Saving Mr. Perfect

by Tamara Morgan

  I’m going to be strong. I’m going to prove my innocence. I’m going to show this man what I think about his underhanded tactics…by trying a few underhanded tactics of my own.

  I’m not feeling particularly strong or innocent as he edges even closer with a determined gleam in his eye, so it’s for the best that we’re hit with a sudden blast of toxic air. My eyes sting and my lungs recoil and all thoughts of seduction reach an abrupt end.

  Good old Riker. His timing hasn’t always been impeccable, but he’s managed it this go-around. That smell means one thing and one thing only.

  It’s showtime.

  * * *

  The smell of Liquid Evacuation (patent not pending) is difficult to nail down, but most people who encounter it say it smells like a deadly cocktail of a dozen different chemicals—a sulfurous tang you do not want anywhere near your lungs.

  In reality, it’s perfectly harmless…much like the group of thieves currently breaking into the FBI to have a look around.

  The chemical made its way into the building thanks to the woman who slipped past on her way to Cheryl just moments ago. Riker planted a few drops in her bag while she snagged her daily coffee from the cart in front of the building. With a delayed reaction of about ten minutes, the timing of the chemical’s release was perfectly planned to allow her inside and past all security checkpoints before it hit.

  Grant smells it as quickly as I do. His first instinct, as always, is protective, and he propels me to the far side of the room so fast, I barely have time to register what’s happening. His hand presses my head against his chest, where I feel his heartbeat pick up and his muscles coil in preparation to hoist me over his shoulder and carry me to safety, fireman-style.

  My own body experiences something akin to a swoon. Oh, how I love this man. There’s so much nobility in him, it scares me sometimes.

  His next instinct isn’t so sweet. It takes two seconds for the scent to register and two more for him to sift through his memories until he recalls where he’s come across it before. His arms drop as suddenly as they came up.

  “Oh, no. Oh, hell no. That better not be what I think it is.”

  “What do you think it is?” I ask all-too-innocently. “Is it anthrax?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Anthrax doesn’t have a scent. That smells an awful lot like—”

  Three agents burst through the back door, cutting Grant’s sentence short. Not that I need to hear it to know what he’s thinking. The way he looks at me—as if he’d like to tie me to the metal chair so I can’t escape—says it all.

  You did this. You’re attacking the FBI.

  Yes. Yes, I am, sweet husband. Deal with it.

  “Emerson, there you are. We’ve shut down the ventilation system.” The largest of the agents is clearly in charge, and he has the enormously wide chest to prove it. He looks like a Saint Bernard carrying a cask of ale around its neck. “We’re isolating the floor and evacuating the rest of the building. Cheryl, make sure no one comes off those elevators.”

  He stops, as if only now noticing the diminutive woman Grant is inches away from murdering with his bare hands. “Is she with you?”

  The she in question schools her features to give nothing away. For all this man knows, I’m nothing more than an innocent bystander. A victim of bad timing. A poor, put-upon wife.

  Hey, stranger things have happened.

  “Don’t evacuate.” Grant’s voice is tightly controlled, a slice of cold, hard steel coming to the surface. “Don’t isolate the floor. Don’t shut down the elevators.”

  “But they’re saying it could be something lethal—”

  He doesn’t even blink. “Call it off, and call it off now.”

  “I don’t think we can ignore—”

  “I’m not asking you to think. I’m asking you to call it off. Anything that’s standard protocol, any action we’d normally take. Don’t do it.” Grant turns to me, his dark eyes flashing. “And make sure you get those ventilation fans back on as fast as possible. We don’t want anyone taking advantage of the downtime to sneak inside the ducts.”

  Please. As if FBI vents are big enough for that. Even the lowest-level thieves know they’re impossible to navigate.

  “I think the smell is already starting to go away,” I point out—which, indeed, it is. Jordan, our chemist and explosives expert, worked out a new formula recently. This one has a delay activation of ten minutes, an active smell for half that, and then all trace of it disappears. It’s a toxic smokescreen. Poof and then it’s gone. “Maybe someone had gasoline on their clothes. That happened at a movie theater I went to once, in Jersey. Some lady spilled gas all over herself at the pump and had no idea she was carrying it around on her. We thought the entire place was going to blow.”

  Agent Barrel Chest listens to my story with interest, taking me for the innocent that I’m pretending to be. Grant, however, grips me by the elbow, the clasp tight enough to warn me what thin ice I’m on.

  The other agents sniff tentatively, noticing for themselves that the air is starting to clear.

  “See?” I say. “It must have been an accident. Someone probably stepped in a weird puddle.”

  “It does seem unlikely…”

  “I wonder if an air conditioning unit went out…”

  “They’re not reporting anything on the other floors…”

  One by one, the agents begin doubting their senses. Their shoulders relax, and their guards lower inch by inch. Only Grant remains unconvinced, refusing to let go of my arm—bless his suspicious heart.

  “Not good enough,” he says. “I want to know if anyone’s had any unusual visitors or received unexpected deliveries today.” He glowers at me. “Also, the names and IDs of all independent contractors we’ve hired in the past three months. No job is too big or small—even some guy filling in for the window-washing staff. Got it? I’m especially interested in males between the ages of twenty-five and fifty, about five-eight, nondescript in every regard.”

