Jewel thieves want it really, really bad.
Christopher’s brow furrows in concern. “She’s not saying anything. Why isn’t she saying anything?”
“Give her a moment.” Grant leans back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. “She’ll come around.”
I do, too, but it takes me a minute. An offer like the Luxor Tiara doesn’t come around every day.
“I don’t understand,” I say as soon as my faculties are back online. “The ownership of that tiara has been contested for decades. How can it legally be up for grabs?”
“Legally, it’s not.” Simon’s tightly pinched nostrils indicate his continued disdain for all things underhanded and shady. “But the man currently in possession of it—a smuggler by the name of Peter Sanchez—doesn’t care. The cruise departs from Cuba and sticks to international waters from there on out, so no one has any jurisdiction to stop him.”
“Not that we want to stop him, anyway,” Grant puts in. “All we want is to find Johnny Francis and bring him in for a chat. No one is going to get in trouble, and no one is going to get arrested. I’ll be there merely as a player and an observant. There will be no physical strain whatsoever. In fact, it’s practically a vacation.”
Despite my reservations—of which I have many—I’m starting to get excited. I’ve seen my husband play poker before, and he’s not half bad.
“If you win, will you get to bring home the tiara?” I ask.
“Er, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says with an apologetic air. “Convincing the government to lay out a million dollars for this was no easy task. They’ll claim any of my winnings.”
“Stupid greedy government,” I mutter. And then, after a few greedy calculations of my own, “Wait—at a million a player, it’ll only take, like, twenty entrants for this Peter guy to get the full value of the tiara. How many people will be there?”
“We estimate around fifty players total, not counting the five hundred or so additional guests and crew,” Grant says. “That’s the reason we’re asking for your assistance. I can’t realistically sift through that many people on my own in just one week, especially since I’ll have to play in the poker game to protect my cover.”
“And you can’t bring Simon?”
“You think Simon could blend in with that crowd?” Grant asks with a laugh. Simon just shrugs; we all know it’s true. “It’s too risky to bring anyone else. It’s too risky to bring you, but I don’t see what other choice I have. It’s you or no one, Penelope. You’re all I’ve got.”
His words hit me exactly where they’re meant to—right in the heart. I can count the number of times Grant has asked me for help on two fingers. He’s not the kind of man who likes to show his weaknesses, as today’s events have proven, and he’s especially not the kind of man who likes to ask his wife for help in protecting them. In fact, not too long ago, he was the one trying his damnedest to take care of me.
“If I say no, will you still go without me?” I ask.
Grant’s dark eyes lock onto mine. “Yes. I have to. It’s my best chance of finding this guy. My fake identity should hold no matter what, but…”
I don’t need him to finish. If it doesn’t hold and he’s trapped out in the middle of the ocean with a blown cover and a weakened body, there’s no saying what will happen.
No. Scratch that. There is saying what will happen. I might not know who this Johnny Francis guy is, but I do know what men like him are capable of. If my husband isn’t killed outright, then he’ll be tossed in some dark, dank hold and tortured until he reveals everything. I wasn’t kidding when I said that criminals don’t take lightly to being duped by federal agents. Torture would be the least of his worries.
The dizzy feeling returns, although this time, it’s accompanied by a surge of excitement strong enough to have me gripping the edge of the table to balance myself.
“This is a terrible position to put me in, and you know it,” I say.
“We’re sorry,” Grant says. Of the three men he’s apologizing for, I’m sure he’s the most sincere. “It’s not ideal to spring this on you at the last minute, but we didn’t think the plan would get approved. We’re as surprised as you are—apparently, Major Thefts is only one of several departments interested in Johnny.”
“Then why can’t another department send someone in?” I ask.
“Because,” he says simply, “we’re the only department that has you.”
Oh, dear. Arguments don’t get much more compelling than that.
“Besides, you did say you wanted to be more involved at work,” he adds. “It doesn’t get much more involved than this.”
Nor, to be perfectly honest, does it get much better. Despite the dangers, this undercover plot has all my favorite things—intrigue and diamonds and my friends and family gathered under one roof. This kind of job is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to take on when I first joined the FBI. There’s been a lot less action and a lot more sitting behind a desk than I was hoping for.
“Fine,” I say, and sigh. “But I want it stated for the record that I’m only agreeing under extreme duress.”
“Noted.”
“Also, I’m not going as some stupid spectator. I’m playing in that poker game—and if I win, I’m keeping the tiara.”
“That’s a pretty big if.” Now that he knows he’s hooked me, the smiling crinkles around his eyes come out in full force. “The last time we played poker, I beat the pants off you.”
He means that literally. He beat the pants off me, as well as my shirt, my bra, a lacy wisp of underwear… You get the idea.
“Yeah, but that’s because I let you,” I reply with a mild flush at the memory. I think I can safely say we both won that particular poker game. “And I can’t speak on behalf of Riker or Jordan or Oz. The decision of whether or not they want to participate is entirely up to them, especially since Riker…”
My husband winces an apology. What I didn’t say, what I don’t need to say, is that Riker and games of chance aren’t the best mix. He’s been doing really well with his gambling addiction recently, but this kind of temptation won’t be easy.
