Seeking Mr. Wrong

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  Copyright © 2018 by Tamara Morgan

  Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © Shirley Green Photography

  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.

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

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

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1. The Heist

  2. The Mission

  3. The Support

  4. The Journey

  5. The Shady Lady

  6. The Survey

  7. The Player

  8. The Intruder

  9. The Diamond

  10. The Seduction

  11. The Visitor

  12. The Competition

  13. The Game

  14. The Threat

  15. The Conversation

  16. The Top Deck

  17. The Attempt

  18. The Interrogation

  19. The Villain

  20. The Plan

  21. The Bait

  22. The Missing Piece

  23. The Extraction

  24. The Escape

  25. The End

  26. The Wild Card

  27. The Report

  28. Epilogue

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  1

  The Heist

  “I’m telling you, it’s the only way we’re getting in.” I stab at the blueprints spread out on the table in front of the two of us. “You can set up as many detonations as you want, but that steel is impenetrable. All you’ll do is make a lot of noise and announce yourself to every single person within a two-block radius. Is that what you want?”

  Federal Agent Simon Sterling—a man most noted for his ability to freeze the happiness out of every human heart—crumples the blueprints in a fit of pique.

  “Fine,” he says. “You want to spend ten hours crouched inside a ceiling panel on the off chance the security guard will take an extra undocumented break that day? Be my guest. I’m not going to stop you.”

  “Thank you,” I say and grab the wadded-up papers from the floor. I make as much noise as possible as I lay them flat again, which serves to infuriate my husband’s partner further. He doesn’t like that I’m right—hates even more that of the two of us, I’m the one behaving most like a professional.

  Penelope Blue: former expert jewel thief turned FBI consultant by day, loving and totally underappreciated FBI wife by night. My talents know no bounds.

  “And it’s not as if the guard’s going to randomly take an extra break,” I explain in a level voice. One thing I’ve learned working with Simon over the past few months—he’s a lot easier to go up against if you make yourself sound as much like a robot as possible. “We’ll make sure he’s indisposed beforehand.”

  His interest gets the better of him. Although I wouldn’t go so far as to say his icy exterior cracks, it does thaw a little. “How will you do that?”

  “Oh, there are lots of ways. I’m sure Jordan can think of something.” I wave my hand. “Eye drops in the coffee will do in a pinch, but that approach lacks a certain savoir faire, don’t you think?”

  I take his annoyed exhalation of breath as a yes.

  “Okay, so he’s out of the way, and you can slip down and grab the amulet from above,” Simon says. “What then? The guard’s going to notice that it’s missing the second he returns. How do I extract you before he sounds the alarm?”

  “Aha! That’s where things start to get interesting.” I lean closer to the page, but I don’t get a chance to outline the details of my plan. Before I so much as point out the drainage duct my team and I uncovered during a routine walk-through, a real alarm sounds.

  I look up, startled, as an intermittent flash of red and the screaming whir of a fire alarm fill the conference room Simon and I share. To the best of my knowledge, I haven’t done anything to warrant an office-wide panic. In fact, the heist I’m outlining isn’t even real. It’s part of an exercise Simon and I are devising to help beef up the Major Thefts training program.

  “What did you do?” Simon asks, his own thoughts taking a similar turn. Like me, he doesn’t bolt at the sudden alarm, even though we can hear several people in the hallway starting to evacuate. “What are you trying to steal from the FBI this time?”

  “Nothing!” I protest. “And I resent the implication that I’m involved in every alarm that goes off around here.”

  For one, I haven’t stolen anything in almost three months. Ever since I became a consultant for the New York field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I’ve been a model citizen in every sense of the word. I don’t steal, I don’t lie, and I even pay my own taxes now—real IRS taxes. Did you know the government takes almost twenty percent of everything you earn? And people think I’m a thief.

  For another, I would never do something so clumsy as set off an alarm like this. Full-scale fire alarms are great if you want to bring every police and fire official in the city running—but that’s something that rarely works in a thief’s favor. The idea is not just to get the goods, but to get away with them. The less involved the authorities are, the better.

  In fact, the only reason I can think of to set off an alarm would be because someone wanted to create a distraction. If, for example, there was an event taking place inside this building that I wanted to interrupt…

  My head snaps up. “Oh, no. It can’t be. He wouldn’t dare.”

  Simon’s questioning gaze meets mine.

  “Simon, what time is Grant’s physical?”

  “Four thirty,” he says without hesitation. He has a computerlike memory for schedules and lists. It’s infallible most of the time, but don’t bother asking him to remember a girl’s birthday or where she prefers to order lunch, even when you know the answer will never be the sushi place around the corner.

  “And what time is it right now?” I ask.

  He doesn’t have to look at his watch, either. Clocks are programmed into his android brain. “Four thirty. Why? You don’t think—”

  No, I don’t think. I know.

  “That sneaky, lying bastard,” I say as I bolt out of my chair and head for the door. Normally, making sudden movements around Simon isn’t a good idea, as he enjoys pulling out his handcuffs on any pretext he can find. For once, however, I have nothing to worry about. My husband’s partner and I are in perfect unity. “I thought it was we
ird when he scheduled the meeting for so late on a Friday. I should have known he was up to something.”

