Jordan waits until the back of Hijack’s shorn head disappears around a corner before turning to me with one carefully raised brow. “Well, that certainly was interesting.”
That’s Jordan for you—always discreet.
“If by interesting you mean a big problem, then, yes, it was.” I sigh. I’m going to have a hard enough time lying to strangers. Lying to my ex-boyfriend? That’s a whole different level of complicated. “Why did you agree to dinner?”
“Because we have to eat. Besides—if you’re going to know every single person on this boat, we’ll find you-know-who in no time. All you have to do is cross off the names of everyone you’re related to, have helped commit a crime, and/or slept with. That’s half of them right there.”
“I can’t help it if I’m criminal royalty,” I tease, but a nagging worry settles in the pit of my stomach. The idea was to keep our heads down and our profiles low. Hijack isn’t exactly a low-profile sort of guy.
He’s also not a very helpful one. After all his smooth words, he never actually lifted a suitcase and made good on his offer. Jordan and I are left alone to hoist my bags and head in the direction of the elevators, pushing past people who don’t take kindly to being jostled, well-versed as they are in the habits of pickpockets.
On the way, I notice and am noticed by three more familiar faces—two bruisers who have worked with my father before and a woman I recognize as Riker’s favorite fence—and that nagging worry hardens into a rock.
I might not be criminal royalty, but I am a lot more recognizable than I realized. These are people I know, people who know me back, people who would never forgive me if they find out my federal agent husband is lying in wait somewhere on this ship. We’re playing a dangerous game here, and I don’t mean poker.
Oh, how times have changed since my carefree Hijack days.
6
THE SURVEY
Being descended from one of the world’s most successful jewel thieves sure does come in handy sometimes.
No sooner does Jordan leave me at the door of my stateroom than I find myself facing what has to be the most luxurious six hundred square feet I’ve ever seen. Enough of my life has been spent residing in hotel rooms that I’m fully aware of how many creature comforts can be packed into a small space, but the Shady Lady architects outdid themselves.
As soon I set foot inside, I notice the foyer is divided into two neat halves. One side is taken up with a living room done up in white and beige—admittedly not my favorite shades, but understandable when set against the floor-to-ceiling glass doors at the back, where the ocean provides a dazzling burst of color. The second half of the stateroom is a bedroom, complete with a king-size bed that stretches forever and—oh, how magnificent—a bathroom with a marble whirlpool tub. I’m not normally one for long soaks, but there’s something about that cool slab of white stone that calls to me. My proposed nap, which sounded so heavenly before, pales in comparison to the idea of submerging myself in water and refusing to come out until I’m shiny and new again.
“Thank you, dear Dad, for being so formidable and rich,” I say as I head toward that bathtub. I’m pretty sure I have the person on the other side of the adjoining door leading out of the living room to thank for the extravagance of my current surroundings. Little old Penelope Blue might warrant a window—and maybe she could manage to finagle an extra bar of soap in the shower—but this full royal treatment isn’t something people extend my direction very often. Nor am I averse to taking advantage of it when I can.
The tub is a quarter of the way filled and I’m out of my clothes when I hear a knock at the door.
“Go away!” I call. The running water must muffle my voice, because the knock sounds again. “I mean it. I’m busy!”
“It’s room service,” comes the equally muffled reply. They’re the sole three words in the English language—with the possible exception of Grant needs you—that could get me to abandon those enticing wisps of steam. With a half-hearted grumble, I shove my arms into the provided robe and unlock the door.
But the only things on the other side are lies. Nothing but lies. And Tara.
“How dare you?” I accuse. “You don’t have any food.”
“I got you to open the door, didn’t it?” she asks as she pushes past me. Like Jordan, she’s dressed to impress, her short, tennis-style dress ideal for giving the impression of wealth and athleticism. Or so I assume. I mostly see the back of it as she takes a survey of my new digs.
