Saving Mr. Perfect

by Tamara Morgan

  “Penelope, you won’t really shoot me,” she tries again, her tone more pleading this time. “I was your mother’s friend. Her best friend. No one knew her like I did.”

  “Then tell me about her,” I say. The gun wavers in my grip, but I manage to keep it upright. Even though I’m a lousy shot, I’m standing close enough to Jane that any quick movement on her part would be a painful mistake. “Tell me a story about her, and I’ll let you go.”

  Jane licks her lips nervously. With a strange sense of detachment, I note that the deep red color stays in place. Owning a cosmetics company must come with its perks.

  “What kind of story?” she asks. “What do you want to hear?”

  “Tell me what you loved about her.”

  At my request, Jane makes a jerky movement to her right, but I hold firm. Most of the people have left the museum now, and the confusion is dying down. I figure I have about two more minutes before someone in a position of authority—Simon or one of the security guards—finds us hiding over here.

  I intend to use my two minutes wisely.

  “Tell me,” I repeat.

  “Everything—I loved everything,” she says, her voice almost wild. “She was smart and beautiful and fun. She had money and friends and a family that loved her so much, they couldn’t bear her loss. She could do no wrong in the eyes of the world.”

  “No,” I hear myself saying, as if from afar. “That’s not true.”

  “It is true, and you know it,” Jane insists. “Ask anyone about her, and they’ll tell you the same thing.”

  I know they will—which is why I find myself holding the gun steady now. “She might have been all those things, but you didn’t love her for it, did you? You hated her.”

  Jane starts, but she doesn’t take a step.

  “You hate her just as much as Tara does. Except she’s willing to admit it.”

  “I never hated her!” Jane cries, but there’s a feral look in her eyes—that of a trapped animal. A jaguar. “And I don’t hate you, either. All you have to do is let me go, and I’ll help clean this up for you. No one has to know you were involved.”

  “But I am involved,” I say, seeing things clearly for the first time. “I did this. I pulled a team of mismatched people together, I orchestrated a heist in one of the most-watched museums in New York, and I broke dozens of laws to do it. And I’d do it all again in an instant. Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because it’s who I am.”

  And there it is, the reality of it all. I’m a woman who makes mistakes. I’m a woman who strives to do her best every day—sometimes with good results, sometimes with catastrophic ones. I’m a woman who’s deeply, irreversibly flawed, and who deserves to be loved in spite of it.

  Who deserves to be loved because of it.

  “I’m not perfect,” I say and lower my gun a fraction. “And it’s ridiculous to assume that anyone is. Even you, Jane. Even my mom.”

  “Are you letting me go?” Jane asks, seeing only the gun going down.

  “Yes, but I doubt you’ll get very far.” I nod my head behind her, where my reinforcements have finally arrived. “I think it’s time I handed this over to the real professionals.”

  * * *

  I’ve never been present at an arrest before.

  Well, that’s not true—I’ve been at lots of arrests, including that of my father and a few of my own when I was a teenager. It would be more accurate to say I’ve never stood on the side of the good guys, watching as someone I helped catch is carted away.

  I can’t say it feels very good. Especially since, when it comes down to it, the only thing separating me from Jane Bartlett is timing.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Simon says in a voice of proud authority as he slaps a pair of handcuffs on Jane. He walks her toward the car that’s pulled up to escort her back to the FBI building, in his element as he continues reciting her rights.

  She’s going to need them. They found the diamond necklace smuggled under her fifties-style dress. The pouf was perfect for hiding the telltale bulge of those diamond spikes.

  “He loves this part, doesn’t he?” I ask Christopher, who’s standing beside me.

  He arrived only a few seconds after Simon did, the pair of them working together to create as much of a scene as possible. I thought, at first, that they were playing up the theatrics because they couldn’t help themselves, but it turns out they were trying to give the rest of the team—Riker and Jordan and Cheryl and Mariah and Oz—enough time to clear away evidence of our involvement.

  As far as the authorities are going to be concerned, this was a takedown orchestrated and pulled off entirely by Simon, with a little help from Christopher and me. No need for everyone to get put on another watch list.

  “Every agent loves this part,” Christopher says ruefully. “Some of us don’t get as many opportunities to do it, that’s all. He’s lucky.”

  “Maybe you should stop shooting innocent men, and then you’ll get a turn.”

  He winces, frowning heavily.

  I wince, too. He just spent the past half hour trying to explain my innocence to a group of very angry, very incredulous security guards. He did a good job, too, stalling them long enough for me to get away and catch the real culprit. I could be more generous with him.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Too soon?”

  He holds up his fingers in the approximation of an inch.

  “What will happen to her?” I ask.

  “My guess?” He shrugs. “She’ll use her connections and position to try and cut a deal. The high profile ones always do.”

  “Will that work?”

  He levels me with a careful stare. “That depends. Do you want it to work?”

  I’m startled by the question, as I seem like the least relevant part of the judicial process. I was instrumental in laying an underhanded plot to catch her, obviously, but that doesn’t make me qualified to don a robe and carry a gavel. I think.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with me, does it?” I ask.