“This mission is strictly voluntary. If he feels he’s not up for it, all you have to do is say the word.” Grant rises to his feet in a single, authoritative movement, his hand extended across the table to where I sit. Unless you’re looking for it, it’s impossible to see the way he favors his right side. “Do we have a deal?”
“You’re a sneaky, underhanded, manipulative bastard, you know that?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I slip my hand into his, the familiar warmth of his grip almost enough to make me forget how angry I am at him for putting me in this position in the first place. Almost.
“I don’t like it, but I’ll do it,” I say. “And only because our life insurance policy doesn’t cover acts of supreme idiocy.”
“Only for that?” he asks with one lift of the brow.
Okay, and for a once-in-a-lifetime glimpse at the Luxor Tiara. But I refuse to give any of these men the satisfaction of hearing me say so out loud.
3
THE SUPPORT
As usual, I’m the last to know about anything and everything even remotely cool.
“Um, Riker?” I ask. “Why are you wearing a wetsuit in the middle of your living room? I swear, if this is a kinky sex thing, I’m walking out the door and never coming back. Not even if you catch on fire.”
Riker, who is not only wearing a wetsuit but also has a swimming mask over his eyes and flippers on his feet, turns to me and grins. Well, he grins as much as a person can grin with a snorkel shoved into his mouth, but the idea is the same.
I scan his apartment for signs of further deviation—namely Tara Lewis, the woman he’s been seeing for the last few months—but he appears to be alone, thank goodness. Not that
I’m complaining about his social life. Far from it. I might consider dating my blond bombshell of a stepmother one small step above stabbing forks in my eyes, but she’s been weirdly good for him. I think it’s because they both like to complain about the same things: honesty, legally earned income, me.
“Wait a minute. If this isn’t a sex thing…” I whirl back to him, the snorkel suddenly making perfect sense. “Oh, my God. You’re getting ready to go to the Caribbean. You’re getting ready to go to the Caribbean on a gambling cruise, and you weren’t going to invite me.”
He pulls the mask down from his eyes, leaving a ring of red around his forehead. It makes him look demented but not contrite.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “Would you like to uproot your life for the next seven days and go on an illegal vacation with me? I won’t tell your husband if you don’t.”
I glare. “Yes, actually, I’d love to. In fact, I was on my way home to start packing, but I needed to stop here and invite you first. That’s what friends do. They tell each other when they plan glamorous criminal adventures.”
“Wait—seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.” I pause. “Well, I’m serious about the going home to pack part. And about the inviting you part—but it’s not because I’m your friend. I’m here as an ambassador of the FBI.”
Riker seems to recognize how ridiculous it is to hold this conversation while wearing flippers, because he reaches down to unsecure his feet. He also zips his wetsuit halfway open to reveal the smooth, hard lines of his chest. What my stepmother sees in that flat, hairless musculature is beyond me.
Well, that’s not fair. There was a time, many years ago, when Riker and I were more than friends, and I seemed to like his flat, hairless musculature just fine then. And if I’m being honest, he’s filled out considerably since we were younger—there are dips and swells and honest-to-god shadows peeking out from the folds of his wetsuit. The problem is that in comparison to the hard wall of a chest I get to sleep with every night, there’s no contest.
Poor mankind. With guys like Grant in this world, no one else stands a chance.
“They can’t arrest me for playing in a private tournament,” Riker says in a defensive tone. “Not unless they arrest all the other people who will be playing. And the FBI has no jurisdiction over me outside the United States—I checked. They’d have to bring in the CIA or Interpol, and I haven’t done anything to warrant their interest in at least a decade.”
It’s in my power to reassure him that he’s not in any trouble, but I’m pleased to see that he’s still capable of showing remorse, so I don’t. This trip is a bad idea for more reasons than I care to count, but as far as Riker is concerned, there’s only one worth noting.
“Riker,” I say.
“Pen,” he returns flatly.
“Gambling?”
“It’s just one poker game.”
“It’s always just one poker game.”
He lifts his chin in a belligerent angle. “You said that money was mine to do what I want with. No strings, no rules. This is starting to feel an awful lot like strings and rules.”
The money he’s talking about is a bus locker full of cash I saved up from my pre-Grant days. My half is still carefully tucked in hiding—and a good thing, too, with all these new expenses looming—but I gave Riker his share a few months ago along with the promise that I wouldn’t interfere in his life anymore.
Stupid promises. Between Riker and Grant, all I seem to be doing these days is the exact opposite of what my instincts urge.
“Well?” he asks. “Go ahead. Tell me how stupid I am, how I’m fucking up my life and you won’t always be there to bail me out. I’ll wait.”
I sigh instead. As much as I might want to fall back into the roles of our youth—a fierce, bickering loyalty that was sometimes the sole thing keeping us alive—I’ve recently learned better. We’re semi-functional adults with our own semi-functional adult lives, and that means backing off sometimes.
“At least this one requires you to pay your full entrance fee up front,” I say, resigned. “One million all in, right? Do you need any help with it?”
