Seeking Mr. Wrong

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Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 9

by Tamara Morgan


  “From the looks of you, that can’t have been too many years ago,” Peter says. “You’re a mere babe among grizzly old wolves.”

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Peter,” Grant puts in, all calm elegance across the table. It’s making me nervous. I mean, I know how good he can be at playing a role—we were married for a whole year before he stopped playing one with me—but I still don’t like it. “Never mistake youth for inexperience. These two might look like high school sweethearts, but something tells me they’ve seen more action than most of us can boast in a lifetime. How long have you two kids known each other?”

  Unaware of the fine line he’s treading, Hijack answers for us both. “Pen and me? We go way back. You could say she was my first love.”

  Grant doesn’t so much as twitch. “But not, I hope, the last?”

  “It’s too soon to say,” Hijack says with a laugh and another dangerous squeeze of my shoulder. “I get the feeling the answer to that might depend on whether I end up getting my hands on that tiara.”

  “Is that a fact? How interesting. I had no idea the lady’s affection could be so easily bought.”

  It seems a timely moment to intervene. “The lady is getting awfully tired of hearing herself spoken about in the third person, if you want her opinion. And for the record, the answer is no. My affection can’t be bought that easily. If I want a diamond, I’m perfectly capable of going out and taking it for myself.”

  Too late, I realize how that sounds.

  “Not that I’m going to take the Luxor, of course,” I say quickly, casting my stricken eyes Peter’s way. “I just mean in the general order of things.”

  “Don’t you worry on my account. I like a woman who shows initiative.” Peter drops his napkin to his plate and rises, ignoring my faux pas and making me all the more frightened of him because of it. “No, no, don’t get up. I have a few minor details to attend to before the game gets underway. Security has been a nightmare, as I’m sure you can imagine. You three enjoy yourselves. Mr. O’Kelly, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  Grant lifts his head in what I assume is a nod before Peter disappears into the night air. I’m a little jealous of his escape, actually. With just the three of us sitting here, there’s every chance our encounter is about to get even more awkward. Fortunately, Grant also makes a motion to depart.

  It’s only a motion, though. He rises to his feet, all six feet two inches of him looming over the table, and waits there. I’m so busy trying to make out the features of his face—difficult to read under any circumstances and almost impossible now—that I don’t notice right away he’s holding out his hand, waiting for me to take it in my own.

  Instinct warns me to play this cool and easy to avoid suspicion, which is why I’m so taken aback by how firmly he grips my hand, how deliberate he is as he helps me to my feet and once again drops a kiss to my fingers. Cool and easy are not the words I’d use to describe the intensity of his lips on my skin.

  Hot. Hard.

  “You’re looking much better for the fresh air,” he says. “Is there anything I can procure for you, anything you need to make your passage easier?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.” Hijack doesn’t move from his chair. Normally, being in a seated position puts a man at a disadvantage, but the way he has one ankle propped casually on the opposite knee exudes a kind of laid-back power that not even Grant’s impressive stature can suppress. “She’s in good hands.”

  “You’ve vastly relieved my mind,” Grant says in a flat tone and makes a slight bow. “Penelope. Hijack. It was a pleasure meeting you both. I look forward to facing you across the tables.”

  Somehow, I doubt the sincerity of that.

  Hijack waits until Grant’s dark form disappears the same way as Peter’s before releasing a low whistle. “Well, shit, Pen,” he says. “I always knew you’d done well for yourself, but I had no idea you were famous now.”

  My laugh is shaky. “I’m not famous, not really. Most of my notoriety is thanks to my dad.”

  “You’re the one sitting at Peter Sanchez’s dinner table, not him.”

  “So are you,” I point out. “Besides, people never used to treat me like this. It’s a recent development. You have to understand—my life is a lot different now that I have a father, a home. I’m not the scrappy delinquent you used to know.”

  “I’m beginning to see that.” He doesn’t attempt to rise, his head turned to me, watching carefully. Too carefully. “Who was that guy, by the way?”