  “She’s your friend. I might not have my badge right now, but I’m not without connections. And neither, might I add, is your husband.”

  As I watch Jane being led away, her head held proud, I wonder if letting her go would be the worst thing in the world.

  “I thought you were going to be different, Penelope,” she says when she sees me watching her. “But you’re just as bad she was.”

  For a moment, I think she’s talking about Tara, but she continues. “She acted the same way when I took that dress from Bergdorf’s. I was only borrowing it, like I said. I was going to give it back.”

  It takes me a moment to place her confession, but then I remember. A fight about something stupid, a dress I borrowed and didn’t return, and that was the last I ever saw of her.

  “For a lousy thief, you sure are uptight when other people steal things,” she says. “I take back what I said before—I did hate her—and you.”

  Only half of her spiteful words have any impact on me. “I am not a lousy thief,” I declare hotly. “I’m a very good one.”

  Next to me, Christopher chokes on a laugh.

  I turn to him with a shake of my head. “She’s not my friend. Don’t intervene on my behalf.”

  “I won’t.” He hesitates before putting an awkward hand on my shoulder. “Um, and for what it’s worth, I think she’s wrong. That was a hell of a heist you pulled off tonight.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Thank you for helping me in the museum,” I say. “And for protecting me when the guards came in. You didn’t have to do that—especially since I’m pretty sure you’ve had me fingered as the Peep-Toe Prowler for a while now.”

  A blossom of red covers his face. “Yes, well. Maybe a little.”

  “Was it Millie Ralph’s that convinced you?” I ask.<
br />
  “You were leaving the scene on foot.”

  “And you were fleeing by car! What were you doing on the Upper East Side anyway?”

  He shrugs again. “An old friend of my mom’s lives around there. He helps me out from time to time.”

  “Oh.” I want to ask more, but it seems like a touchy subject, so I don’t. “One thing I’m confused about, though—if you thought I was the Peep-Toe Prowler, why were you helping me steal the necklace?”

  He shrugs. “I knew you were going after it with or without me. Shooting Grant in the back was an accident—I swear it on my life—and I know it will be hard for him to overlook that. But if he found out I let you come to any harm while he’s in recovery? I doubt he could see his way past that one.”

  That is so sweet and so misguided, I almost tear up. “You would have helped me get away with the theft of a ten-million-dollar necklace just to get on Grant’s good side?”

  “Yeah, basically.”

  “Wow. I don’t know what that man has done to earn such undying loyalty from you, but I’m glad.” I turn to him with my hand outstretched. “Thank you, Christopher. I mean it. For being my date tonight, for helping me almost steal a necklace, and for being so nice to me now. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you, but—”

  “Convince Grant to see me.”

  The request comes so rapidly, it takes me a moment to process it. I drop my hand. “I’m sorry?”

  “One meeting, a few minutes at most. That’s all I need.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Remember when I said I had something I wanted to say, that I haven’t been up-front with you?”

  “Ye-es. And then I made you break into the second floor of the museum and play with lasers, so we didn’t get to it.”

  He’s too distracted by his own confession to smile, which is saying a lot. That was pretty funny.

  “I told you that after my mother died, I didn’t have anyone. Well, that’s not strictly true. I have a father out there somewhere, but more importantly than that, I have the son he bore from a previous marriage. I have a half brother.” He takes a deep breath and points those oh-so-familiar eyes right at me. “I have Grant.”

  34

  GRANT

  There is nothing more agonizing than being stuck in a bed while your wife risks life and limb.

  I don’t care about the Peep-Toe Prowler. I don’t even care about my career. I’d trade both if she would enter this hospital room and tease me about being a surly beast of a man who doesn’t deserve the bed linen he’s lying on.

  “She said she’ll be here in an hour,” my mother says in the maddening voice she’s been using the whole time she’s had watch over my room. No jailer has ever been more dedicated to her task. “It’s been thirty-eight minutes. Calm down.”

  “I am calm,” I say calmly. My heart monitor spikes with a loud beep, which only serves to irritate me further.

  Please. I’m not going to die. As long as I remain married to Penelope Blue, I don’t have that luxury.

  “Knock, knock,” a singsong voice at the door calls.

  I turn at the sound of that voice and try to rise out of bed before my body reminds me that sitting up is not a smart move. The ever-present dull ache turns into a slice of metal gutting me from the inside out.

  “It’s about goddamned time,” I say, the pain turning my voice hoarse. “Where have you been?”

  As soon as I catch sight of her, I realize what a stupid question that is.

  I’ve seen my wife dressed up before, of course. We’ve been married twice, and she gave herself up to the demands of fashion both times—but those were demure, appropriate gowns. Whatever concoction she’s got on now is a tantalizing mixture of skin and fabric, her waist and back exposed, one leg visible all the way up to the thigh.

  She looks as if she’s been to war and back, too, which has always been a good look on her. Her hair must have been up at one point, but wisps of it frame her face in what can only be termed a rat’s nest. She’s exhausted, her eye makeup is smeared, and her bare feet are almost black on the bottom.

