Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Tamara Morgan

  With a hurried leap, she starts searching under the bleachers and discovers a black canvas tote, on its side and with the contents spilled all over the floor.

  “Oh, good! It’s right here.” Jordan makes a grab for the little canister spread out among the gum wrappers and betting playbooks, but a large, angry-looking man from one of the other tables yanks her arm back before she makes contact.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he warns in a voice like a battering ram. “If you so much as touch that tiara, I’ll rip your arms from their sockets.”

  It’s then that I notice the tiara lying scattered among the remains of Lola’s upended bag. Whoever attacked her must have accidentally knocked the Luxor off her head before he had a chance to steal it.

  “She’s not grabbing the tiara, you moron.” I reach over Lola’s body to get the inhaler. “Lola can’t breathe. She needs her—”

  The man gives up on Jordan and has my arm pinned behind my back before I even know he’s moved. He twists the limb until my wrist is pulled up on level with my shoulder blades, the burn of muscles being stretched to their limit familiar to me in so many ways. He wasn’t kidding about that whole ripping Jordan’s arms from their sockets. If I were any other human being, that’s exactly what he would have done. Fortunately, it just so happens my ability to squeeze into small places is due in large part to my natural flexibility. My joints have always provided a little more wiggle room than most.

  “Let go of me,” I demand, my voice slightly strained.

  He doesn’t budge. “Stay away from the tiara. That’s the rule. Only she can touch it.”

  “She going to die,” I say, my voice even more strained this time. I can’t decide if it’s pain or panic causing it. “Do you understand what that means? Breathing? Oxygen? Life?”

  “I’ve got it, Pen,” Jordan says as she maneuvers around the guy. He makes a swipe at her, but since he’s busy holding me at bay, she manages to stay out of his arm’s reach. Unfortunately, the additional movement causes him to exert more pressure. Fiery jolts of pain threaten to blur my vision, but I manage to hold on long enough to watch as Jordan gets the inhaler in Lola’s hand and commands her to use it.

  I have no idea how long she’s been lying there, struggling for breath, but Jordan manages to get the device in her mouth and press it without further ado. A few seconds pass before the scary blue color drains from her lips and the labored, sticky movements of her chest resume a normal pattern, but she gets there.

  Jordan flashes me a bloody thumbs-up. Only then am I able to relax enough to assimilate the sights and sounds of what can best be described as pandemonium. Chairs are upended everywhere, and people shout accusations left and right. Several fistfights have broken out on the other side of the room, and I’m pretty sure someone is being held at gunpoint by a crewmember over by the exit. No one seems to know what happened or what to do next, and the man who should be most concerned about this recent series of events—Lola’s father—is nowhere to be seen. Nor, I note, are his private bodyguards or Kit O’Kelly.

  In the absence of proper authority taking control, the man holding my arm decides he’s in charge.

  “I’ve got her,” he announces in a voice loud enough to still the panicked movements of those closest to us. “No one worry. She didn’t get away with the tiara.”

  “I didn’t get away with the tiara? Are you as stupid as you look?” I twist my head to glare at my captor. I immediately regret it when I see the unpleasant contortions of his face. He may not be as stupid as he looks, but I’m guessing he is that mean. I decide not to ask any follow-up questions—which is fine, as everyone else seems to have plenty to spare.

  “What should we do with her?” a woman to my left asks.

  “Are we sure that’s the real tiara?” the man next to her adds.

  “Where is Peter Sanchez?” yet another nonhelpful bystander puts in. “Or the tall one in charge in security?”

  I wouldn’t mind hearing the answer to that second one, but instead, I turn to Jordan with a murmured, “Is she okay?”

  Jordan looks up from her crouched position, her arm around Lola as she continues instructing the girl to inhale and exhale in a low, soothing voice. I’ve been on the receiving end of that voice enough times to have complete confidence in its efficacy. “She’s good. Shaken up, but I think she’ll be fine.”

