“But you said you’d give me a five-minute warning first!” I accuse, giving his chest a shove.
Startled, he actually takes a few steps back.
“You promised, Grant.”
“What? Penelope, I’m not—”
I don’t wait for him to finish, too eager to capitalize on the element of surprise. I’m out the front door and halfway down the front steps before he realizes I’ve bolted.
Unfortunately, halfway is as far as I get. I blame the stupid shoes I wore to lunch to impress my grandmother. In flats, my smaller size and catlike agility make me able to dart around my husband as much as my heart desires. But I’m no Tara Lewis, and the precarious heels cause me to falter on the bottom stair. I prepare to fall into a tuck and roll to safety, but I have to regain my balance first.
That precious second of hesitation is my undoing.
Grant is suddenly behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist, his body still slippery from the shower. I give my legs a hearty kick, but it’s no use. Not only is his body damp, but it’s incredibly strong, and he’s not afraid to fight dirty. With bare muscles rippling, he lifts me off the ground and pulls me back into the house. The picture is as undignified as it sounds, especially when I notice Harold across the street staring at us out his front window.
Of course, it doesn’t help that Grant appears to be taking pleasure from my struggle. His arms tighten, his body shaking with what I presume is laughter as he pulls me back inside and slams the door.
“Enjoying yourself, are you?” I grumble.
“More than you realize.”
Oh, I realize it, all right. A towel isn’t a very thick barrier, and the evidence of his enjoyment isn’t long in making itself known against my backside.
I stop struggling at once. “You’re sick, you know that? Do you get aroused every time you arrest a woman?”
“Only the ones I’m married to.”
His lips are right next to my ear, blowing warm air over the sensitive lobe. There’s this trick he knows how to do against the side of my neck that damn near renders me unconscious with desire, and he pulls it out in full force.
“And only when she’s trying to wriggle away,” he adds with a low rumble. “Don’t forget, you’ve tried to escape me before. There’s a lot more teeth and a lot less ass involved when you’re really trying.”
First of all, that’s not true. I always use my ass to try and get my way. It’s one of my best features. And second of all…
“Okay, okay. I get the point.” I relax in his arms, not pushing him away so much as melting into his pecs. “You’re the master, and I’m the weak, swooning female you can reduce to a pool of desire with your tongue. Congratulations.”
His eyes crinkle in a self-satisfied—and ridiculously alluring—smile. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I force myself away from the warm protection of his body and hold out my wrists. “You can take comfort in that while I sit in a cold, sterile cell surrounded by hardened criminals. Don’t get mad if I come home with all kinds of new tricks. I intend to use my time in the clink wisely.”
His laugh is half groan. “For Christ’s sake, Penelope. I’m not arresting you.”
“But you said—”
“That Leon asked me to bring you in, not that I’m going to. Why do you have to make things so goddamned difficult all the time?”
“Because I married a goddamned difficult man. Funny how these things work out.” I drop my wrists. “You really aren’t going to haul me in?”
“Why is it that I’m the only FBI agent you consider a viable threat?”
I can tell, from the way his lips quiver between amusement and a deep-seated urge to strangle me, that we’re on safe ground again. Also that I might have overreacted a little.
Oops.
“Because,” I say, flashing him my most mischievous smile, “you’re the only FBI agent who can catch me.”
With such flattery as that up for grabs, he has no choice but to blow out a long breath—the breath of a man goaded to his limit. I take advantage of the moment to press my case.
“And I don’t understand,” I add. “If you’re not putting me under arrest, what are you trying to do? What does Christopher want from me?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s not getting it,” is all the answer Grant provides.
“Come on—you have to give me more than that,” I say.
“I can’t.”
“Why? Because I can’t handle the truth?”
“No. Because I don’t know the truth.”
“Then you better make something up. Something convincing, because I’ll take myself in if you don’t start giving me some answers.”
Grant’s eyes flash. “Christopher Leon is obsessed with you and has been for years. I don’t know why, but by the way he’s been acting lately, I’m half convinced he plans to kidnap you, lock you in an abandoned warehouse somewhere, and extract your family’s secrets fingernail by fingernail.”