  She’s fucking gorgeous, and I’ve never been so happy to see her in my life.

  “Penelope,” I manage.

  “Get back in that bed,” she commands, entering the room with a sweep of her long red dress. “You look like hell.”

  “I look like hell because that’s where I am. You spend two days wondering where your wife is and what she’s doing while your warden of a mom keeps watch, and—”

  “Hey, I’m sitting right here.”

  “I know. You haven’t let me forget it once.”

  My mom rises to her feet, picking up the stack of gossip magazines she’s taken to reading aloud to me as torture, and sighs. “That’s gratitude for you. Honestly, Penelope, I don’t know how you put up with him. You’re an angel for taking on the task, I’ll give you that much.” She smiles in her maddeningly knowing way. “I’ll give you some privacy. You two look like you could use it.”

  She makes it as far as the door before she stops. “You’re back, too, huh? Good luck.”

  Craning my neck, I look around my wife and mother to see who she’s talking to. At first, he’s nothing more than a shadow, and I think it’s yet another doctor coming to check on me. But the man in the tattered tuxedo is no doctor.

  “Get him out of here,” I snap.

  “Grant, before you go crazy—”

  I cut Penelope off. “Out. I want him out. I don’t want to see his face, I don’t want to hear his voice, I don’t…” I’m suddenly hit with the sight of them standing side by side. Both in formal wear.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Grant, Christopher has a few things he wants to say to you, and I promised him you’d listen.”

  “Penelope…”

  “I promised.” She sits on the edge of my bed, and simply having her near me—smelling her, feeling her reassuring weight, knowing she isn’t dead or gone or giving me up as a lost cause—is enough to make me offer her the world. “He saved me tonight, in case you were wondering. He’s not what we thought him to be. Be nice, okay?”

  She leans down and presses a kiss on my forehead. It’s not the most sensual kiss we’ve shared, not by a long shot, but I don’t know when I’ve ever felt more moved by her presence—by soft lips, firm pressure, the potential for so much more.

  Please let there be more.

  “I’ll be nice,” I say gruffly.

  “Really nice,” she bargains. Always, she bargains.

  “I’ll be really nice,” I promise. Always, I promise.

  “Okay. I’ll come and see you when he’s done.”

  I want to hold on to her hand and beg her to stay, but I can’t—not while that traitorous bastard is present—so once again, I have to watch her go. Understandably, this doesn’t leave me in the greatest of moods.

  “This had better be good,” I say with a snarl. Maybe too fierce of a snarl, if Christopher’s expression is anything to go by. But he doesn’t run, and he doesn’t cower, and maybe my esteem goes up the slightest bit because of it.

  “It’s not. At least, I doubt you’ll think so.” Christopher lifts his lips in an attempt at a smile, but when I don’t return the gesture, he stops. “The good news is that thanks to your wife, we caught the Peep-Toe Prowler tonight.”

  I’m on my feet before I know what I’m doing. “What?”

  A hot blade runs through me. I make it farther out of that bed than I have in days, but at the small cost of my dignity. Doubled over, sure I ripped open every last stitch, it takes Christopher damn near lifting me off the ground and hauling me back into the bed to get me settled. Even then, I have to take the glass of water he offers me, forcing sips down my throat to even my breathing, before I’m able to remember where I am or how I got here.

  “Sorry,” h
e says. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

  “Of all the shit you’ve pulled, that’s what you’re sorry for?”

  He takes a seat on the chair recently vacated by my mom, his body falling to the vinyl with a heavy whump.

  “I’m sorry for everything,” he says, eyeing me to make sure I’m not going to make another attempt to get out of bed and throttle him. “But it’ll probably be better for us both if you wait until the end to get mad.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say dryly. “And only because my wife asked me to.”

  “Thank you,” he says without irony and proceeds to tell me of the evening’s activities.

  It’s difficult for me to know which part of his tale enrages me the most—my wife putting herself in the worst possible position for exposure and danger, or my friends for aiding and abetting her. I knew bringing Mariah into the mix came with risks, but Cheryl? Simon? We’re going to have some serious talks later.

  “And you managed to keep her out of the whole thing, you and Sterling?” I ask when he’s done, sounding more anxious than I care to admit. “There’s no reason for the FBI to assume it was anything but careful work between the two of you?”

  “We can’t guarantee that Jane Bartlett won’t try and bring her into it, but Simon is taking steps to ensure her cooperation. As far as everyone else knows, we’re the sole heroes of the day. There’s even a chance I might get reinstated.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “I know you have no reason to believe me, but the shot was an accident. I saw Penelope fleeing the crime scene earlier that day. I covered her tracks the way I’ve been doing this whole time, but when you said there was a video feed—”

  I shake my head as if to clear it. “Wait, what?”

  “Covering her tracks. Making sure the evidence was blurred before you got to it. I realize now that I should’ve taken your word for it that Penelope wasn’t involved, but—”

  “That’s why you kept messing up my crime scenes?”

  His gaze doesn’t meet mine. “All signs pointed to her, Emerson—for this and several other crimes. Lots of people at the Bureau still believe her to be active.”