  “The tall one? He said his name was Kit O’Kelly.”

  It’s not the answer Hijack is looking for, but it’s the only one I have that doesn’t give myself away, so it’ll have to do.

  “Yeah, I picked up that much,” he replies. Then, “I don’t trust him.”

  “I dunno. I kind of liked him.”

  Hijack chuffs a soft breath. “Of course you do. You like everyone. Peter Sanchez was right—you’re a babe among wolves.”

  First of all, I don’t like everyone—not even close. It took me over ten years to warm up to my stepmother, and I’m still not sure I’d save Simon from a burning building if it came down to a choice between him and virtually any other human being on the planet. Second, I don’t appreciate being treated like some frail wisp of a woman who doesn’t know what she’s doing. I might be small and I might be working for the FBI, but I can still out-steal every man on this boat—Hijack included.

  “I can handle myself, thanks,” I say tightly.

  “Are you sure about that? You’re an attractive, wealthy, well-connected jewel thief with a track record of success most of us only dream of. There are lots of men on this boat who might try to take advantage of that.”

  My spine stiffens at the implication—that I’m weak and vulnerable, that I can be corrupted by a handsome face and sleek manners. Please. If that was the case, I’d have knuckled under my husband’s iron will years ago.

  “You mean men kind of like you?” I ask.

  “No, Penelope.” He laughs and helps me to my feet, an unnerving glint in his eye. “I mean men exactly like me.”

  8

  The Intruder

  The sun hasn’t yet risen when I hear someone trying to break into my room.

  Even though I made an early night of it, lingering in the dining room just long enough to excuse my lengthy absence to Jordan before I hit the mattress, I’m deep in the throes of sleep when the attempt is made.

  Click. Clack.

  I bolt upright, groggy and unsure of my surroundings, my thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets clutched to my wildly pounding heart. More out of instinct than coherent thought, I stay perfectly immobile, waiting to determine if the intruder will try again.

  Click. Clack. CLICK.

  Apparently, he will. I slide from the bed and land on steady legs, instinct and coherent thought now working in tandem. Instinct tells me to grab something heavy and hide behind the door so I can take up an offensive position. The coherent half of me isn’t so sure. After all, it’s common knowledge on board this boat that my dad is located a mere wall and a shout away. Only a fool would come after me here.

  A fool or, perhaps, a man in love.

  My heart pounds again—though this time for a different reason. Grant.

  “It’s about freaking time,” I mutter. There hadn’t been any newly folded towels waiting for me when I got back to my room last night, and I checked the rest of the linens with a thoroughness bordering on the obsessive without finding any kind of message. I guess stealing into my room in the wee hours of the morning is as good a communication method as any.

  “You have some serious explaining to do,” I say as the door swings easily open. “I’ve been worried out of my—”

  “Pen?” The man standing at my door boasts an impressive and familiar physique—not to mention the bright a
nd annoying eyes of a morning person—but he’s not my husband. “You look like hell. Don’t tell me I woke you up—it’s already five o’clock.”

  Already five o’clock? Is he kidding?

  “The sun is starting to come up on the portside viewing deck. If you hurry, we can catch it. We could also go for a jog on the running track and watch from there. No one is out yet, so we’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?” I blink a few times, wondering if perhaps I’m still asleep and this is a dream version of Hijack. But he remains stubbornly in focus—and focus isn’t a point in his favor, as he’s dressed in what I can only presume is some kind of athletic onesie. “Why would I go for a jog before the sun is even up?”

  “Because we won’t get another chance today. The opening ceremony starts at noon.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond or invite him in, pushing his way past the door as though he owns the place. He also thrusts a steaming cardboard cup into my hands. “I come bearing presents.”

  “Bless your early morning little heart,” I say, almost willing to forgive him. But then I sniff the cup and recoil, shoving it back into his hands as quickly as I can. “Oh, dear God. What did you do to it? It smells like death.”

