his embrace. He dips his head to kiss the sensitive spot below my ear, his lips moving against my skin as he adds, “You scare the shit out of everyone.”

  A shiver runs through me. “That’s not true.”

  He pauses, as if choosing his next words carefully. “She offered you money because she doesn’t know what else to do.”

  “That’s not true,” I protest again. “She probably offers everyone money. That way she can yell at them to sit up straighter, and they can’t complain.”

  “Or—and I’m just throwing this out there—she doesn’t know what else she can give you. She wants to make up for the past, and she wants you to feel supported, but trying to do anything for someone as willfully self-sufficient as you requires three layers of armor and a nerve of iron.”

  I strongly suspect him of mocking me. “A Hallmark card would do the trick.”

  “Only if she held it against your neck and threatened to slit your throat with it.” He releases his grip on me, his gaze clouded as his eyes meet mine. “You don’t make it easy, Penelope. You know that, right?”

  I don’t, actually, and I’m not sure I want him to continue. A difficult wife sounds an awful lot like a disposable one.

  “Are you saying I should take the money?” I ask.

  “I’m saying you should be gentle with her, that’s all. Like the rest of us, she only wants to make you happy. She just doesn’t know how to do it.” He looks at me as if searching for something. I don’t think he finds whatever it is, because he shakes his head. “A good challenge and a better adversary. That’s all you want out of life, isn’t it?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but both of those things sound lovely.

  “Just…” He shakes his head again. “Be nice to her today, okay? And for the love of everything that’s holy, promise me you won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  Now he’s not mocking so much as insulting me. “All the risks I take are necessary ones, thank you very much.”

  “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t a regular lunch date?”

  “Because you’re a highly suspicious and untrusting man,” I say and then laugh. There’s no real use in trying with him. “And because you have the annoying tendency to be right about these things.”

  His eyes flash. “Penelope, so help me…”

  I get up on my tiptoes to kiss his nose before ducking under his arm and out of his reach. Being quick on my feet sure comes in handy sometimes. “Don’t worry so much. It’s lunch at an upscale French restaurant. What could go wrong?”

  His reply is a loud curse I won’t bother repeating. Ladies who lunch at Café Boulud would never repeat that sort of profanity.

  * * *

  “Penelope, I know you’re flexible, but please tell me there’s a spine somewhere inside that body of yours.”

  I shoot up so quickly, I almost drop my spoon into the bowl of beef-flavored water. According to my grandmother’s impeccably accented French, the soup is called consommé, but I’m pretty sure it’s a long con that France has been playing on the world for centuries. Twenty dollars a bowl for this?

  “Sorry,” I say with a sheepish wince. “It’s habit.”

  “Not a very good one.”

  “Sorry,” I say again—my fifth apology in as many minutes and, if things keep progressing like this, not even close to my last. I’m not sure what distorted view Grant has of my relationship with this woman, but I seriously doubt she’s the one in need of three layers of armor. “I’ve never been very good at sitting up straight. Or sitting still, for that matter.”

  My grandmother blinks at me slowly. Well, maybe not slowly so much as purposefully. All of her movements are like that. She’s languid in a way that screams elegance and power, as if she possesses the ability to control time itself. The urge to emulate her is strong, but I get the feeling I’d end up looking like a sloth.

  “How on earth did you sit inside air vents for hours if you can’t be still?”

  I laugh. That’s the other thing I admire about my grandmother. She’s not one to tiptoe around the truth.

  “It wasn’t easy; I can tell you that. I also get claustrophobic in tight spaces. I had to teach myself to breathe through it.”

  She pats the edges of her shell-pink mouth with her napkin. “Well, no one can say you aren’t committed to your chosen profession. You got that from your grandfather.”

  “Actually, I think I got it from—”

  She blinks at me again. “He had a great work ethic, your grandfather.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Arguing with her would be futile. So far, she’s been pretty accepting of the fact that her granddaughter is a criminal, which says a lot, considering Erica disowned my mom the day she married my dad. This is a woman who has convictions and sticks to them. “I’m sorry I never got a chance to meet Grandfather. What was he like?”

  It’s the wrong question. That same shell-pink mouth—which matches the pantsuit she’s wearing to perfection—purses tightly. “You know I don’t like dwelling on the dead.”

  I do know. I also know that what she’s really saying is under no circumstances should I mention my mom or try to introduce her into the conversation. It’s the same whenever I try to talk to my dad—something I learned as a child and had to rediscover a few short months ago. Not now, maybe later, why don’t you run along and play. Twenty-six years have passed, and the pain of my mother’s loss is still so strong that neither one of them can even say her name out loud.

  She must have been something special to foster that kind of love and devotion. And they both had to trade her in for me.

