“Penelope!” Jordan chides, but Hijack just laughs.
“No, don’t make her apologize. One of the nicest things about Pen is that she’s never afraid to say what she’s thinking. Out with it. What do you have against flowers? Or is it me you object to?”
“It’s you,” I say promptly. “You want something.”
“I want a lot of things,” he replies just as promptly. Then, with a sly smile, “Is it working?”
“No.” I toss the flowers aside. “It’s going to take a lot more than a few wilty roses to get me to steal the Luxor Tiara for you.”
His guffaw of laughter is all the confirmation I need. I knew there was no way he was that happy to see me earlier. Any and all joy he found in my arrival had more to do with the fact that he’s an underhanded, sneaking thief than our past romance. He doesn’t remember me as the love of his life; he wants me to join forces with him.
With my suspicions thus confirmed, I feel much better about taking the arm he offers and allowing him to escort us to dinner. I like Hijack, but there’s a limit to the amount of aimless flattery I’m willing to swallow from any man who’s not my husband. As long as I know there’s a legitimate reason, I can accept it with decent grace.
I can accept it, but I’m not stealing that tiara.
Tara and I already checked out the main dining room, which is located directly opposite the mysterious cabaret lounge. A converted ballroom done up in every shade of gold imaginable, the dining room has been blocked off so all the windows are covered and no natural light can come in. The designers have made up for the darkness by gilding every possible surface. Tables, chairs, wallpaper, chandeliers—the whole place looks like King Midas walked through, lazily trailing his hands behind him.
In other words, it’s just my style. Even the forks look to be plated in gold.
“Can I get you ladies a drink?” Hijack asks, taking in the grandeur of the room with no more than a blink. Either he wasn’t kidding when he said he’s rich now and accustomed to such opulent sights, or, like me, he cased this room when he first arrived.
“None for me, thanks,” Jordan says.
“Penelope?” he asks, and then checks himself. “Sorry. I forgot you gave up liquor. You wouldn’t come with me to Germany, you don’t drink, you’re wedded to the FBI… I swear, if you weren’t aboard a ship of criminals bound for ungoverned waters, I’d take you for a nice, normal, law-abiding citizen.”
I laugh. “You wouldn’t be the first man to make that mistake.”
“Tell me about him.”
I can’t pretend not to know which him he’s referring to, especially since there’s a harsh edge to his request, uttered without preamble. I almost refuse to answer, a tart my marriage is none of your business on tip of my tongue. But it’s natural that people will wonder, especially if Lola continues acting as if I’m the Princess of Thieves. Hijack might be the first to broach the subject, but I doubt he’ll be the last.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, as if the ring I usually wear is a matter of supreme indifference to me.
Instead of responding right away, he places a hand on my waist and pulls me close. Under any other circumstances, it might look like two old friends having a cozy chat, but my dress is open in several places along the side. His fingers slip possessively over the curve of my waist and under the fabric that stretches down to my hip, his skin directly on mine. It’s not a feeling I cherish.
“Everything,” he murmurs. “I want to know everything.”
“You want to know everything about my husband while your hand is snaking toward my ass?”
He laughs out loud, showcasing his crooked grin. “Can you blame me? On this boat? In that dress? After all this time? Whoever this guy is, he can’t be very smart. If you were my wife, I’d never let you out of my sight.”
As I was once his girlfriend and he let me out of his sight all the time, I don’t credit this piece of gallantry with much. I also know he’s not going to give up easily, so I picture my husband in his full former-quarterback-current-badass-federal-agent glory and say the exact opposite of everything I know to be true.
May Grant have forgiveness on my soul.
“He’s short—maybe a few inches taller than me—and wiry.” I rattle off adjectives as though I’m reading them from a list in hopes that Hijack won’t notice the telltale flush that accompanies my lies. “Receding hairline, poor taste in clothes, not much in the way of a sense of humor. He’s also as dumb as a post. You wouldn’t believe how much confidential information he lets slip when his guard is down, how much I’m able to extract just by playing the dutiful wife. He thinks I’m visiting my sick aunt in Florida right now.”
