Stealing Mr. Right

by Tamara Morgan

  I like to think that was the moment Grant and I declared war, our swords crossed, our wills engaged. One of us was going to come out of this triumphant, and I had a pretty good feeling it would be me.

  “Parlez-vous la langue de l’amour?” he asked. Clearly, he wasn’t yet aware of my mastery on the battlefield. “Merveilleux. Vous êtes une femme de la profondeur.”

  It was a nice recovery, especially if you factored in the way gruff French syllables melted off his tongue and turned everything in the room to liquid along with it. Unfortunately, my French was limited to words like croissant and baguette and other tasty carbohydrates.

  “You speak French?” I asked instead. It wasn’t hard to infuse my question with the appropriate amount of doe-eyed wonder to build up his vanity. I was beginning to suspect there was nothing this man couldn’t do. “Intelligent as well as gorgeous. Geez—some men have all the luck. Then again, some women are lucky enough to have a chance to appreciate it.”

  “Some women don’t seem to care about that chance,” he said pointedly. “You stood me up, remember?”

  Dammit. We needed to move on from that. There was no way I’d be able to convince him that date had been anything but a ploy to get rid of him, which meant it was better if I didn’t try.

  “I’m actually just here to think,” I said by way of distraction.

  He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  I gestured around. “I don’t read the books, but I like being surrounded by them. I like that this room is big enough to feel spacious but small enough that I can always keep my eye on the exits. It’s a nice place to think.”

  I could tell he wasn’t ready to write off the book-stealing theory, but his interest was definitely piqued. “What do you think about?” he asked.

  Whatever we planned to steal, most of the time, but I wouldn’t admit to that one out loud. “Oh, you know—things. Life. Death. The existentialism of mankind. My dad.”

  I wasn’t sure how that last one slipped in there, but it was the most accurate of all. My existentialism was about as good as my French.

  “Your dad?” Grant reached for my hand and began playing with my fingers. It was hard to describe exactly what he was doing or why. He ran the pad of his index finger along the slope of each one of my digits, as though measuring them before moving to play with the underside. I had to wonder if there was some kind of sneaky FBI trick behind it—like he was secretly scanning my fingerprints—but all he had to do was dust the table after I left for that.

  Whatever his motivation, I was distracted enough that I didn’t think to temper my response. In hindsight, that was also something I should have paid more attention to from the start. Whenever Grant touched me, even if it was only a teasing handhold on top of a table in full view of the public, I had a tendency to lose control of myself. Hands, lips, fingers; later on, when we’d move to more interesting parts like thighs and the spaces contained between them…it was more than a caress.

  It was an attack.

  “He used to come here all the time when I was young.” I stared at our hands as I spoke. “He called it his quiet place, his thinking place.”

  I wasn’t sure if Grant believed me or not, but he played along for the moment. “Did you come here with him?”

  “No. He used to tell me children weren’t allowed inside this room—that was why he chose it. It was the only way he could get any alone time. Up until a few years ago, I thought you had to be twenty-one to enter. He was that adamant about getting away from me.”

  “You must have been one hell of an obnoxious kid.”

  I laughed out loud, caught unaware. “I’m sure I was. It worked, though. A bar or a strip club I might have been willing to break into to get near him, but this place?” I shook my head. The way my dad felt about this library was almost religious. “It might as well have been Fort Knox.”

  “I’m surprised you’d let that stop you.”

  Was that a dig at my criminal tendencies? Rude. “I would’ve tried, but I have a healthy respect for librarians.”

  He watched me with that inscrutable look in his eyes for a moment longer. He no longer played with my fingers but kept his hand on my wrist, almost as though he was checking my pulse. It was probably some kind of truth-telling test—which, for the record, I would have passed in full—so I didn’t pull away.

  “Where’s your dad now?” Grant asked.

  Wouldn’t he like to know? Wouldn’t I?

  I’d decided some time ago that the only possible answer was that he was killed—either in an attempt to get that necklace or in the hours immediately following. Not because I’d had one of those dark epiphanies where I felt his loss in a physical way, and not because I had any hard evidence, but because I wasn’t sure I could accept any other option.

  Fifteen is awfully young to be thrust upon the world without a penny to your name. Yes, I was a bit more worldly-wise than most, possessing a skill set that would always ensure my survival. And yes, I had a stepmother who could have theoretically provided for my care, but circumstance hadn’t favored me then any more than it did now. Tara and I had butted heads right from the start of their marriage. She’d been only five years my senior and much more interested in becoming my father’s protégé than taking care of his actual protégé—a fact she never attempted to hide from either of us.

  When my dad failed to come home that first night, we fought. When he didn’t come home the next day, we panicked. When he didn’t come home the next week, we scoured all his regular haunts, looking for the supposed treasure he’d amassed.

  When a month went by and the hotel we’d been living in finally kicked us out, Tara gave up. She disclaimed any interest in being saddled with a brat of my ilk, especially if there wasn’t an inheritance to soften the blow, which meant this ilky brat was left to fend for herself.