  The gash on Jordan’s head still flows freely, a rivulet of blood outlining the right side of her face.

  “And you?” I ask.

  She grimaces. “Head wounds always bleed a lot. Someone pushed me off the bleachers the second the lights dropped. I smacked it on the edge.”

  “Yeah, right,” my captor snorts. “Someone. You probably did that to yourself.”

  I snap. It’s one thing to accuse me of orchestrating this whole thing, but it’s quite another to drag Jordan into it. She’s spent almost every waking minute of the past three days sitting next to Lola, chatting with the girl and making her feel comfortable while everyone else treats her with a callous, cavalier disregard.

  “Say that again to my face,” I say, infusing my voice with a fury that’s probably not wise, given my current state of captivity. “I dare you.”

  He yanks on my arm again. He uses enough force this time to render the edges of my vision black.

  “Someone get a chair,” he commands. “And rope.”

  The man tries to make himself sound authoritative, but I’ve been tied to many a chair before. His threats don’t scare me.

  “And hurry,” he adds. “I’ll need at least ten minutes to beat a full confession out of her.”

  Okay. That one might be a little alarming.

  They manage to find a chair that hasn’t been broken and get it settled in an upright position—with me on it—before I’m saved by the timely arrival of the tall one in charge of security.

  I’m not happy to see him.

  For one, he takes a single look at me being forced into a chair with my arm twisted painfully behind my back, and a grim expression takes hold. For another, he’s panting heavily and favoring his right side. The slight lean to his gait might not be obvious to anyone else, but I can see what his studied nonchalance is costing him.

  It’s costing him severe pain and weeks of hard recovery work. It’s costing him any and all physical advantage he has on this boat. Of course the idiot had to go chasing after the perpetrator on top of everything else. It might have been Johnny Francis. What’s a little agony when the job is on the line?

  My captor makes a curt command for the rope. Instead of handing over the coil that one resourceful spectator found backstage, the mob waits to see what Grant will do.

  “What seems to be the problem here?” He speaks with a coolness anyone familiar with him would know is feigned. The sharp, tense undercurrent is a dead giveaway. “Perhaps I might be of some assistance?”

  “I caught her trying to make off with the tiara.” The man jabs a thumb in my face, dangerously near my eye socket. “She and the pretty, bloody one were climbing over the girl’s body to get to it.”

  While I can’t fault the man’s taste—Jordan is awfully pretty, even with the streaks of congealing blood on her face—we were doing no such thing. “I wasn’t trying to make off with anything,” I protest. “I told you. I was grabbing her inhaler.”

  The man acts as though I didn’t speak. “She set this whole thing up as a distraction. I was sitting one table over—I saw it all go down.”

  “Oh, come on. What distraction? I was playing cards just like everyone else.”

  “Yeah, right,” the man says. “I’ve never seen anyone play cards like that before.”

  I take his words as a compliment, but the hard line of Grant’s lips makes me think that might be a tad optimistic of me.

  “She cheated and set it up to look like she was going to win. Then, when
everyone’s attention was on her…BAM!” The man pounds his fist into his opposite hand. “The lights went down.”

  “Please. I wouldn’t even know how to cheat at cards. All I was doing was baiting the other players. Find Eden. Ask her. She’ll tell you.” Saying the woman’s name recalls her to mind, and I cast a quick look around. “Wait, where is she? Where’d she go?”

  Now that I’m paying attention, I realize she isn’t the only noticeable absence from the room. Although my father and Tara never showed up this morning, since they’re both on a reprieve until the next round starts, Hijack was in his usual spot next to Grant—emphasis on was. Sometime during the power outage or in the subsequent mayhem, he slipped out unseen.

  Oh, Hijack, no.

  I bite my lip to keep from saying my plea out loud. He warned me that he meant to get the tiara with or without me. As it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I publicly and unequivocally announced my unwillingness to assist him, it’s possible he took matters into his own hands.

