I stare at him.
“I mean it. Pick someone at random, and I’ll tell you exactly what they can do and how well they can do it.”
I don’t want to get drawn into his game, but short of jumping over the edge, I don’t see an immediate way out. “You’ve come an awfully long way from stealing cars, Hijack.”
“And you’ve come an awfully long way from hiding yourself inside luggage compartments. Pick someone, Pen.”
I indulge him. “Okay, over on the edge of the dance floor, the guy in the shiny purple shirt with the scar bisecting his face. He looks pleasant.”
Hijack finds the man almost immediately. “Actually, I think you’d like him. He’s big in the art circuit.”
When I don’t comment, he starts listing the man’s credentials. “Randolph Penske, forger. He’s your guy if you want an Impressionist piece done. There are about three people in the world who can tell the difference between him and Monet.”
“Really? That’s impressive.”
“Thank you.”
I make a face. “I meant he’s impressive, not your ability to pick him out of a lineup.”
“That’s because he was too easy. Everyone knows Penske. Pick someone else.”
Once again, I’m torn between a desire to tell Hijack exactly where he can stick his stupid game and an urge to keep playing. I’m leaning toward the first option when I spy Oz standing near the railing, seemingly unconcerned as he sips a drink and watches the dancers. I suspect he’s here at Grant’s request to keep an extra eye on the tiara, but I doubt Hijack knows that.
I nod in his direction. “Okay, how about that guy in the blue suit and skinny tie off to one side? I’ve never seen him around before.”
From the way Hijack’s entire body stills, I’m guessing he’s never seen Oz around before either. I can’t decide if I feel more smug at having beaten him at his own game or guilty at having introduced Oz to his notice.
“Huh. I’m not sure I know that one. Jerome? George? I feel like it’s something that starts with a j sound.”
“Johnny?” I suggest.
Hijack just laughs. “No, not him. If Johnny Francis is on this boat right now—and I’m not convinced he is—I’d assume he’s hiding out in his room memorizing kill lists. A guy like that wouldn’t waste his time at parties. Hey, where’d he go?”
I glance up. Sure enough, Oz has disappeared from his watchful post. Even though I know it’s impossible for him to have overheard us all the way over here, I can’t help feeling he knew he was being catalogued and left before the task could be completed.
“Huh, weird,” I say. “Maybe he is Johnny Francis, after all.” Since I’d rather not dwell on Oz’s likelihood to be any number of hidden criminals, I add, “What does this have to do with anything, anyway? So you know people. Big deal.”
“I know these people,” he corrects me. “And I know that before the trip is up, one of them is going to steal that tiara.”
“Yes, and then what? Where will they go with it? To a submarine they have waiting just below the surface?”
“Why not?” He shrugs. “As long as they can find a way to steal it and conceal it, there’s nothing stopping any of us. Think about it, Pen—it’ll be the crime of the century. Swiping twenty million dollars from under the noses of the most dangerous criminals this world has ever seen and doing it in such a way that not even a hint of suspicion falls on our heads. Tell me you didn’t get a shiver just from thinking about it.”
Oh, I get a shiver, all right. Goose bumps break out down my arms and rise up my neck, the tiny hairs standing at full attention. It would be a coup unlike any other. It would also be, thanks to Peter Sanchez’s watchful eye, incredibly risky.
“You know you’re going to be the top suspect if the tiara goes missing anyway,” Hijack adds. “Peter Sanchez and his new errand boy saw to that when they dumped Lola into your lap. The only way you’re really going to be safe from suspicion is if you take it and make sure the blame lands firmly somewhere else.”
Is it my imagination, or do I detect another ultimatum in there?
I’m saved from having to commit myself one way or another by Lola and Grant’s breathless return to my side. Well, Lola is breathless; Grant does his valiant best to hide any strain the dance put on his physique. All that twirling, though—it can’t have been doing his abdomen any favors.
“Oh, Penelope, I’m sorry we were gone for so long, but dancing with Mr. O’Kelly is like flying! You should take your turn now.”
“Is there a waiting list?” Hijack asks. “I didn’t know dance partners were in such demand, or I would have offered my services.”
“Not just any dance partner,” Lola says, unaware of the undercurrent of tension between the two men. “Just the ones as good as Mr. O’Kelly.”
“What do you say, Pen?” Hijack offers me his hand. “I can’t promise it’ll be like flying, but it hasn’t been that long since we were partners. I think I can remember a thing or two about what you like.”
His words do exactly what they’re designed to do, which is rankle Grant.
“Ah, but you had your turn with Penelope,” Grant says with a soft tut. “Is it fair to punish me because you didn’t use your time wisely?”
“I didn’t plan on dancing tonight,” I say, but it’s no use. There’s a playful gleam in Grant’s eye I recognize all too well. Stopping him in one of his stubborn moods is hard enough; stopping him when he’s toying with me is damn near impossible.
He holds out his hand. “May I?”