  That would be Oz, the fourth member of our team. A master of disguise, he can sneak in anywhere undetected.

  Well, anywhere except this building. We might be good, but we’re not that good.

  “There’s no need,” I tell Grant truthfully—knowing he won’t believe me and loving the irony of it all. “He’s not here.”

  Agent Barrel Chest perks up at that, but Grant draws me a few paces out of his range of hearing. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t open your mouth again.”

  “But I have to breathe!”

  “Not for much longer.”

  “Oh, dear. This is because I called you my sweet darling, isn’t it?”

  The stifled choke of his rage-fueled laughter is a sound I won’t soon forget. It’s like a werewolf being forced to swallow his howl and finding he rather likes the taste.

  “Uh, Emerson?” Cheryl coughs discreetly, intervening before Grant can respond.

  “Yes?”

  “When you say you want to know about visitors, are you counting Blackrock?”

  His head swivels in her direction so fast, it leaves me dizzy. “Blackrock is here? Now?”

  She scans her computer before nodding. “Sterling had a meeting set up with him at two. I haven’t checked him out yet, so I assume they’re still back there. Do you want me to notify him?”

  I could kiss Cheryl for her perfect timing, and I make a mental note to get her an even deadlier concealed weapon for next Christmas. Maybe a lipstick grenade or something.

  “Goddammit!” Grant swears. “So that’s what this is. Make sure Simon has backup, and get a man posted at every exit. Blackrock doesn’t leave until I personally search him, got it?”

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Agent Barrel Chest asks as he steps forward, ready to set his impressive physique into action. “Who’s Blackrock?”
<
br />   “I don’t know what’s happening yet, but I’m going to find out,” Grant says. He’s careful to ignore the second half of the question, but I don’t mind, because I already know the answer. Blackrock is the code name for Warren Blue, an infamous thief-turned-FBI-informant who’s done miraculous things in helping my husband and his partner, Simon Sterling, put bad guys behind bars.

  He’s also my father, the man who taught me everything I know about breaking into highly secured government facilities. So you can imagine Grant’s concern.

  “As for you…” Grant finds himself at a loss, gazing around the lobby for the best place to stash me while he tends to his duties. From the look on his face, I get the feeling he’d like to knock me unconscious with a potted ficus, but that’s frowned upon, even by the feds.

  “Why don’t I stay here?” I motion to the metal chair, knowing the mere fact that I’m suggesting it will force him to reject the idea out of hand. “Then I won’t be in your way while you go about your business. It sounds super important.”

  “Oh no,” he says, distracted enough to take the bait. “You’re not going anywhere.” He yanks me closer, holding me against the hard wall of his side. When the other agents look at him curiously, he adds a lackluster, “I want to be able to keep an eye on her until we know the danger is passed.”

  “Maybe you could leave me under Cheryl’s protection,” I suggest.

  Cheryl lifts her hands. “No thanks. I’m not going anywhere near this one.”

  “I don’t mind keeping an eye on her,” Agent Barrel Chest says, but I can tell that option doesn’t weigh much in Grant’s opinion. There’s no telling what I might get his coworker to do with a few smiles. Federal agents I’m not married to find me incredibly charming.

  Time is ticking by, and Grant still has no idea what I’m up to, so he pulls me with him as he strides out of the room. “Fine. I guess you’ll have to stay with me. Don’t look at anyone, don’t talk to anyone, and don’t you dare try anything. Understand?”

  “Yes, dear,” I say meekly. I can’t even pretend to be outraged, because I’m too busy keeping the smile from my face. In a few short steps, I’ve now breached the hallowed walls of the FBI—and with nary a handcuff in sight.

  Of course, being manacled to Grant’s side isn’t conducive to finishing the job, especially since he doesn’t slow down as he moves through the maze of hallways to the interview room where my father is being held.

  We’re halfway down a particularly gray corridor when Simon appears. A permanent frown carves into his face, his customary tie pulled so tight, it’s a wonder his head doesn’t pop and send gallons of shellac-like hair product flying. His frown only deepens when he spots me. Despite the fact that my father’s capture has done great things for his career, Simon isn’t much of a Penelope Blue fan.

  “What are you doing?” Grant demands. “Why aren’t you with Warren?”

  “He’s waiting for me in the interview room. I heard there was a breach?”

  “Get back there immediately—and keep an eye out for anyone who might be Oz.”

  Simon turns to me and levels a knowing glare. “What did she do?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Grant says grimly.

  “Want me to beat it out of her?”

  There’s a long enough pause to cause me momentary concern. I mean, I know Grant and I have our problems, but there’s a line between tricking a spouse and torturing one. It’s thin, but it’s there.

  “Can I get a rain check on that?” Grant asks, his eyes fixed on me. “I’d like to keep the option open.”

  “Why, Grant Emerson, I think that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said.” I nod back down the hallway. “I’ll make this easy on both of you and go home. I know the way out.”