I throw up my hands. This is what happens when you try to talk rationally to an overbearing FBI agent who also shares your bed. “You were supposed to tell me something convincing, not the plot of a B horror movie,” I accuse.
“I can’t help it if truth is stranger than fiction. I already told you that he’s been angling for your arrest. You chose not to believe me. You thought I was being overprotective.”
“You are being overprotective.”
“I’m being the exact amount of protective I need to be,” he says with a growl. It’s a good opportunity for him to open up and elaborate, but all he does is pause, his hard gaze gentling as he reaches out to take my hand. “If I asked you to go out of town, no questions asked, until this case is over and Christopher Leon has moved on, would you do it? Would you let me keep you safe the best way I know how?”
I want to say yes—I really do. Few things in life make me happier than pleasing my husband. I love seeing his lips spread in a smile of fondness and affection; I love even more that I have the ability to elicit that response whenever I want. That’s a heady power few people can boast of possessing.
And if it were anything else he was asking me for, I might do it.
“No.” I see the pain in his eyes and wince. “I’m sorry, but that’s not how this works.”
“I know it’s not.” However promising his words, the sigh that follows is about a thousand years old. “I haven’t been fair to you lately, have I, my love?”
My heart clenches. There aren’t many people who could look at the life Grant and I share and think he’s the one who’s being unfair.
“I’m onto something here, Grant,” I say, my voice wavering only slightly. “This stuff with my grandmother means I have a good opportunity to dig deeper. I can go places and talk to people you can’t, attend parties, and keep my eyes open. Who knows? I might end up being good at this undercover criminal investigation stuff. It’s…fun.”
There are a dozen more reasons I could give him for letting me in—my connections and my ability to hide in small spaces, the fact that I’m willing to work for free. But none of them are as important as that one simple fact: it’s fun.
These past few days have given me more pleasure and purpose than the entire past six months combined. These past few days, I’ve been happy.
I pause, desperate to say those words aloud but unable to, knowing how much pain they would cause him. I can only watch and wait, my heart thumping in my chest.
Grant pauses with me, his eyes dark and searching. I swear that he can see the rapid beat of my pulse, that he knows how much is hinged on these next moments, but I don’t back down.
Neither does he, and I have no idea how long we stand there before he finally nods and says, “Okay.”
I’m not sure if I heard him correctly. “Okay?”
Both his nod and his voice gain strengt
h the second time around. “Okay. I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of your exciting new career.”
“Bullshit. You want to stand in my way so bad, you can taste it.”
He laughs at that, though there’s a tense undercurrent he can’t fully hide. “I want to do a lot of things to you, Penelope Blue, but I usually find a way to restrain myself. I don’t think I get nearly enough credit for that.” He draws a deep breath, his chest expanding until it seems twice its size. “If there’s nothing I can say or do to stop you…”
I shake my head.
“Then you have my full support. I told you the other day that I want you to be happy, and I meant it. If meddling in a federal investigation at the risk of your own safety is what makes you happy, then I’ll move the sky and earth to make it happen. And I will do everything in my power to keep Leon at bay while you do it.”
I wait patiently for the bricks to start falling.
“But…”
Ah. There they are.
“I want something from you in return.”
“I’m listening,” I say, and I am listening—so hard you could hear a grenade pin drop.
“The deal is simple. When the case is solved and everything is over, you have to promise me you’ll find a safe, sane occupation as far away from the FBI as you can get.”
I blink a few times, waiting for the rest—the catch or the ultimatum, an indication that my husband is playing a deeper game. The silence with which he greets me doesn’t make me feel confident it’s coming any time soon.
“Um. Are you joking?”
