Saving Mr. Perfect

by Tamara Morgan

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  Copyright © 2017 by Tamara Morgan

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Photography by Shirley Green

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1. The Heist

  2. The Office

  3. The Lion

  4. Grant

  5. The Suspect

  6. Grant

  7. The Partnership

  8. Grant

  9. The Crew

  10. The Outing

  11. Plan B

  12. Grant

  13. The Luncheon

  14. The Deal

  15. The Ally

  16. Grant

  17. The Blueprints

  18. The Tea Party

  19. Grant

  20. The Middle

  21. The Necklace

  22. The Photo

  23. The Socialite

  24. Grant

  25. The Call

  26. The Aftermath

  27. The Revenge

  28. The Team

  29. The Council

  30. The Heist (Reprise)

  31. The Grab

  32. The Escape

  33. The End

  34. Grant

  35. Epilogue

  A Sneak Peek at Seeking Mr. Wrong

  1. The Heist

  2. The Mission

  3. The Support

  4. The Journey

  5. The Shady Lady

  6. The Survey

  7. The Player

  Back Cover

  1

  THE HEIST

  Infiltrating the FBI is a lot more difficult than you might think.

  The seventh-floor waiting room in the New York field office is one I’m intimately familiar with. There are no windows to penetrate from the outside and no air vents big enough to squeeze through, which means it’s impossible to access this floor unless security clears you first. The fifty-something woman at the desk seems nice, what with the glasses perched on the end of her nose and the fresh flower pinned to her chiffon blouse, but she’d shiv you sooner than let you through the door.

  I know this because in addition to the gun she carries, Cheryl also has a letter opener that doubles as a throwing knife strapped to her upper thigh.

  And I know that because I’m the one who gave it to her.

  “Hey, Penelope,” Cheryl says with a smile that welcomes me and warns me not to make any sudden movements at the same time. “It’s lovely to have you visit us today.”

  Loosely translated, this means: I know you’re a thief, and I’m packing. What do you want?

  “I’m so happy to be here,” I reply. My own smile stretches wide and full of meaning. “How are the kids? And Dan?”

  In other words: I’m not scared of you. Also, I know where you live.

  “They’re good, they’re good. Dan got that promotion he was after, so that’s been pretty nice for us. We finally bought that gun safe we’ve been eyeing.”

  Meaning: We keep extra weapons at home. Don’t even think about it.

  “Safety is so important,” I agree.

  “Do you want me to let Grant know you’re here, hon?”

  “If you don’t mind. He’s not expecting me.”

  “Oh, how lovely,” she says. You’d think, from the way she beams at me, that she means it this time. She doesn’t. “Is it a surprise lunch date?”

  It’s a surprise something, that’s for sure. But all I do is offer her a bland look and say, “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I’ll buzz him.”

  And with that, I’m in as far as I’m going to get on my own. Only once in my life have I made it past Cheryl’s desk, and that was in handcuffs. It’s not an experience I’m keen on repeating.

  To pass the time until my husband’s arrival, I settle into one of the austere metal chairs set against an even more austere white wall and struggle to suppress my air of expectation. A buzz of adrenaline is common before a big job, and since it’s been more than six months since I’ve so much as looked at a lock the wrong way, my expectations and my buzz are flying.

  The fact that things are progressing exactly as planned only helps my high. I haven’t always loved the FBI—what with their spying on my every move and the arrest of my father earlier this year—but I can always count on their love of protocol.

  To Cheryl’s credit, she doesn’t make excuses as the minutes tick by and there’s no sign of my husband. To my credit, I don’t let my anxiety at his delay show. There’s a small window of opportunity for this particular job, and I need him to appear before Riker—my best friend and coconspirator—gets things started down below. In about five more minutes, I’m going to have to do something drastic (like fake a seizure) to get Grant out here.

  Fortunately, my acting skills aren’t put to the test. A shadow appears in the doorway before I hear the impressively faint sound of footsteps, and I know it must be Grant. No one moves as silently—or is as deadly—as my husband.

  “You’re here!” I cry. All six feet two inches of him fill the room—and my heart. Even considering what I’m about to do, I’m honestly happy to see him. He didn’t come home last night until the wee hours of the morning, and he left for work while I was in the shower—a schedule that’s been on repeat for much longer than I like. The occasional late night is par for the course when you’re married to an FBI agent, but tacit avoidance has become our default mode as of late.

  In any other marriage, such a thing might indicate waning sexual interest or a general lack of communication. In our marriage, it means one of us thinks the other has started stealing again.

  I’ll let you guess who.