  “No!” both men yell at once. Grant releases a frustrated groan. “We don’t have time for this. Simon, get back to Warren, and don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll take Penelope—”

  He glances at the door we’ve stopped outside, which I now notice has his name engraved on a metal panel. My heart picks up speed as I realize it’s his personal office. Jackpot.

  I’m afraid my rapid pulse is going to give me away, so I pull my arms out of his grasp and pretend to rub the sore spots.

  “Lock her inside,” Simon suggests and pushes the door open. “You don’t have any windows or vents, and we can post a man in the hallway to make sure she doesn’t sneak out.”

  Grant grunts his agreement. “It isn’t ideal, but there’s not much damage she can do in there.” He turns to me with an expression that’s difficult to read. Determined and professional, yes, but also pained. “We talked about this, Pen. You’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember? Head down, nose clean. There are people here who would like to see you—”

  He shakes his head, cutting his own words short. He finishes instead with, “I’m sorry to do this to you, but I can’t have you wandering around the building. Not until I know what you’re up to.”

  “I can’t believe you think me capable of such deception,” I say, playing up the role of wounded wife. It’s not a stretch. My profile has been nothing but low for months—and it hasn’t been an easy thing to maintain. A little credit would be nice. “After all we’ve been through together.”

  He’s not fooled for a second. “And I can’t believe you’d use Jordan’s chemical again. You should have known I’d recognize it.” I had known; that was part of the plan. Thankfully, all the late nights and overworked hours have thrown my husband off his game—he doesn’t yet realize I wanted to be caught. “Now get in there. We’ll deal with this later.”

  He gently but firmly nudges me inside his office, offering a curt command to Simon before slamming the door and turning the key.

  I hold my breath and count to ten before I look around, fearful this might be too good to be true—or perhaps Grant is toying with me, coming out on top in our endless game of cat-and-mouse. But as I turn to face those four white walls—Grant’s home away from home, the place where he’s leading an investigation that somehow pinpoints his wife as the Peep-Toe Prowler—the heady realization sinks in.

  I did it. I’m in.

  I guess infiltrating the FBI isn’t so hard after all.

  2

  THE OFFICE

  I start with Grant’s desk, since that seems the likeliest place to find clues.

  The exact shape and scope of what I’m looking for is hazy, and a surge of anxiety moves through me as I consider how much I’ve bitten off. Under normal circumstances—normal being premeditated theft—the target goal is clear. A two-million-dollar necklace. A shipment of uncut diamonds. A gilded statue in the shape of a horse’s bottom half. These things are straightforward and tangible. Simple, if you will.

  Oh, how different my life was when money was the motivating factor. Stealing hearts isn’t nearly as easy as stealing valuables.

  “All right,” I mutter and survey the long wooden desk, taking in the vast stacks of paperwork with a sigh. “If I were highly classified information about the most important person in my life, where would I be?”

  There is no easy answer to that question. For all his highly professional ways, Grant has always been a bit of a pack rat. He loves antiques and collecting things, and he has a hard time throwing items away if he has any sort of sentimental attachment to them. Our home is a testament to this, filled to bursting with rickety chairs and colorful paintings, all of which are older than dirt and often smell like it.

  It’s sweet, his romantic attachment to things of the past, but it’s hardly ideal when time isn’t on my side. I have to shuffle through dozens of file folders, a framed photo of the two of us on our second honeymoon, and several antique paperweights before I even make it to the surface of the desk. There are plenty of serious-looking documents among the piles, but none that contain any mention of Penelope Blue, t
he Peep-Toe Prowler, or a code name he might be using to protect me.

  Man, FBI agents have boring jobs. There’s enough paperwork here to keep me busy forever—and that’s with reading the reports, not writing them. It’s hard to imagine a man as active and virile as Grant sitting stooped over this desk for hours at a time, but his dedication to the job is such that I don’t doubt he does everything asked of him.

  I’m not upset about the time he spends here, of course, and I would never ask him to give up something he loves solely because it conflicts with my own worldview. But, oh, how I miss having that same sense of purpose, that feeling of all-consuming passion for the job. Once upon a time, I too buried myself under plans and notes, got home late and left early, lost myself in the pursuit of something huge.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had that in my life, and I miss it more than I ever thought possible—so much, it’s almost a physical ache. Everyone needs a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

  Even a miserable thief like me.

  As the desk is proving itself fruitless as a source of anything but morose self-reflection, I turn to the filing cabinets along the back of the office. There are five cabinets in all, a wall of information just waiting for me to jump in. If I were electronically inclined, I’d probably have more luck trying to crack the password on Grant’s computer, but I have a hunch it’s not my best bet. Having been personally investigated by this man in the past, I know for a fact that he’s a hands-on investigator. He hits the streets, he watches and waits, he talks to people, and he follows paper trails.

  He sometimes even marries his suspects. That’s the level of dedication I’m talking about.

  The filing cabinet isn’t locked, and the top drawer pulls out smoothly, indicating it’s well-oiled and probably used several times a day. It’s also much better organized than his desk, and it doesn’t take long to locate the bulging folder with my name on it. Penelope Blue. Right behind it, there’s an even bigger one that reads Warren Blue. Two jewel thieves, connected by blood and talent, a menace to society and the world at large.