Hijack digests this information with a low whistle, though I can’t tell whether he’s impressed by my dedication to the job or disgusted at what, if my confession were true, would lower me to the depths of depravity.
“Damn, Pen. I may have underestimated you.”
“People often do.” I shrug. “It’s why I get away with so much.”
Hijack turns to Jordan. “Have you met him?”
“Once or twice,” she says, concealing her smile behind her hand. “Most of the time, I feel bad for the guy. He had no idea what he was getting into when he married Pen.”
“Hey!” I protest. “It’s not all bad. He gets to bask in my sunny disposition. That’s worth something.”
“It’s worth everything,” Hijack says loyally, but Jordan just loses hold of her laughter. Grant would be the last one to say that my sunny disposition outweighs the effort he has to put in on a daily basis. According to him, every day is a new exercise in restraint.
“What department did you say he worked for, again?” Hijack asks.
I didn’t, and I have no intention of doing so in the future. Major Thefts cuts a little too close to home for most of the people on this boat.
“Oh, look,” I say, my voice too bright in my eagerness to change the subject. “They’re getting ready to serve dinner. I hope it’s something good. I’m starving.”
Hijack accepts my deflection by pushing us toward one of the tables near the back. “That, at least, sounds like the Penelope Blue I remember.”
* * *
The claustrophobia hits about the same time the fish course is brought out.
Unlike the airplane ride, I’m not expecting it this time. The shaky, panicked feeling hits me like a sack of rocks to the chest. I think it must have something to do with the overwhelming gold of the room, the lack of windows and open air. There are just so many people in such a contained setting…the walls are practically closing in.
Or, I think as the feeling of panic rises up from my chest to my throat, it’s because you know there’s no way out. For you or for Grant.
“Is something wrong?” Jordan asks as I begin my breathing exercises in earnest. “You don’t look so good.”
“I don’t feel so good,” I admit, my voice weak.
“Can I do anything to help?”
Other than finding Johnny Francis in the next five minutes to end this charade, I can’t think of a solution, so I just squeeze my eyes shut and will the moment to pass. “I’m feeling a little dizzy,” I say. “It’ll go away in a second.”
Her hand covers mine and squeezes. “Take a deep breath, Pen. In and out, in and out. There’s a good girl.”
I try to follow her low-voiced commands, but the heat in the room seems to be rising about five degrees per second. The knowledge that I have an audience doesn’t help much, especially when I was just starting to get used to my shiny new reputation. Usually when I’m combating my fear of small spaces, I do it in a dark, confined hole with only myself for company. My shame doesn’t love witnesses.
“You know, maybe I just need some air.” I rise from my seat, flinging out a hand when Jordan tries to follow. “No, please stay and f
inish eating. I’m going to step outside for a few minutes.”
I can tell she wants to argue, but she lets me go as I dart toward the nearest exit. I have every intention of making it out the door alone and with my dignity intact, but my other dinner companion proves himself to be much more solicitous than I remember.
“You look like hell. Come on—I know a shortcut.”
I want to tell Hijack where he can stick his interference, but as my gait is stumbling, I accept his company—especially since it turns out he really does know a shortcut. Bypassing the main exit for a door marked Restricted Access, a few seconds tick by before we end up on an outdoor terrace with sweeping views of the star-studded sky.
I barely see it, busy as I am gulping the night air, bent over double as I regain my calm. I’m so preoccupied that I barely register Hijack rubbing his hand in soothing circles on my bare back.
“You’ll be all right,” he murmurs. “Just keep your head down. Funny that I forgot about your…little problem.”
Nothing could have been designed to work faster as a balm on my fears. My little problem has never prohibited me from taking what I want. It may be unorthodox for a jewel thief to fall prey to bouts of claustrophobia, but I always get the job done. Always.