“Well done, Pen,” she says with a whistle. “This room is incredible.”
“Gee, thanks. Why don’t you make yourself at home?”
My stepmother casually ignores me, as she almost always does, opening closet doors and helping herself to a sparkling water from the minibar. “Our room is half the size and doesn’t have nearly the same view—your dad must have pulled some heavy-duty strings to get you in here. Is that what you’re planning on wearing?”
I cinch my robe tighter. It’s soft and white and I fully intend to smuggle it out of here as soon as the cruise is over. “Yes. I was just about to take a bath.”
“No, you’re not. Put something else on. Something pretty. You look like a crazy cat lady who spent the night with her head under a sink.”
Honestly, this is just getting cruel now. “I don’t look that bad! I swear, between you, Jordan, and my dad, I’m developing a complex.”
Instead of taking back the insult, she purses her brightly painted red lips and tries not to look at the door leading to the adjoining stateroom.
“When a man like your father is moved to comment on your state of dress, it’s time to take action.” She hesitates, and I can tell from the way not a single muscle in her face twitches that it’s a calculated pause. “Is he in there right now?”
“My dad? I don’t know.” Nor am I sure I care to be having this conversation with her. “I doubt he and I are going to be doing much in the way of bonding on this vacation. He thinks I cramp his style.”
“You cramp everyone’s style.”
Surviving the world’s youngest—and most beautiful—stepmother requires a thick skin, and I like to think I’ve developed a good one. Still, her words needle me more than usual. Once upon a time, before I got all straight and narrow and worried about Grant, I was considered the fun one of the group. I swear.
“Why do you care what my dad’s doing, anyway?” I say. “You’re supposed to be vacationing with Riker.”
Her pursed lips pull down in a frown, the expression so brief that had I blinked, I would have missed it. But I didn’t blink, and I didn’t miss it, and I don’t like it. There’s something more going on here than a pair of estranged spouses taking separate vacations on the same thirty-thousand-ton pleasure cruise. Something a lot more—take it from a woman who knows what it’s like to be in a constant battle of one-upmanship with her husband.
“Tara…” I begin, but her rare unguarded moment is over. She opens my hard-shell case in the middle of the living room and pulls out one of the outfits she let me borrow for the trip. It’s an orange romper that looks halfway comfortable, which is rare for one of Tara’s loaners. Most of them are made of Lycra.
“Put this on.”
I look longingly back at my tub. It’s no longer steaming. “But I was hoping to unwind before dinner.”
“Too bad. You and I have work to do.”
“Real work, or you-want-to-scope-out-the-competition-and-need-me-to-go-with-you work?”
“Both.” She tosses the romper at me. “There was a message in my towel swan. His Majesty would like us to make a survey of the boat’s layout and commit it to memory.”
She loses me at towel swan.
“On the bed,” she says. “Or didn’t you notice?”
I shake my head. “I was too blinded by the luxury of my surroundings.”
With a muttered “
brat,” Tara heads toward the bedroom, returning with a white bundle in her arms. From the looks of it, that’s no swan—I think it might be a frog—but the idea is the same. The terrycloth has been twisted to resemble a creature that, when unfolded, regurgitates a slip of paper covered in my husband’s signature scrawl.
Go over the boat with Riker and memorize every last inch, especially hiding places and emergency exits. And lifeboats. Always lifeboats.
Aw, how sweet. Grant’s been dwelling on the Titanic metaphors too.
“It’s pretty genius if you think about it,” Tara says as she leans in and reads the note, oblivious to a little thing called privacy. “No one will think to look for messages in the towel animals. I had no idea Oz was so talented.”
“Me either, but how am I supposed to respond? By folding my bras into monkeys?”
“That’s what I intend to do,” she says breezily—and unhelpfully, I might add. What if I have an emergency? What if I have information that will save Grant’s life? An army of towel animals won’t save him then.