“No. You’re asking me to set aside my better judgement for something you want. It’s only fair that I get the same consideration from you.” The only thing flatter than his tone is the hard press of his lips. From the look of him, you’d think he just asked me to stop murdering people and burying them in the basement. “No more moonlighting as a federal agent after this, I’m begging you. Find something else you can enjoy. I don’t like—”
He doesn’t finish. A curt shake of his head and a deep breath are all he gives me, and I gotta say—they’re not making me feel much better. What doesn’t he like? That I’m trying to help him? That I’m a drain on society and the world at large? That it turns out I’m no good at anything other than stealing jewels?
The last one makes my blood run cold, the truth of it too blaring to ignore. It’s exactly what I’ve feared since the day I gave up my life of crime. As a jewel thief, I was pretty decent. As a law-abiding human being, I’m barely mediocre. I always knew Grant would realize it someday.
I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
“I don’t like seeing you so miserable,” he finally finishes, but it’s a case of too little, too late. The damage has been done, the cold weight of reality wedged between us. I’m not the wife he thought he was getting the day he married me.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Earlier, you said Christopher wants to lock me in a warehouse.”
“He probably does.”
“You said he wants to pull out my fingernails.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“And you don’t care? You’ll let that happen as long as I find myself a nice, ordinary job like a nice, ordinary person?”
He sighs and rubs a hand on the back of his neck, a picture of masculine perfection. “Of course I care. If I had my way, I’d have kept you out of this entire case—out of the entire FBI database—from the start. But that’s not possible now, and more than anything, I want you to be…”
I wait, my chest tight as he struggles to suppress another sigh. His gaze catches mine and holds. I can see that there’s more going on behind those dark eyes, but he doesn’t let anything go.
“You know your own limits, Penelope—better than Christopher does, better than I do. That’s why I’ve decided to stop trying to stand in your way and take an alternate route.” His lips turn up in a slight smile—his first since this conversation started. “A dangerous, misguided route, yes, but when have we ever walked anything else? If there aren’t underhanded deals and convoluted bargains required to get there, you aren’t interested.”
“That’s not true!” I protest, but it totally is. A flicker of excitement has already begun heating the soles of my feet. Not about finding a safe, sane occupation, obviously, but the rest of it—the opportunity to meet this man on the battlefield once again, the sense of danger and intrigue involved in a case of this magnitude.
In other words, all those things a decent human being would balk at but that I can’t seem to live without.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, still suspicious. I can’t help thinking there’s more to this plan than Grant is sharing.
If there is, he’s not going to open up about it today. “You mean other than the possibility of you falling under the power of a dangerous man? Nothing. I don’t love this idea, but I do love you, so those are my terms. You’re free to take them or leave them as you see fit.”
He turns and saunters down the hall before I can do much more than open and close my mouth in disbelief, his ass a vision of perfection wrapped up in white terrycloth.
“That’s all you’re going to say?” I call after that perfection.
“Yes.” But he pauses at our bedroom door. “Oh, and I’d appreciate it if you’d invest in a different pair of shoes before you decide. If you’re going to be running for your life, I’d feel a lot better knowing you’re doing it in flats.”
Order Tamara Morgan’s next book
in the Penelope Blue series
Saving Mr. Perfect
On sale August 2017
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is the result of hours of hard work from so many different people, all of whom deserve their own page of praise. Since I don’t have that much space, I’ll try to keep things brief. Elyssa Patrick was, as always, instrumental in keeping my spirits up and the words flowing. Nicole Helm has been this book’s champion from the start. Thanks to my agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan, and Deb Nemeth, freelance editor extraordinaire, for helping to make this book the best version it could be.
A special shout also goes out to everyone at Sourcebooks. I didn’t expect to find such an incredible team at my back, but you guys have made every step of this process a delight. To Mary Altman, Laura Costello, and the entire Riker Appreciation Fan Club—thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for loving these characters as much as I do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tamara Morgan is a contemporary romance author whose books combine fast-paced antics and humor with heartfelt sentiment. Her long-lived affinity for romance novels survived a BA degree in English literature, after which time she discovered it was much more fun to create stories than analyze the life out of them. She lives with her husband and daughter in the Inland Northwest, where the summers are hot, the winters are cold, and coffee is available on every street corner.
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Stealing Mr. Right Page 45