  “I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” Grant says with an annoying lack of concern. He could show a little more worry. She was the closest one to both me and the tiara.

  “We should keep her tied up for the rest of the cruise,” the man says with a dark look at me. “There’s no saying what else she has planned. I heard she once broke into the White House and hid inside a dining cart for three days.”

  Despite my current predicament, a bubble of laughter rises to my throat. Honestly, these rumors are starting to get ridiculous.

  “It’s true,” I say and do my best not to let the laughter go. “I can go into hibernation for weeks at a time if I have to. I’m just like a bear.”

  “Human beings don’t go into hibernation,” Grant mutters. “And no one is staying tied up for the rest of the trip. The situation is being handled.”

  “By who?” the man asks. “You?”

  “Yeah,” a voice calls from the crowd. “You’re probably in on it. I saw you two dancing, and you looked mighty cozy.”

  While I might be easy to subdue, my husband isn’t so easily cowed—a fact this group is about to learn for themselves. It’s impossible to tell exactly where that voice came from, but Grant turns with a stare that lands heavily on each and every head gathered around us.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I make that sound optional?” His smile is hard. “It’s not—unless, of course, one of you would like to take my place as security advisor. I’m sure Peter Sanchez would love to bring you into his confidence. Just say the word.”

  As an intimidation tactic, his offer is foolproof. As most of us have learned by now, being in Peter’s confidence means being one small misstep away from death at all times.

  “I didn’t think so,” Grant says when no one takes him up. “But don’t worry. I’ll get to the bottom of this. I don’t intend to let her off easy.”

  Oh, dear. That doesn’t sound promising. “There’s nothing to let me off for—easy or otherwise,” I say. “I had nothing to do with this, I swear.”

  “For your sake, I hope that’s true.”

  He directs his next remark to Jordan. “Do you think you can get both of you to the infirmary, or should I call in backup to escort you?” he asks.

  Jordan’s brows fuse together as she assesses the girl in her arms. “I can get there fine, but I’m not sure about Lola. She’s still so shaken up. I think it might be better if she doesn’t exert herself any more than necessary.”

  As if to prove her wrong, Lola struggles to lift herself to a seated position. “No, I’m good,” she says in a failing voice that convinces no one—even the mean guy who likes ripping people’s arms out of their sockets. “Don’t worry about me. I just need another minute, and I can make it on my own.”

  “No, you can’t.” Riker’s gruff voice comes from behind us. Like Grant, he’s winded from what I assume was a lengthy pursuit of the person responsible for this. Also like Grant, he doesn’t appear to have had much success. “And if you ask me, you’d be a damned fool to try. Stop wriggling.”

  Lola doesn’t take offense at Riker’s vehemence, which is typical for her, but she also doesn’t brighten to see him. That’s when I know she’s a lot worse off than she looks—he’s at his scowling, sweating best right now. She should be swooning at his feet.

  Riker takes one look at her wilting form and mutters a violent curse. Before anyone can stop him, he scoops her into his arms with a gentleness—and an easy strength—I wasn’t aware he was capable of.

  “Put the fucking tiara on her head, would you, Jordan?” he asks. “I’ll take her to the infirmary. And you, too, apparently. Don’t you have anything to stop your head from gushing all over my shoes?”

  Both Jordan and I know from experience that his gruff demeanor is a cover, but the rest of the people watching us don’t, so they accept his authority with relative complaisance. Had he strolled up here full of concern, they might have fought his authority; as it is, they accept his anger as proof that he’s as annoyed at me as everyone else.

  He departs, Lola’s head cradled in the nook of his arm and a few stragglers in his wake to keep an eye on any further attempts on the tiara. Under any other circumstances, I might feel relief at being deprived of my watchdog duties for a few minutes, but the air he leaves behind isn’t one of peace.

  Several pairs of hostile eyes are trained on me, willing my blood to flow and my bones to snap. I can feel the crowd surrounding me and drawing close like a snake squeezing its prey.