“You’ll want to destroy that note so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands,” she adds, and stands there watching me until I make an effort to do so. My instinct—composed, admittedly, of spy movies and cartoons—tells me to shove it in my mouth and swallow, but I end up ripping it into pieces and flushing them down the toilet instead.
Since bath time looks to be out of the question, I drain the tub and follow Tara’s orders to get dressed. The sleeveless top and loose shorts combo is as comfortable as it looks, and there’s something to be said about the simple elegance of it. Especially when Tara commands me to bow my head and clasps a chunky gold necklace around my neck before loosely ruffling my hair around my shoulders. The woman knows fashion, there’s no doubt about that, but she also knows me. In a matter of seconds, I go from street rat to swanky cat burglar—no complicated undergarments required.
“There. Now you’re fit to be seen in public with me.”
“How generous of you,” I say dryly. “How come you’re the one coming with me, anyway? The note says I should go with Riker.”
“No real reason. Riker had other things to do.” She moves toward the door, ready to embark on our mission, but I don’t follow right away. It’s an action she interprets with alarming accuracy. “Don’t worry. I didn’t throw him to the loan sharks just yet. He wanted to go over the passenger list to see who else might be playing in the tournament, so I flirted with the captain and stole a copy. I figured it might also help in the search for Johnny Francis.”
“Oh.” I blink at her. “That was good thinking.”
A toss of her hair is the only acknowledgment she gives of my compliment. Tara would kill anyone who said so out loud, but underneath her sex kitten exterior lies a heart that might not be made of gold, but is certainly plated in it. Even though it’s the last thing she wants, I can’t help but let her know how much I appreciate it—her willingness to take care of Riker, to support Grant’s mission, to put herself out there for no reason other than it being the right thing to do. There aren’t a lot of kind-of-but-not-really-a-stepmothers out there who would do the same. I place my hand on her arm and give it a gentle squeeze.
“You’re good for him,” I say. “And for me. Thank you for doing all this.”
“Don’t be so sappy, Pen. I didn’t come down here to chat about your feelings.” She shudders over the word feelings, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “The sooner I fulfill my obligations and escort you around, the sooner I can focus on getting that tiara.”
“If all you want is to win the tiara, why are you helping me?” I ask. I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth—or in this case, a gift jewel thief in the eyes—but there’s no reason why I can’t make a survey of the ship on my own. “You don’t have to, you know. This was supposed to be your vacation. No one would think anything of it if you just ignored me and had your own fun.”
Instead of answering, she turns the question back on me. “You don’t have to be here, either,” she says. “Why are you?”
“Because he asked me to.” The answer is simple and springs immediately to my lips. There are few things in this world I wouldn’t do for my husband. “Besides—it’s not like I had much of a choice. He’s still not fully recovered, but he’ll be damned if he admits as much. You know how pigheaded he can be about these sorts of things.”
“Yes, I do, and it’s your own stupid fault. If you’d asked me before you got married, I would have told you that strong, willful men are rarely worth the effort.”
She’s unable to keep her gaze from the door leading to my father’s room as she says it. I’ve never really thought of my dad as the strong, willful sort before, but I know better than to doubt Tara’s judgment. Gauging diamond clarity and men’s deepest desires—her skill sets are very specific.
“We can go see if he’s in there,” I offer doubtfully.
For a moment, I think she’s going to take me up on it, but she gives a curt shake of her head. “Don’t be silly. How your father chooses to entertain himself is of no concern to me.”
The similarity of her words to my dad’s strikes me as uncanny, but she prevents me from saying so with a sharp, “And I’d like to state for the record—if you so much as spill a drop on that silk, you’re buying me a new romper.”
* * *
Overall, the Shady Lady isn’t a huge vessel, at least not when compared to those cruise ships that take tens of thousands of people on their dream vacations through busy tourist ports. Although the six hundred feet of length sets a more intimate backdrop for the guests, I’m happy to find that it still offers plenty of places to hide—not to mention a full squadron of lifeboats. I’m not sure what the Shady Lady is commissioned to do when she’s not being used as a floating casino, but for the time being, she’s more than doing her duty.