  “Maybe another time.” I manage a small smile. “That’s not what I’m here for anyway.”

  “Ah. Now we get to the heart of the matter. I thought there might be a reason for this unprecedented event. What’s the amount?”

  I can’t decide whether or not to be insulted. After a moment’s reflection, I decide there’s no point. It’s no different than me offering Riker my life’s savings to bail him out of trouble. I want to do more for him—so much more—but I can only reach out so far on my own. At some point, he’s going to have to reach back.

  Oh, geez. Was Grant right? Am I that hard to help?

  “It’s not money.” I trail my spoon through the pretend soup, which has now gone cold. “I was, um, sort of hoping you might take me to some events over the next few weeks.”

  “Events.” There’s nothing in her tone to make this easier.

  “Yeah. I know I’m not exactly the debutante type, and you probably aren’t eager to trot me out and show me off to all your friends, but—”

  “You mean social events? Charity functions?”

  I look up, hoping her face might show a glimpse of the humanity her voice is lacking.

  It doesn’t. My gra
ndmother is beautiful—well preserved, with a classic look that time can’t touch—but she’s not what you’d call approachable. Then again, I’m not what you’d call squeamish.

  “Charity functions, parties, dinners…” I leave the list open-ended. “I’m not picky. What sorts of things do you and your friends normally do?”

  There’s a shrewd look to her narrowed eyes that makes me think she knows what I’m really asking—where do all the rich people congregate?—but her shrewdness goes deep enough that she doesn’t voice her suspicions. Instead, she says, “Most of the time, I hide from charity functions, parties, and dinners because they’re mind-numbingly dull and frequented by self-indulgent egoists.”

  I release a shout of laughter. It’s hardly a ladylike response in a setting like this one, and I draw the attention of several diners seated around us. Most of the couples dismiss me as quickly as I do them, but one woman seated on the other side of the bar does a double take.

  There’s only enough time for me to take note of her smooth black bob and catlike eyes before I turn my head the opposite direction. Please, please don’t let that be someone I’ve robbed in the past. Please, please say she’s merely admiring my tinkling laughter and air of natural grace.

  I turn my laugh into a discreet cough. “Does that mean you won’t take me anywhere?”

  “Of course not,” my grandmother says crisply. “They’re only dull because I don’t have anyone to show off. I haven’t had anyone to show off in a long time.”

  My brow wrinkles in confusion, but I don’t have an opportunity to ask her to elaborate, because the waiter returns to remove our soup and present us with an artfully arranged pile of weeds. Oh, I’m sorry. Salad.

  I use the distraction to sneak a peek at the bobcat across the bar and immediately wish I hadn’t. Her eyes—even from this distance, I can see that they’re dark and sharp—have focused on me with an intensity I know from long experience doesn’t bode well. I want to ask my grandmother who the woman is, but by the time the waiter leaves, she’s already launched into a plan of action.

  “It’s better to ease you in gently, so we’ll start with a tea party meeting next week,” she says without room for question—not my question, not hers, and not, apparently, the bobcat’s, because her attention finally turns away.

  I guess a ferocious grandparent who doesn’t take crap from anyone comes in handy sometimes.

  “A tea party meeting?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you don’t need to worry about the details—the Ladies’ Society needs to finalize plans for our annual Black and White Ball, and Millie Ralph has been trying to find a way into my house for years. A tea party is the way to do it. She’ll jump at the chance to snoop around, and where Millie goes, the rest will follow.”

  “Who’s Millie Ralph?”

  She waves her hand. “A terrible woman. Meddlesome and loud. You needn’t worry about her.” But then she leans over the table, her fork poised as if to stab. “But I’d appreciate it if you made an effort to at least look the part when you arrive. That’ll show her.”

  I’m almost scared to ask. “Show her what?”

  “That there’s some fight in the Duponts yet. We never stay down for long.”

  “But I’m not a—”

  The fork remains firmly in place. “You are a Dupont, and it will behoove you to remember that. You might think your courage comes from that crook of a man you call father, but I know better. No one except my granddaughter could have pulled off half the things you’ve done in your lifetime.”

  I have no response to that, which is just as well, because she’s not done yet.

  “Now. Eat your salad, and try not to shovel it all in as if you’ve never seen food before. Honestly, Penelope, didn’t anyone teach you to use a fork?”

  14

  THE DEAL

  I know something is up the moment I get home.

  In the general way of things, it’s not uncommon for me to enter a scene of domesticity as soon as I walk through the front door. Grant enjoys activities like cooking and cleaning, which makes no sense to me, but I know better than to complain. Fresh sheets and regular meals are quite nice once you get used to them, and there’s something comforting about having a husband who can don a frilly pink apron and make it look like a loincloth skinned fresh from the kill.