  Grant accepts my proffered hug warily, one eye on the door, the other on his watch. I’m tempted to tell him it’s exactly 2:13 in the afternoon, give or take thirty seconds, but that might give too much away. I only pay such close attention to the passing of time when I’m up to no good—a fact he knows from personal experience. I want to throw him off guard, not set him on high alert.

>   “My sweet darling, how I’ve missed you!” I say instead, dialing my beaming smile up to twelve. “I’ve been waiting for the chance to wrap my arms around you all day.”

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

  “That’s unfair.” I feign outrage with a flick of my ponytail, the more-blond-than-red hair pulled back in the lifelong style I can’t seem to shake. As my role in the breaking and entering circuit used to involve squeezing into tight spaces, I grew accustomed to minimizing the amount of space I took up—hair included. Nothing is more disastrous than squeezing yourself inside an air conditioning duct only to have your hair sucked into the blades. “Can’t I be happy to see you?”

  “You could be, but you’re not.”

  I fake a pout. “How can you tell?”

  “For starters? Not only have you never called me my sweet anything before, but your skin is flushed, and your pupils are dilated. What are you up to, Penelope Blue?”

  I bite back a laugh. His air of distrust is offset by the familiar playful rhyme, a singsong form of address he’s used since the day we first met. It’s always been one of my favorite sounds—that combination of suspicion and adoration in Grant’s voice. I like to think it’s how he shows his love.

  “I’m not up to anything.” At least, I’m not up to anything yet. The action isn’t set to start until 2:20, which means I’ve got about five more minutes to keep his attention focused by being suspiciously charming and wifely. “Maybe I’m flushed because I’m happy to see you. Did you ever think about that?”

  “Once. Maybe twice. Then I learned better.”

  His eyes narrow as he continues assessing me from top to bottom. I attempt to keep my breathing mostly even and my posture just a little too relaxed—I want him to be suspicious, but I don’t want him to catch on that I want him to be suspicious. It’s harder than it seems under his special brand of scrutiny. Grant is very good at his job.

  He’s so good at it, in fact, that his face doesn’t register even a flicker of surprise when he reaches my feet and catches a glimpse of my footwear. Normally, I’m all about functional flats and comfort soles, but this is a special occasion. Today, I’ve paired my black skinny jeans with bright-red peep-toe heels that threaten to topple me with every step.

  The shoes were a gift from Grant—a gift and a reminder, and a large part of the reason I’m here today. It’s a thing with him, a tradition of sorts, to give double-edged presents. The habit goes all the way back to our early courtship, where each date could end with an arrest as easily as a kiss. Instead of confronting me with his suspicions like a normal man, Grant likes to toy with me to see if I’ll break.

  I’m on to you, Penelope Blue, he all but said with a few shiny pieces of patent leather. The Peep-Toe Prowler better not strike again.

  Which is totally unfair, by the way. Even if I was the burglar currently working her way through a string of Upper East Side homes—which, for the record, I’m not—I wouldn’t wear heels while I did it. I prefer to make my getaways quick and painless, thank you very much.

  “Well? Am I a threat to national security?” I ask when it appears he’s finished his assessment. I even give my foot a sassy kick for good measure, but I elicit no response and almost lose my shoe in the process. “Do you want to place me in one of the interrogation rooms until you get the all clear? I’m partial to the one Simon uses. Such fond memories I have of being held there against my will.”

  Grant sighs, his exasperation causing a crease to form down the middle of his forehead. I resist the urge to smooth it away. Don’t get me wrong—my husband is and always has been devastatingly handsome, and no amount of annoyance can change that. His hair is the blondish-brown you typically find on frat boys and surfer dudes, and he has these huge brown eyes that exude sleepy innocence and puppy-dog friendliness. It’s the perfect look for lulling unsuspecting cat burglars into falling in love and spilling their secrets.

  “This better not be one of your tricks, Penelope.”

  “It’s not!” I lie.

  “You said you were having lunch with your grandmother today.”

  “She had to cancel,” I lie again. “I never see you anymore, that’s all.” I run my finger up the line of his suit jacket. It’s loose and crumpled, which says a lot about his current state of mind. He usually wears his suits like they’re made of neoprene. “You’ve been spending all your free time at work lately, and even when you come home, it’s like you’re not there. I miss you.”

  “Stop batting your eyes at me. I’m not falling for it.”

  “I’m blinking. You want me to stop blinking?”

  “I want you to tell me why you’re really here.”

  “My profound love for you isn’t good enough? Thanks a lot.”

  His lips twitch in amusement, though I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a smile. When Grant really smiles, he does it with his whole face. His eyes crinkle at the edges in a way that sets my heart skittering and makes me wonder what I did to deserve such a gorgeous, strapping beast of a man in my life.