He moves his hand to the nape of my neck, his thumb and forefinger pressing firmly against the place where spine meets skull. That action alone is bad enough, but from there, he slips his fingers into my hair and begins rubbing at my scalp in a way that feels alarmingly intimate. With one final deep breath, I force myself into a standing position and step backward.
I don’t step very far. Now that my nerves are no longer intent on humiliating me, I’m able to take full note of our surroundings. This isn’t, as I’d originally assumed, an empty terrace. Several linen-covered tables are set up overlooking the water, and we’ve drawn the attention of the dozen or so diners fortunate enough to have landed a seat at what I’m rapidly coming to realize is the VIP dining lounge I’d skipped in favor of eating with Jordan.
Before my foot has a chance to touch the ground, my back comes into contact with a fleshy wall that I could swear wasn’t there a moment ago. A pair of strong hands grab me by the waist to ground me, the grip familiar for the fraction of a second it lingers.
“Whoa, there,” says a low, rumbling male voice. “Take it easy. You don’t look too steady on your feet.”
Even if I had been steady on my feet, I wouldn’t be now. I know those hands and I know that voice—and more importantly, I know the body that houses them both.
“She’s fine,” Hijack says for me, his hand once again taking a proprietary place on the small of my back. “She’s not used to the constant movement of the ship yet, that’s all.”
I manage a feeble smile and look up into my husband’s face. It’s a testament to his skills as a federal agent and a man of steel that no sign of his emotions are apparent. At least, no sign of his emotions are apparent to anyone meeting him for the first time. As I know full well, that unreadable look in his eyes only appears when he’s hiding something.
Amusement, if I’m lucky. Anger, if I’m not. At this point, it could go either way. I guess I’m not the only one who noticed Hijack’s hands in my hair.
Grant lifts a brow. “Good thing she has you to take care of her. And to speak for her, it seems. Does she have a name?”
“As it so happens, she does.” I offer him my hand. “Penelope. Penelope Blue. And you are?”
“Kit O’Kelly, at your service.”
I fully expect him to shake my hand or, given the formal way he introduced himself, bow at the waist, but he lifts my fingers to his lips and drops a light kiss on the surface instead. Between the tuxedo molded to his godlike form and the dark hair that gleams in the moonlight, it’s all I can do not to swoon at the contact. Especially since he lingers a moment longer than necessary, the touch of his mouth soft and warm against my skin. The whisper of his breath is a reminder of everything I want right now—and everything I can’t have.
“Penelope Blue, Penelope Blue…” He says my name with the affectionate inflection he normally reserves for our private time together. “The name is familiar, but I can’t think why. Should I know you?”
I struggle to keep a laugh from springing to my lips. The question is a ridiculous one. There’s no man on earth who knows me better than this one; even before we were married, he had an alarming amount of insight into my inner workings.
“Probably not,” I say. “I’m a pretty small-time thief. But you might know my father, Warren Blue.”
He pretends to think about it for a moment before shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. Were you in Prague last year?”
“Uh, no. I’ve never been.”
“Paris in the winter of ’14?”
“I’m sorry. You must have me confused with someone else.”
“Impossible. I never forget a face, especially one as beautiful as yours.”
I can’t help it. I blush. It’s the cheesiest and most overused compliment in the world, but the way Grant’s eyes—no, the way Kit O’Kelly’s eyes—are devouring me makes me feel as if I’m standing on deck without a scrap of clothing on. It’s been less than two days since he and I parted ways, and already his absence has become a physical ache.
This is a man I cannot live without, I think. And this is a man who’s never been in more danger than he is right now.
Despite the balmy air of the Caribbean, I shiver.
He sees it, of course. The stubborn idiot is unable to hide his concern over my well-being and starts to shrug out of his jacket.
“You’re cold,” he says. “Let me.”