  However, when that same husband rounds the corner wearing not an apron, but a towel that slings low on his hips, the rest of his body a bare showcase of masculinity, it’s taking things a step too far. Talk about throwing a girl in unprepared.

  I drop my bag in the doorway. “Um. Hi. Hey. Hello.”

  He grins and leans against the wall, fully aware of how he looks and what he’s doing to me. “Hello yourself. How’d it go with your grandmother?”

  Coherent thoughts aren’t within my current range of capabilities, which means full sentences are out. I grunt instead. You’d think that regularly sharing a bed with this man would inure me to the sight of him without any clothes on, but you’d be wrong. So very wrong. Not even the most jaded visitor tires of the Sistine Chapel that quickly.

  “I take that to mean you didn’t get what you were looking for?” He tsks, which makes his entire torso flex, including those enticing hip muscles peeking over the top of his towel. “Pity. After all your careful plotting and everything.”

  I’m instantly on alert. “What do you know about my plotting?”

  “Did she refuse to help you? Tell you to turn your attention to something more productive? I’ve always liked Erica.”

  Fortunately for me, half-naked taunting will only get a handsome man so far.

  “Actually, she promised to throw a tea party in my honor,” I say. “She’s going to introduce me to some people so I can start mingling with the victims of the Peep-Toe Prowler and get the inside track.”

  He pushes himself off the wall. “She didn’t.”

  “Oh, she’s excited about it,” I reply with a smirk, but then I catch sight of the dark gleam in his eyes. “It wasn’t my idea, I swear! I was just planning on feeling her out—I didn’t expect her to take me under her wing like this. Tara’s the one who suggested it.”

  “Since when are you taking Tara’s advice? She’s under investigation.”

  “I know, but you have to admit she has a point. It’s a perfect way to keep an eye on things. If I’m at the parties the Prowler is targeting, then I can watch everyone who comes and goes, and no one will think anything of it.”

  “Except Tara and anyone she happens to be working with.” He rakes a hand through his still-damp curls, causing a few of them to stand on end. “Goddammit—did it ever occur to you to wonder why she suggested such a thing?”

  “Of course it did.”

  He stares at me expectantly. “And?”

  “And it doesn’t matter. She probably wants me there to witness her triumph. In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s kind of a narcissist.”

  Grant groans in a way that doesn’t bode well for the rest of the conversation. In the interest of our future life’s happiness together, I decide to stop him before he says something we’re both going to regret. Risking life and limb, I lift my hands to the hard slabs of his shoulders and force his dark, glittering gaze to meet mine.

  “Is it my intelligence you underrate or my ability to defend myself?” I ask.

  “Penelope, you know it’s neither of those things…”

  “Or is it my courage? Because, so help me, if you think for one second that I’m not willing—”

  Grant releases a short laugh. “I doubt anyone can accuse you of cowardice. No, it’s not you I’m worried about so much as everyone else who’s involved.”

  That’s almost as bad, and I say so. “If Tara’s so dangerous, why don’t you arrest her? I’m sure you have enough information on her past activities to make it bel
ievable. Get her off the streets and save us all the trouble.”

  “I’m not talking about Tara, either,” Grant says.

  “Then who—”

  “It’s Leon.” He says the name like he’s biting it off. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I can see now that I don’t have any other choice. He’s asked me to bring you in.”

  “He wants you to bring me in?” I echo, my voice hollow. To the FBI building? To the place where I might be able to sneak my way in, but getting out is virtually impossible?

  At first, I think he’s joking, his twisted sense of humor getting the best of him, but his perfectly rigid stance is a dead giveaway. Tense muscles rarely mean happy things where this man is concerned. It’s usually an indication he’s about to strike.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he says and takes a dangerous first step toward me. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

  I somehow doubt that. He wouldn’t be standing there half-naked otherwise, flashing his bare torso at me so he can clap me in irons while I’m distracted by the glory of each chiseled plane.

  “As my direct superior, it’s within his ability to insist,” Grant adds.

  The devil it is. “And as your wife, it’s within my ability to respectfully decline,” I state, my words wavering only slightly. “Which, for the record, I do. Vehemently.”

  “Noted, vehemently.”

  He takes another one of those predatory steps, and every natural instinct I have to flee in the face of authority leaps to the surface. I’m usually able to subdue that part of myself around Grant—since he’s all authority, all the time, I don’t have much choice—but something about the combination of his nudity and my vulnerability breaks down all those barriers.

  After all I’ve given up, all the compromises forged in the name of love, this is where it leads us. Not the lifelong battle of wills we once pledged one another but the need for a hasty and not-so-strategic retreat.

  Starting…now.