There are a total of ten floors, not including the sundeck at the very top. Most of them contain nothing more than row upon row of boring staterooms and utility closets, but a few are dedicated to pleasures of the flesh. Three separate dining rooms, a spa and hair salon, an enormous swimming pool surrounded by deck chairs, and even an outdoor gym with a running track make up the entertainment sector of the boat. There’s also a cabaret lounge taking up half of the fifth floor, but it’s closed off, so we aren’t able to sneak a peek inside.
“Do you think this is where they’re keeping the tiara?” I ask as Tara and I try a few of the doors to see if one has accidentally been left open. They haven’t, and I wouldn’t mind trying my hand at picking a lock or two, but there are several people milling around and doing some exploring of their own. “Or is there a safe or something where it’s being held?”
“There’s one good way to find out.” Tara casts a quick look around before discreetly shoving a hairpin in the lock.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. “Do you want to get us thrown off the boat before the game even starts?”
She ignores me. “Damn. These are really strong. Do you have a credit card on you?”
“Of course not.” I nudge her with my hip. “Would you please stop doing that? People are staring.”
She does stop, but with a sigh condemning my lack of nerve. “Don’t get mad at me for being indiscreet. I’m not the one they’re staring at. You are. Haven’t you noticed?”
I hadn’t, so I take a moment to glance around. Sure enough, several small groups of people slow down as they walk by, their voices dropping the closer they get.
“I bet they’re just admiring my outfit.” I cast a glance over my clothes to make sure everything is in order. “I do look pretty amazing, but this romper would be nicer if it had pockets. I always wonder why more women’s clothing doesn’t come with pockets. I’d be able to carry lots of credit cards for you then.”
“Most of us carry a purse for that exact reason, Pen. Same great features, much smoother silhouette
.” Her sigh this time is one of annoyance as she gives up on the lock picking. “I’ve never seen locks like these before—there’s no way I’m getting in today. I guess we’ll have to wait and see the cabaret lounge alongside everyone else. Did we miss anything on our tour?”
I shake my head, glad to call this particular job finished. Two hours spent crawling over a ship and memorizing its dark corners isn’t my idea of a good time. We even explored the bottom levels, which are mostly made up of staff accommodations and a gasoline-scented engine room I’d like to never visit again. Talk about confined places.
“No, I think we’re good.” I pause as a woman down the hallway lifts a finger and points at me, turning away just as quickly when she notices me watching.
Okay, this is getting weird. I think I preferred it when I was in cutoff shorts and everyone ignored me.
“You’re right,” I say in a low voice. “They are staring at me. Why?”
She lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “I don’t know. We’ve only been here a few hours. Did you make an enemy of someone already?”
“Not even I can work that quickly,” I say, though I can’t help feeling dread fill my stomach. They know. Word about Grant must have spread. They’re searching for the traitor in their midst, and all the towel swans in the world won’t be able to save him.
My rising sense of panic is cut short by a loud squeal from behind us. I turn, expecting to find a masked coalition coming to seize me, but all I find is a young woman staring at us with wide eyes and an expression of pure joy.
“What’s happening?” I ask Tara, grabbing her arm. “What did I do?”
“Omigod—it’s you, isn’t it? It’s really you?” The woman runs to greet me, stopping herself about two inches short of hitting me with a full-body slam. Not that her full body would do much damage. She looks to be in her late teens, her build rounder than mine but just as horizontally challenged. Rich, tawny skin and dark hair in single braid down her back give her an even more youthful appearance, especially when matched by the long-lashed eyes gazing up adoringly into my own. “You’re as pretty as I always imagined, but I had no idea you were so short. How tall are you? Five two? Five three?”
Saving Mr. Perfect Page 38