“Between what you gave me and a few odd jobs Jordan and I picked up, I’ve got it covered.” He eyes me askance, as if waiting for the catch. “You aren’t mad?”
“Of course I’m mad. I’m furious. I spent the better part of twelve years trying to keep you away from this exact situation.” I don’t give him a chance to argue. “Is Tara going?”
Now he’s really starting to look at me with suspicion. “Ye-es. She’s the one who told me about the game in the first place. She’s playing, too, in case you’re wondering.”
Of course she is. Tara would never pass up a chance to win that tiara. She’s the one person in this world who might be even more diamond-crazy than I am—and she’ll wear it, which is the funny thing. If given a chance, she’ll place that goddamn crown on top of her platinum locks and go grocery shopping in it.
She could totally pull it off, too.
“I’m glad,” I say, and mean it. Not only is Tara way more effective than me at keeping Riker out of trouble, but more bodies on our side means more support for Grant. Together, we might—might—be able to get him out of there alive. “That makes you, me, Tara, and my dad at the tables—and hopefully Oz and Jordan, though they’ll probably come as spectators.”
Riker cracks a laugh. “You’re playing poker? Against that crowd? Pen, you’ll be out in five minutes. No, scratch that. Four minutes. You might as well throw your money from the top of the Empire State Building and watch it float away.”
Irritation pricks at the base of my spine, causing me to straighten. “Please. I can play poker. It’s not like it’s hard. All you have to do is match the colors and shapes.”
He groans, passing a hand over his eyes. “Colors and shapes? For fuck’s sake. You’re going to make me a laughingstock.”
I ignore him. “There’s also the luck of the draw, which I’ve always been better at that than you.”
That’s true, and Riker knows it. Even though his best bet would be to lay off gambling for good, there’s something to his infallible belief that the luck will turn his way, if only he keeps playing. By law of averages, it has to. No one has worse luck when it comes to a bad run. I saw a man once bet Riker that he couldn’t roll a single seven out of thirty throws of the dice—something he later said was so rare it was practically a statistical impossibility. But Riker somehow managed it.
And, I should note, almost lost his fingers in the process. It was a good thing I was carrying a bag of loose diamonds in my shoe at the time.
Riker opens his mouth to protest, but I stop him before he manages to inflate his lungs all the way. “I didn’t come to argue about my poker playing skills or lecture you about gambling,” I say. “I came to ask a favor. There’s one more friend of mine who plans to join the game.”
“Who? You don’t know anyone else.”
“I know Grant.”
It takes a second for that one to sink in, and Riker almost chokes once it does. “Grant is playing? As in, your law-abiding husband? As in, the man who brushes his teeth every morning in the reflection of his FBI badge?”
“Yes. He’s going undercover.”
“Why?”
“To find a bad guy.”
“He’ll have plenty to choose from. Is this a general dragnet, or does he have someone specific in mind?”
“He’s after someone named Johnny Francis. Have you heard of him?”
Instead of answering me like a normal human being, Riker just laughs.
“Are you finished?” I ask after a full twenty seconds of his unchecked mirth. He’s going to give himself an aneurism.
“Almost.” He draws a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I thought I heard you say Grant is going to try and find Johnny Fran
cis.”
“I didn’t.”
“Okay, phew. He’d have better luck finding Jimmy Hoffa wrapped up in Amelia Earhart’s skeletal embrace.”
“I didn’t say he was going to try. I said he was going to do it.” I pause. “And we’re going to help him.”
He stares at me, unblinking. “I think maybe you should start this one from the beginning, Pen.”
So I do. I do a good job of it, too, only voicing my displeasure over the plan twice. Two and a half, if you count that aside about all the stupid men in my life and their stupid inability to recognize a bad idea when it’s staring them in the face.
As soon as I’m done, Riker’s laughter is nowhere in sight. “You weren’t kidding, were you?” he asks, letting out a low whistle. I can tell from the sound of it that he’s as intrigued by this plan as I am. “It’s a hell of a stretch, but never let it be said that I denied a man his chance at beating the long odds. I don’t know what makes the FBI think I’m going to be any help, though. I’ve never met Johnny Francis—never even been in the same city as him, as far as I can tell. I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup.”
“Me either, but the alternative is for Grant to go in without any kind of backup. They can’t get any other agents on board without drawing suspicion, so we’re taking the place of his usual support team. Oz can provide technical assistance, I’m sure Jordan could manufacture a bomb out of her dinner should the need arise, and you and I can sneak around behind the scenes. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than sending him in solo.”
Of course, that’s half the story. The other half is a much darker, much less pleasant tale.
“You know what these guys are like,” I say, unable to keep the quaver from my voice. “You know what they’re capable of when they’ve been crossed. What do you think is going to happen to him if he’s discovered out there on his own?”
Broken kneecaps. Dismemberment. The complete and methodical takedown of everyone he holds dear. Riker has been on the receiving end of these kinds of threats far too often not to recognize how much danger Grant will be in the second he boards the Shady Lady.
Saving Mr. Perfect Page 35