I cast a quick look at Hijack, hoping to gauge his reaction. It doesn’t look promising, but Lola swoops in with a pretty smile and a question about the difference between ten-gauge versus twelve-gauge starter wire when jacking a car. Not even all the Kit O’Kelly hatred in the world is enough to distract Hijack from his favorite subject. And since he can hardly take the tiara with so many people standing nearby, I’m forced to slip my fingers into Grant’s waiting palm.
Lola was correct in her assessment of Grant’s dancing skills. He confessed to me once that he learned the ballroom basics for the sole purpose of impressing the girl he took to prom. It’s one of my favorite stories, actually—I love thinking of him as a high school jock, winning trophies and setting teenage hearts aflutter. It’s so far removed from my own experience, it seems unreal. My own dancing skills are, naturally, the result of a long con.
One of his large hands grips me about the waist as he begins to twirl me to the middle of the dance floor. For a moment, I let myself fall into the music, the rhythmic steps and steady beat of his heart, the familiar scent of his sweat and laundry soap, but of course, the moment doesn’t last.
He and I have work to do.
“I don’t think your boyfriend likes me very much,” he says, not mincing matters.
“That’s okay,” I reply, not doing any mincing of my own. “I don’t like him very much, either.”
His soft laughter shakes us both. “Uh-oh. Lover’s tiff?”
“You could call it that.” I try to think of a way to phrase my dilemma without actually saying the words out loud. “He’s been pressuring me to do something I don’t want to do. I’ve managed to hold him off so far, but after tonight, I don’t think I can anymore.”
Every muscle in Grant’s body stops and stiffens, his hands on my waist tightening to clamps. I realize my error almost immediately.
“No, no, no,” I say quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’ll fucking kill him,” Grant says, his voice a low growl.
The couple next to us looks over in alarm. I will Grant to keep breathing, keep dancing, keep up the pretense.
“Actually, you might be able to help me out with this little problem, seeing as how you’re in charge of security.” My voice is light but strained, as the clamps on my waist haven’t let up ye
t. It’s like wearing a corset made of flesh and steel. “Was it your intention for everyone on board to jump at each other’s throats for a chance at that tiara, or did you expect us to create teams and go at it that way?”
“He wants you to help him steal the tiara,” he says, understanding lighting his eyes. He also relaxes, my poor waist finally released from its shackle. “You had me scared for a minute.”
That’s what he’s scared of? Not cold, callous smugglers? Not exposure in front of an angry mob?
“Well?” I ask, my eyes imploring. “Aren’t you going to give me advice on how to deal with him?”
His answer is decidedly not helpful. “I, for one, am tired of talking about Hijack. What I’d really like to talk about is you.”
“Too bad,” I say baldly.
“Now, now.” He tsks. “Consider it the cost of the dance. Why do you insist on holding me at arm’s length? I’m not so bad once you get to know me, I promise. Some women find me downright endearing.”
Some women obviously don’t know any better. “You know, it seems an awful lot like you’re trying to distract me from the job I originally came here to do.”
He laughs in a way that makes me think I’ve hit the nail on the head—which means that I’d also like to hit him on the head. In case he doesn’t remember, the job I came here to do isn’t one either of us should take lightly. You know, saving his life and all. It would be nice if I wasn’t the only one who remembered that.
“I see you’ve figured me out,” he says. “A man should be more careful around someone like you, Penelope Blue. You make him forget everything but the joy of the game.”
“Does this mean you won’t mind if I partner with Hijack to steal the tiara from Lola?” I ask, annoyance lending an edge to my voice.
“Oh, if you steal the tiara, I’ll hunt you down,” he says, perfectly calm. He also places one firm finger under my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. “That’s a guarantee. I’ll hunt you down, tie you up, and extract its whereabouts using whatever means are necessary. And I mean that literally. I can be a very determined man when I put my mind to it.”
I lick my lips, which have suddenly gone dry.
“That tiara is the most important thing right now,” he adds. “I thought I already made that clear.”
He has, but that doesn’t mean I like it. The tiara is important, and so is Lola, but not at the cost of his own safety. He has to know that.
“Oh, look. The music has stopped.” Grant’s movements across the dance floor also come to a close. “Thank you, Penelope Blue. This has been a most productive evening. I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.”
Quick—so quick I don’t have time to prevent him—he holds my chin in place and drops a light kiss on my lips. It’s no more than a peck, and an unsatisfactory one at that, but there’s no denying my body’s reaction to it. From the moment his mouth touches mine, I’m all in.
Unfortunately, I’m not the one it’s meant for. That kiss was a public promise, a declaration of intent for all the world to see. It’s all I can do to stand in bemused wonder as I watch Grant go.
That man will be the death of me, I’m sure of it.
I wouldn’t mind so much as long as he isn’t the death of himself, too.
15
The Conversation
I wait until Lola drifts off into an effortless, exhausted sleep after the party before tiptoeing to my father’s door.
Pressing my ear against the surface, I strain to hear any signs of consenting adult passions. There aren’t any of those purring sounds from last night, and all heavy breathing and laughter seems to be at a minimum, so I decide to go for it.
Knock-knock.
No one answers. I’m not too surprised—it might be bedtime for emotionally drained eighteen-year-olds and their weary twenty-six-year-old keepers, but my father tends to keep later hours.