  I felt a long-buried surge of emotion move through me at the memory. It was anger and despair, a sense of vulnerability that made me want to encase myself in diamond-crusted armor and stay there forever.

  My father had to be dead. He had to. The alternatives that presented themselves over the years—that he’d taken his treasure and assumed a new identity, that he’d been caught by the feds and coerced into cutting a deal and retreating into witness protection, that he couldn’t face the infamy of having been caught doing something so amateur as triggering the alarm on the Dupont family safe—would have worked perfectly well, assuming he hadn’t left me to face the aftermath alone. But he had, and that was all the proof I needed. No shame was too great, no deal so sweet, that you’d sentence a kid to a life on the streets.

  Death was the only thing I could believe. I couldn’t handle it otherwise.

  “I’m sorry,” Grant said when I didn’t answer right away. A portion of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because he tightened his grip on my hand. “Is it hard for you to talk about?”

  “No, that’s not it. I just…” I stared at that hand, so warm, so comforting, and slipped even further under his spell. “I haven’t seen him for a long time, and coming here is my way of connecting. I miss him.”

  “I know the feeling,” he said. “I miss my dad, too.”

  I glanced up, sure he was patronizing me, but a wistful expression had taken over his features. He looked boyish.

  “You have a dad?” It was an incredibly stupid thing to say—of course he had a dad—but he caught my meaning with a smile. You have a dad who’s gone? You have a dad who paved the way for a broken heart?

  “He left my mom when I was pretty young. I don’t have many memories of him, but the ones I managed to hold onto are all good. We were happy together, you know? Throwing a football, fishing, going to baseball games. Man stuff.”

  “Man stuff,” I echoed. Could this guy be any more virile? He was probably tossing the pigskin before he could talk.

  “I know he was tec
hnically a jerk—he left for a younger woman and never looked back or sent a dime in child support—but I still feel like he was a good guy under it all. A bad person doesn’t spend hours teaching his five-year-old how to dig for the best worms or patiently answer all his questions about the seventh inning stretch.”

  That showed what he knew. Bad people could pretend to do almost anything.

  “It’s a talent of mine, actually: cutting through the bullshit and getting an accurate read on a person.” His dark gaze swallowed mine. “Well, it used to be. So, how about you?”

  I blinked, breaking the spell. “How about me what?”

  “Your dad? Was it a divorce situation like mine, or did he pass away?”

  In context, it was a perfectly normal question to ask. When a woman sat in an empty room that reminded her of her father, growing morose and lost in her reflections, it was polite to inquire about the circumstances. Expected, even.

  But most women weren’t descended from the elusive Blue Fox. Most women weren’t considered the last living human to set eyes on his one-hundred-million-dollar fortune. And most women weren’t respectable jewel thieves in their own right.

  Which begged the question: Why was Grant Emerson, FBI agent and guard dog extraordinaire, so interested in my father? And why the hell was I sitting here, feeding him answers?

  Amateur. Idiot. Fool. Take your pick—the insult fit, and I deserved each one.

  “I have to go,” I said and pulled my hand back. I got to my feet and slung my bag over my shoulder. More than anything else, I needed to get away from Grant’s persuasive fingers and a room that was starting to feel very small.

  “Go where? Maybe I can take you. I’m parked not far from here, and government-issued cars are pretty nice, if I do say so myself.”

  Right. He probably expected me to ride in the back, where the doors locked from the outside and the only way out was with a full confession.

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” I moved toward the door, but I stopped and turned before I got halfway. My emotion had made me even more reckless than usual. “And for the record? This is low. Even for the FBI.”

  “Penelope Blue, what did I do?” Even now, he played with the way he said my name and made me question everything. The deep V between his brows looked so damn sincere. “Don’t leave like this. I’m sorry. It was an insensitive thing to ask.”

  It wasn’t insensitive. It was dangerous.

  But no way was I sticking around to explain the difference.

  10

  THE BOMBSHELL

  (Present Day)

  To the outside world, it looks like I’m meeting my friends at the steps of Bethesda Terrace for a picnic. A real picnic this time, with a basket full of actual food, a blanket to sit on, and a Frisbee to toss around, should the urge arise. The sky is bright and sunny—one of those days that finds New Yorkers gladly taking refuge behind dark sunglasses—and there’s even a class of schoolchildren out on a field trip. They ooh and aah over the fountain they’ve probably seen eighty times already.

  Anyone paying attention, however, would notice how unnaturally still I am, lounging next to Jordan and Oz, waiting for Riker to arrive. Whereas other people get twitchy and restless when they’re nervous, I turn to stone. It’s another side effect of the job. We wouldn’t want me thumping around every time I start to feel qualms about my life choices.