  Lucky for me, I have a protector here to fight in my defense. Without making it look like it, Grant angles his body so that he’s positioned directly behind my chair, one hand on my shoulder in a gesture of possessiveness. It feels good to have his touch.

  He’s my hero. My guard dog. Also the entire reason I’m in this stupid mess in the first place.

  “Take her to Peter Sanchez,” someone suggests. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “Yeah, he’ll eat her alive. Do it.”

  “We could throw her overboard,” someone else offers. “Tie her to a rope and drag her behind the ship.”

  That seems a little dramatic, given the substantial lack of evidence mounted against me, and I say so. “You’ve got the wrong girl,” I protest. “Think about it. Why would I bother trying to steal the tiara here, in front of all these people? If I wanted to take it, I’d just do it in the middle of the night when no one is watching.”

  There’s a slight pause before someone offers, “You staged it so that someone else would take the blame.”

  It’s not a bad theory. In fact, it’s exactly what I would do if I wanted to actually go through with this stupid heist.

  I’ll never know if the crowd would have continued circling until there was nothing left but my picked-over bones, because that’s the moment Peter Sanchez finally returns. Unlike Grant and Riker, he doesn’t appear to be the least bit winded by his flight. Nor does he show a concern for his daughter’s safety beyond asking, “Is it secure?”

  “Lola’s heading down to the infirmary now,” Grant says. “The tiara is with her.”

  Peter nods once. “Excellent, excellent. It was in good condition?”

  “From all appearances, yes.”

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. “Your daughter is also in good condition, by the way,” I say. “She couldn’t breathe for about two minutes, thanks to the angry mob that refused to let me get her inhaler, but I’m sure the brain damage will be minimal.”

  Peter turns to me with a hard, glittering look that lands like a punch. Before, his threats were always so mild and subversive, a casual discussion that slipped occasionally into the ominous. This time, the expression on his face is something else: a total lack of human empathy, an emptiness so dark, it hurts.

  I swallow heavily.

  “Thank you for the update,” he says in
a voice that’s as mild and unconcerned as any he’s used thus far. His eyes remain dead. “It does you—and my daughter—credit to know she has such good friends.”

  I don’t know how I manage to stay coherent while the exchange takes place, but I suspect Grant’s hand on my shoulder has something to do with it. It’s hard to be scared when my husband literally has my back.

  In fact, I suspect that showing my fear is the worst thing I could do. I draw resolve from Grant’s warm presence to ask, “Then will you please tell these people to step down so I can go be with her?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Peter smiles in his deceptively gentle way. “Of course I would be delighted to let you go, but it’s not me who distrusts you. It’s the crowd, you see. They demand answers.”

  “I already gave them an answer,” I say, but Grant increases the pressure on my shoulder. I close my lips accordingly.

  “Do you want me to question her?” Grant asks, indicating me with a tilt of his head. “I find I can be quite…persuasive when I put my mind to it.”

  I don’t dare move, dare even less to breathe. It’s too good to be true. Being trapped alone with my husband in a small room is the height of all my dreams and aspirations right now. Especially if they pick a soundproof one. Giving that man a lengthy, voluble piece of my mind would be a veritable delight.

  But then I realize that I should be terrified for my life—threats of torture are supposed to do that to a girl—and put up a protest. “Please don’t,” I say. “I don’t have anything to confess, I swear. I’ll be of much more use if you let me get back to Lola.”

  “Don’t let her anywhere near the girl,” my previous captor warns. “It’s a trick. This is how she wants it.”

  My patience, never in abundant supply, runs out. I swivel to glare at him. “You honestly think my plan to steal the tiara was to cheat at poker to draw everyone’s attention, drop the lights, have my partner knock Lola over just enough to cause her to stop breathing, only to not steal the tiara? At which point I’ll—what?—slip into a carefully watched sickroom where I’m known to be visiting her and take it from there? What kind of heists are you planning where that level of amateur bungling is standard?”