I jump back, determined to put as much space between us as possible. If he touches me again, if he keeps being solicitous and caring to a perfect stranger, Hijack is going to notice. My ex-boyfriend is far too interested in my FBI husband for my comfort level. The last thing we need is him asking more questions.
“I’m fine,” I state, even as goose bumps break out on my arms. “It was just a cold breeze.”
Hijack clears his throat, and I turn to him with a smile, grateful for the distraction he offers. “This is Hijack,” I say, nudging him forward. “I don’t think you’ll have heard of him either—he’s even smaller-time than I am.”
Both men laugh obligingly.
“Hijack?” Grant offers his hand. “That’s an interesting name. Am I to take it literally?”
“Not while we’re on board the Shady Lady.” He shakes Grant’s hand, both their fingers gripped way too hard for a friendly greeting. “Except for the ship itself, there’s nothing here for me to hot-wire. We’re sorry to have interrupted your meal, but like I said, the lady needed some fresh air. She wasn’t feeling well.”
The lady still isn’t feeling a hundred percent, but no way is she going to show it. If Grant thinks for one second that I’m not able to see my side of this job through, we’re both done for. I’m supposed to be the one worrying about him out here, not the other way around.
As if to prove my fears, Grant examines me closely, his eyes sweeping over my body from head to toe. I’m suddenly aware of the bags beneath my eyes and the unsteadiness of my stance, both of which are difficult to hide under such intense scrutiny. I breathe evenly and deeply, hoping he’ll let us go without further incident.
We almost get there, too. But Hijack, sensing a rival in Kit O’Kelly, places his arm firmly around my waist. “Come on, sweetheart. We’ll find you somewhere to sit down.”
Damn. And we were so close.
“If your sweetheart is feeling faint, the last thing you want to do is head back inside,” Grant says, a hard edge to his voice. “The noise and heat inside the dining room are enough to overpower anyone. I have plenty of room at my table. Come. Join me.”
“Oh, no. We really couldn’t—” I begin, but it’s no use.
“I insist,” Grant says, and in such a way that neither Hijack nor I are capable of saying no. Without waiting for an answer, he leads the way toward the back of the terrace, weaving around tables as if he was born to this role.
If I’d doubted that this was the VIP area before, there’s no question of it now. The first clue is when we move past a table where my father and a few of his cronies sit sipping brandy, which he raises to me with a nod and a look of fabricated surprise at my husband. From there, we keep moving until we find ourselves facing a table with none other than Peter Sanchez, who I recognize from the FBI dossiers and from the same long-lashed eyes shared by his daughter.
Well, crap. So much for Grant keeping a low profile. He’s been on this boat for all of eight hours and he’s already wining and dining the owner. Someone’s been keeping himself busy.
“Peter, I hope you don’t mind my asking this nice couple to join us for the rest of our meal,” he says. “The lady found the dining room a touch overwhelming.”
Peter Sanchez, a middle-aged man with dashing salt-and-pepper hair and a white linen suit cut to perfection, rises to his feet to greet me. Knowing what I do about highly skilled criminals who are closely watched by the FBI, I’m surprised at how mild-mannered he seems. He looks like he’d be more at home dandling babies on his knee than running stolen goods over international borders.
“Of course, of course,” he says. “Welcome. Any friends of yours…”
“Oh, they’re not my friends. We just met.” Grant pulls out a chair for me and stands, his hand on the frame, until I lower myself into it. “But I’m given to understand that she’s one of your more exalted guests, so I assumed there could be no harm. Warren Blue, you said your father was?”
I stifle the groan that rises to my throat. He said that plenty loud for my dad to overhear, plenty loud for everyone to overhear. I don’t know what his game is yet, dining with the elite and playing off these highly visible, extravagant airs, but I don’t like it. He might as well walk around with a neon sign affixed to his back directing people where to stab him.
Saving Mr. Perfect Page 40