  I’m feeling them right now. Grant got home from his trip a few days ago, fully intact and with no explanation for his absence. The necklace is still in the safe, mocking me with its proximity. No attempt has been made to retrieve or move it—either by Riker or the FBI. And Grant won’t stop looking at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

  It’d be one thing if his gaze followed me with love or desire—hatred would even make sense—but I mostly feel like a lab rat dropped into a maze. He watched me throughout the movie we saw last night, his scrutiny so intense, I couldn’t tell you what the film was about. He watched me this morning at breakfast, his eyes following the movement of the spoon to my mouth like a starving man. And he watched me as I packed up this picnic a few hours ago, offering to help with the sandwiches or run to the store to pick up additional supplies.

  It’s weird. It’s weird and it’s not like him and it’s seriously freaking me out. Only this promised meeting with Riker saved me from doing something rash.

  “Hey, guys.” Riker appears from around the corner, his mouth in a moment of rare balance. Neither smiling nor scowling, his lips form a perfectly straight line. In all the years I’ve known him, I’m not sure I’ve seen that line before, and I don’t like it. “Thanks for meeting me. Are we clear to talk?”

  Oz flashes him a thumbs-up while I fight the urge to stand up and yell at him for making this so much more difficult than it needs to be.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I hiss instead, finding the susurration almost as soothing as a good scream. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been? How confused? Why couldn’t you pick up a phone and let us know what’s going on?”

  No glimmer of contrition crosses his face as he turns toward me. “I wanted to be sure before I said anything.”

  “Sure about what?” I demand and then don’t bother waiting for an answer. “Did you follow Grant out of town? Where did he go? What’s he up to? What are his plans for the necklace?”

  Riker only pays attention to the last question. “As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have any plans for the necklace. He didn’t do anything or go anywhere to indicate he cared about it. You could take it tomorrow, and I doubt he’d notice. In fact, I think that’s exactly what we should do. Open the safe and make a break for it. You in?”

  There’s an expectancy about the request, a weight that feels uncomfortable in the current circumstances.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “You and me, Pen,” he says. “Oz and Jordan. Two million dollars. I told you before, the best course of action is to take the necklace and run. Nothing has happened to change that.”

  “But…” I search his face, looking for clues. What’s the big news? The mysterious truth? What’s he been doing with himself for the past week? To look at him, you’d think he’d just asked if I want cream in my coffee.

  “But nothing. I’m giving you one last chance. Let’s grab it and go, leave all this mess behind.”

  Ultimatums have never set well with me. “You know I can’t just take the necklace,” I say irritably. I swear, it’s like he’s willfully misunderstanding the delicacy of this situation. Grant is my husband, not some random mark. I can’t walk away from him like that. “We’re talking about two million dollars Grant is personally responsible for. He won’t just blink and let us go.”

  “That’s what you think. What’s two million dollars compared to love?”

  My heart expands to twice its size before clamping down on itself. “What does love have to do with it?”

  “More than you think. It took me a few days, but I discovered a little something about that dear husband of yours. Something that puts a definite kink in your lovelorn refusal to cross him.”

  “I told you already,” I say. “I’m not lovelorn. I’m being cautious.”

  “Good.” Riker’s expression lifts, a smile settling in place of that uncanny line. “Then you won’t be upset when I tell you that the reason Mr. Romance has been acting so strange lately is because he’s having an affair.”

  * * *

  “Under no circumstances are you coming in with me.” I block the doorway with my arms crossed and my legs shoulder-width apart, refusing to let Riker past. “Go back to the train station and gloat with Oz and Jordan. I can handle this on my own.”

  “I’m not gloating,” Riker gloats.

  “He’s not having an affair.”

  “Says you.”

  “It’s probably just a work co
lleague.”

  “In snakeskin pants?”

  “Maybe she’s undercover.” Even as I stand here at the door to the house I share with my supposed beloved, defending him against Riker’s slurs, I realize how ridiculous I sound. So what if Grant is stepping out on me? Our marriage is hardly a conventional one. We’re more like cat-and-mouse lovers than anything else. When Judgment Day comes and we’re asked to stack up our sins for comparative analysis, infidelity isn’t likely to stand out above any of the others.

  Or so I keep telling myself. The spike ripping open my throat seems to indicate otherwise. The delicate gold chain of the infinity necklace isn’t nearly strong enough to hold it closed.

  “Pen, you know you can’t do this by yourself.” Riker falls into a rare moment of concern, all those angles of his face less jagged, less likely to cut. “If you spy on him and end up seeing what I saw, you’ll get emotional and blow everything.”

  “I won’t get emotional. I’m a calm, levelheaded businesswoman making calm, levelheaded plans for the future.”

  His look of disbelief is worth a thousand words. “This is a good thing. Now we can start building a legitimate foundation for divorce. We’ll hire a private detective, set it up so you look like a woman scorned, and make it so even the FBI can’t question your motives. Hell, you might even manage to score alimony out of the deal. That’ll annoy him.”

  He reaches for my hand in a show of solidarity. It’s been so long since we touched for any reason other than absolute necessity that I almost don’t remember what it’s like. There’s unquestionable strength in those long fingers. A thief’s strength. A thief’s hands.

  He squeezes. “I think it’s time we pull out from the project, with or without the goddamned necklace. Don’t you?”