  “I mean it.” He places his hands heavily on my shoulders. “I’m in the middle of something at the moment. There’s been a new development in the case I’m working.”

  Aha. Now we’re getting closer to something interesting. By new development, I can only assume he’s talking about the ruby bracelet that went missing from one of New York’s elite inner circles last night. This makes half a dozen pieces in all, each one worth more than the last. They’re saying this one clocks in at over a million bucks.

  I almost feel sorry for Grant having to head up this investigation. With such high-profile victims as the CEO of a chain of hospitals and an energy tycoon known to contribute in presidential campaigns, he must feel the pressure to find the culprit before any more rich people are outraged.

  But the thief—again, not me—is a good one. According to the newspapers, there have only been two clues worth note. The first is a bath mat bearing the imprint of a woman’s size seven shoe. The other is a maid who claims to have seen a pair of peep-toes poking out from under a curtain in the same room where a diamond watch later went missing. It’s not much to go on, but I assume Grant has dozens of theories and facts he’s not sharing with the world.

  Theories and facts that appear to be pointing to yours truly.

  “What kind of development?” I ask.

  “Nice try. I know I’ve been distracted lately, but I’m not that distracted.” He squeezes my shoulders again, and there’s a finality to it that lingers long after the pressure is gone. “I’m sorry, love. I appreciate you coming all this way to see me, but I need to get back. I’ll have Cheryl show you out.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.” And not only because I need to keep him distracted for a few minutes longer. The truth is, I don’t like feeling shut out of his life—of our life.

  But all he does is sigh in frustration. “Why don’t you go home and enjoy the rest of your day? Aren’t you supposed to be finishing that novel for your book club?”

  “I tried, but it was about zombies. It gave me nightmares.”

  “What about your plans to overhaul the garden?”

  “Too many bugs.” I give a delicate shudder. “They also give me nightmares.”

  “There’s always that volunteer gig at the rare books room you were talking about…”

  I let him trail off, refusing to pick up the bait. Of all the book clubs and garden plans and volunteer opportunities Grant keeps dangling in front of me, that one is by far the most appealing. I’ve always loved the New York Library, and that room, in particular, has personal meaning for me. But the larger issue isn’t about how I spend my leisure time—it’s about how he doesn’t trust me to find a productive way to fill it. To him, the succession of long, empty days I’ve faced since renouncing my life of crime is nothing more than an
opportunity to get in trouble.

  It’s sweet that he’s so concerned for my well-being and all, but it’s almost enough to make me want to give the real Peep-Toe Prowler a run for her money.

  “You’re such a man sometimes,” I say with a tsk of real annoyance. “You just have a thing for the sexy librarian look.”

  He tilts his head, playing along. Our voices are low to prevent Cheryl from overhearing, but there’s no mistaking his interest. “Hmm. Maybe I do, now that you mention it. A pair of glasses here, a tight skirt there…”

  Oh, he’s good. A tight skirt and its immediate removal does have its appeal. I can feel myself faltering already. “I am not volunteering at a library just so you can get off on your weird, repressed fantasies,” I say.

  My insult, neatly aimed, goes wide. He laughs. “Nice try, but there’s nothing repressed about the things I’d like to do to you.”

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I say, though not very convincingly. I happen to adore that particular dark-eyed stare of his. “I’ll have you know I’m more than a pair of legs.”

  “True. But you have to admit they’re very nice legs.”

  Sure. Now he looks, his gaze intense as it moves from my toes along every curve of my calves and thighs. Dammit. That’s not what the shoes are there for. I put them on this morning to take the lead in the cat-and-mouse game of our marriage, not to get sidetracked by seduction.

  “Stop it,” I warn, “or you’re not getting anywhere near these legs again.”

  His smile only curves wider. “Oh, really? Is that a threat…or would you rather call it a dare?”

  “Let’s call it a promise.”

  “Excellent. A promise.” His voice comes out in a low rumble as he takes a predatory step toward me. He’s ostensibly letting a woman in a black suit and oversized handbag by, but I know better. Grant is an excellent tactician, and he’s using his environment to manipulate the scene.

  And me. Oh, how he loves to manipulate me, often in the best of ways.

  “In fact,” he continues, “I promise to do everything in my power to appreciate your legs to the fullest.”

  No, no, no. I refuse to be swayed by his hot, raking glances or the lulling heat of his proximity. Playing Grant’s games—however much a thoroughly enjoyable staple of our marriage they may be—is not on the menu today, and none of the pistons firing between my thighs will change my mind.