“Hello?” I call, trying again. “Anybody home?”
Once again, I get nothing but silence. Damn. I was hoping to get a chance to talk to my father—ask him to increase his own security and keep his nighttime visitors to a minimum—but it looks like I’m going to have to prop open the door again and hope for the best. With a sigh, I reach for the handle and twist.
Or attempt to twist, anyway. It’s locked from his side.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter and try the handle again. “Are you kidding me? He’s locking his own daughter out now?”
I hate to draw parallels between Lola’s father and my own, but there does seem to be a certain callousness in putting up these kinds of barriers when there’s so much at stake. I mean, I know my father doesn’t love that I came on this trip, and he dislikes even more that I brought Grant along, but he could be a little more concerned for my welfare.
With a perfunctory glance back at Lola, who’s fallen into the deep sleep of the contented, I slip the master key from out of my bra. I haven’t tested it yet, but from the way it slips in to the lock and easily turns, it’s clearly the real deal.
“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”
To my surprise and suddenly leaping pulse, my father waits on the other side of the door. His glasses are pulled down to the end of his nose, and he’s staring at me over the top of them, his dad-face impossible to ignore.
“Geez, Dad, you scared the crap out of me.” I hold my hand to my chest, cleverly concealing the key in my palm. “Why didn’t you answer when I knocked?”
He shifts his body so it covers most of the doorway. “That’s what a man does when he doesn’t want company,” he says in his maddeningly controlled way. “Or is that not something you’ve learned in your lifetime?”
The harshness of his tone causes me to flush. I’d like to pretend that had my father been the one to demand I wear the tiara, I’d have stood up against his tyranny, but I wonder if I’d have ended up as meekly compliant as Lola. Dads are a hard breed to thwart. For most people, that’s a good thing, since fathers are supposed to protect their young. For people like us, it’s not so easy to tell.
“Sorry,” I mutter, unable to look him in the eye. “I just wanted to ask you—”
A sleek female head appears by my father’s side, perfectly on level with his own. I stop, sure I must be seeing things, but when a few seconds pass and that sleek head is still there, I know I’m done for.
Eden St. James.
“Why, Warren, I thought you told me the doors between your rooms were locked.” Eden smiles down at me. “Isn’t this a convenient mistake?”
I can only think of one reason why Eden would be in my father’s room, and it’s not a good one. My heart sinks. So much for counting on my dad to keep me safe. He’s let the lion into the den. Literally.
“They do lock,” I say, my eyes narrowed in a glare. It looks like I’m going to have to protect myself around here. “And they’re the same strength as the main doors, so don’t even think about trying to pick them. As soon as I slam the door in your face, that’s the last you’ll see of me until morning.”
She’s not, as I hope, intimated by that show of bluster. With a tilt of her head, she asks, “Is that so? Then how did you get in here?”
Too late, I realize I’ve given myself away. With my hand still pressed to my chest—and the key with it—I attempt to back into my room. But my father, whether through sheer perversity or a desire to teach me a lesson, throws the door open wider.
“You might as well come in, Penelope,” he says and sighs. “I trust the girl is asleep?”
I cast a nervous glance back at her. “Ye-es. But I promised she wouldn’t be alone.”
“We’ll keep the doors propped open. She’s fine.”
I don’t want to. I don’t like it. Even though I did my thorough sweep of the room and there are no fewer than five scary-looking strangers camped out in the hallway determined to keep an eye o
n things, leaving her unguarded seems like asking for trouble.
“I don’t have all night.”
“I guess it won’t hurt,” I say. At this point, retreat is probably worse. “But I really am tired, so only for a few minutes.”
“How did you get through the door just now?” Eden asks, unwilling to let the subject drop. “I watched your father lock it with my own eyes.”
Oh, dear. I cast a mute, pleading look at my father for help, but he’s just as interested in the answer.
“I, um…” I can’t think of anything even remotely believable, unfortunately. “It’s a trick I have.”
“You have a trick for getting through Peter Sanchez’s impenetrable doors?” Eden asks.
Her disbelief only serves to fuel my confidence. For all this woman is aware, I know dozens of tricks. It’s just that poker playing doesn’t happen to be one of them.
“Of course. You think one tiny lock is going to stop me?” I toss my hair. “There isn’t a door in this place I can’t find my way through.”
I push past her into my father’s room, which is an exact mirror image of my own. As my back is to them, I slip the key into my bra and let my hand drop. I can’t be sure Eden didn’t see me, but it’s the best I can do given the circumstances.
Both Eden and my father are fully clothed, and the only signs of dissipation—or, to be honest, habitation—are a pair of wine glasses on the coffee table. It’s hardly the stuff of scandalous sexual interludes. Still, it would be nice to hear from their own lips what kind of excuse they can come up with for their traitorous relationship, so I don’t back down.
“Well,” I say brightly as I turn to face them. “What are you two up to in here?”
“Nothing much.” Eden seats herself on one of the beige chairs. “I was simply asking your father what he knows about Kit O’Kelly.”
My mouth goes dry. “Kit O’Kelly?”
Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 17