  “I added a scoop of spirulina. Great for night vision. Who were you expecting?”

  I pretend it’s sleep clouding my brain for how long it takes me to process his question. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just a minute ago, when you first came to the door. You were worried about someone.”

  “Oh, you mean Riker,” I say, falling back on the first person to come to mind. It’s not that much of a stretch. Of all the people I’m worried about on this ship, he is in the top three. “You know how he gets with gambling—he’s supposed to check in with me at least once a day. But I wasn’t kidding about this being way too early for a visit. For you or for Riker. I don’t do morning jogs anymore. Or any jogging at all, really.”

  “Right. I keep forgetting. You’re not the Penelope Blue you used to be.” He says the words cheerfully enough, but I can’t help feeling there’s an underlying threat to them—especially when he follows up with, “Nice shirt, by the way. Is it his?”

  I glance down, aware that I’m wearing one of my husband’s FBI training shirts, used so often and put to such physical hardship that it’s become a soft, Grant-scented nightgown. I rarely sleep without it and had to smuggle it in via my secret luggage compartment for fear Tara would throw it out otherwise. The fact that Federal Bureau of Investigation is blazoned boldly across the front isn’t a problem—most people know that thumbing my nose at authority is as natural to me as breathing—but the way it fits me is. The hem dangles to midthigh, the rest of my body swimming in its voluminous cotton folds. It isn’t exactly the attire of the short, wiry man I painted my husband out to be yesterday.

  “Oh. Um.” I tug on the hem, conscious of how bare my legs are underneath the shirt. “No, it’s not his. It’s mine.”

  “Really? You own a lot of government-themed attire?”

  I can’t decide if he’s mocking me or testing me, but I don’t like how interested he is either way. I cross my arms and glare. “Yes, actually, I do. If I’m going to do a thing, I’m going to do it right. We’re very pro-FBI in our family. The shirt was a gift from my husband’s mother.”

  Hijack’s laugh fills the room. “Oh, shit. He has a mother?”

  “Everyone has a mother.”

  “I mean, he has a mother you’ve met and are in a position to receive presents from?” His laugh diminishes into a chuckle as he shakes his head. “Never let it be said that you aren’t willing to play along to get a score. You want me to wait in the hall while you get dressed?”

  What I want is for him to go away and find a bed in his own room, but I doubt I’ll be able to get back to sleep now. Besides, that algae-infused coffee is starting to stink up the room.

  “Yes. Out.” I put my hands on his pecs and push, alarmed at the scope and size of the musculature under my fingertips. There’s a lot more to this man than I remember, and I don’t mean that in a good way. He’s a threat I wasn’t anticipating. “And give me whatever it was you used to break in here.”

  “I wasn’t breaking in. I was bringing you breakfast in bed.”

  “Microorganisms are not breakfast. Pancakes are. Give it to me. What is it—a specialized lock-picking kit? Magnet?”

  “Master key,” he says and smirks. “And I’ll give it to you, but only because you asked so nicely.”

  I stop and stare. “You have a master key to the whole ship?”

  “No. You do.” He hands me a key on a small metal ring, pressing my fingers as he passes it over. “But don’t let anyone know you have it. If Peter Sanchez were to hear that I got my hands on a copy…”

  The metal, which is warm from his fingers, suddenly feels very hot. Only by closing my hand in a tight fist am I able to refrain from throwing it back in his face. I have a pretty good idea of what Peter Sanchez would do if he found out about it, and there’s not enough bleach in the world to clean up that bloodbath.

  “How did you get this?”

  He shrugs. “I have my ways. The how is less important than the why.”

  I don’t bother indulging him by asking that question. I know the answer. “For the last time, Hijack, I’m not going to help you steal the Luxor Tiara.”

  “Just hold on to that for a while. See how you like the fit.”

  “I know how it fits—like a noose.”

  He laughs and does another one of those condescending nose-tweaking maneuvers. It’s even less endearing the second time around. “You used to be a lot more fun, you know that? Come on. Time’s wasting. I have a surprise waiting for you.”

  * * *

  I don’t know what it about my ex-boyfriends and their obsession with making me run, but I must have done something terrible in a past life to deserve this kind of punishment.

  I’m clutching a hitch in my side, staggering as I draw air into lungs that would much rather be sleeping, when Hijack whizzes by for the fourth time. In my defense, the rate at which he’s overtaking me isn’t as bad as it sounds. The track on board the Shady Lady is located at the very top of the ship, wrapped around a central opening that peers down to the pool a few decks below. It takes thirteen laps to make up a mile, or so my enthusiastic trainer informs me, so he’s taking them at a clipping rate.

  “You used to be in better shape than this.” Hijack slows just long enough to switch to a backward run, keeping an effortless pace with me. “You’re getting weak in your old age.”

  I glare at him through the sheen of sweat dripping into my eyes. “I used to be in better shape because Riker held a pitchfork to my back and made me run. He’s learned not to do that anymore.”

  “Your body is your temple, Pen. I did three ultramarathons last year. One almost killed me, but you don’t hear me complaining about it.”

  Through a series of grunts and hand gestures, I manage to convey my disappointment that it failed in its task.

  “Look lively! Someone’s coming.” Without further warning, he returns to his forward position, slapping me on the ass as he does. I’m so startled that I start jogging faster, albeit not at the demonic pace Hijack is hoping for. With a brief glimmer of disappointment, he slows his pace to match mine. “If my intel is correct, that’ll be Eden St. James. She never misses a morning run. No, no, don’t look. Just keep jogging.”

  “Eden St. James?” I hiss. That’s my surprise, the reason he was so gung ho on my getting out here in the open air before the sun? “Isn’t she…”

  “The thief who’s likely to steal the tiara if you don’t start making plans to get to it first? Yes, she’s one of them. You need to check out the opposition if you’re going to pull this thing off successfully. I need you to feel her out a little, tell m
e what you think. You’re good at getting under people’s skin.”

  I open my mouth to remind him—again—that I have no intention of allying myself with him anytime soon, but there isn’t a chance. As we round the gentle curve of the track, we come within full view of our so-called competition.

  The woman herself isn’t terribly alarming. Jealousy-inducing, yes, but not alarming. She’s taller than me—not a difficult feat to accomplish—and built like the kind of person who spends every morning running. And by that, I mean she’s wearing nothing but a sports bra and infinitesimal spandex shorts, her abs so clearly defined, I halfway suspect they’re painted on. She’s also incredibly fast, taking to the track with the kind of ease and skill I’m sure Hijack was expecting from yours truly.

  I wouldn’t mind so much—the speed or the body of a gazelle, the cute outfit that puts my black leggings and faded tank top to shame—except that she’s not alone. On the contrary, she’s somehow managed to find herself the only companion who can keep up with her.

  A companion, I might add, who should be doing virtually anything except early morning sprints.

  “Ugh. Is that Kit O’Kelly? I swear, that guy is everywhere.” Hijack sums up my feelings on the subject quite nicely. “Step it up a little, would you?”

  I do, but only because I’m half-afraid Hijack will slap my ass again to get me going. I can’t tell from Grant’s expression whether he witnessed the first one, but I’m not taking any chances with a second. My husband knows the likelihood of me a) running, and b) running this early in the morning of my own volition. He has to know I’m here because of Hijack—and I seriously doubt that information will please him, especially given the current hour. To an outside viewer, it looks as if Hijack and I haven’t parted ways since dinner.

  I regret my speed about two minutes later. I’m not nearly as terrible a runner as Hijack seems to think, but even with Grant’s injury, I don’t stand a chance of keeping up with the pace the rest of the runners set. I’m winded and panting by the time we make our first revolution.

 

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