  I dash out of the conference room with Simon on my heels. With a quick glance up and down the hallway, I scan for evidence that we’re all going to die in a fiery blaze. I don’t see or smell smoke coming from either direction, nor is anyone evacuating at a pace other than an annoyed walk.

  Just as I thought—a false alarm.

  “What’s the standard protocol for an alarm like this?” I ask, mentally calculating the time it will take for the building to go on lockdown and open back up again. I don’t like my odds.

  Simon hesitates, which goes to show how little he trusts me even after all this time. We spend almost twenty hours a week together now, planning fake heists and advising foreign nationals on the safest way to transport their jewels, but he’d still happily consign me to the trunk of his car, should the opportunity arise. Fortunately, he’s the one person who knows Grant better than I do, and he eventually reaches the same conclusion as me: we’ve been duped.

  “They’ll evacuate the civilians, close off the floors at each end, and post a team at every exit,” he says, his tone clipped. “As soon as the all clear comes through, they’ll open it back up again.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  “Long enough for him to get what he wants.” He sighs. “I don’t know, Blue. He’s awfully determined. Maybe we should just let him—”

  “No way.” I take off for the emergency exit. The medical offices are located five floors down, and they’re five floors I intend to take at a flying pace. Forget the teams at the exits and metal fire doors coming to a close—I’m light on my feet and nimble enough to squeeze through any open space. And I will, too.

  My husband might be able to send the entire FBI building scattering, and he might be able to push even Simon beyond the limits of his patience, but there’s one person he can’t order around—no matter how hard he tries.

  That person, as he well knows, is me.

  * * *

  As expected, I find my husband flashing his most disarming, crinkly eyed smile at the doctor trying to exit the medical office in accordance with standard evacuation protocols.

  “But, Dr. Lee, I need a quick signature here at the bottom, and I’m good to go.” He hands her a slip of paper. “I’m afraid I won’t see you again today with all this going on. Would you mind skipping the exam just this once?”

  Dr. Lee, who’s both far too young and far too unmarried to withstand a smile like Grant’s, takes the piece of paper. “I don’t know, Agent Emerson. This is highly unethical.”

  “You know as well as I do that this is only a formality. I passed the physical test last week and have never felt better. Please? For me?”

  “Don’t do it,” I warn from the doorway. It’s difficult to hear me over the sound of the alarm still clanging in the distance, but I can make myself heard when I set my mind to it. And my mind, to put it mildly, is set. “He’s lying through his teeth. He passed the physical, yes—and reinjured himself to the point where he can’t even stand up straight.”

  I can’t hear Grant’s low, muttered curse, but I can imagine it just fine—I’ve heard it plenty enough times in my life for that.

  “Look at him,” I add. “He’s not fit for anything but another round of therapy.”

  He turns to me with a scowl. He also stands up incredibly straight, though I don’t miss the grimace of pain that crosses his face as he does it. That one is going to cost him.

  “The building is under evacuation, Penelope,” he says. His voice is easy even if his stance isn’t. “Civilians are supposed to be outside by now.”

  Yes, which would explain why he pulled the alarm in the first place. Step one, get rid of the wife. Step two, flirt with the doctor to get his way. Step three, return to work against the advice of countless medical professionals and the screaming pain of his own body telling him to slow down.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you give me that release form.” I fold my arms and firm my stance. Grant’s eyes brighten with the self-satisfied gleam of a man who thinks he’s found a loophole, so I hastily amend my command. “That unsigned release form. Believe me—I’m not a woman you want to cross right now.”

  Dr. Lee looks at the form in alarm.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Grant wheedles as he hands the doctor a pen. “She’ll do or say anything to get what she wants.”

  Ha. Talk about a man willing to go to any means to achieve his ends. I don’t know how illegal it is to fake a fire at an FBI building just to harass a doctor into signing a medical release, but I can’t imagine it’s looked upon with favor. Not that he cares about any of that. I’ve never met a man so dishonorably honorable as my husband. Sure, he fights crime and locks up bad guys for a living, but you wouldn’t believe the kind of rules he breaks to do it—and without so much as a twinge of conscience.

  Behold, our marriage in a nutshell.

  “And he’s trying to trick you into clearing him for a job that he’s in no way, shape, or form ready for,” I reply. “Give it to me, or I’ll have to report you both.”

  Grant narrows his eyes. “Penelope, so help me…”

  I narrow my eyes right back. “Grant, so help me…”

  “Maybe I should give you two a minute,” Dr. Lee says with a nervous laugh. “I get the feeling this isn’t really about a release form.”

  I ignore her. This is too important to lose focus. See, three months ago, my husband was shot in the line of duty. A bullet entered his back and emerged through his abdomen, barely missing his spine and all major internal organs. He’s lucky to be walking—luckier still to be alive—but to hear him tell the tale, his injury is nothing more than a scratch that needs a kiss and a bandage.

  The thing is, I have kissed him, and I have changed his bandages—and still I’ve watched him struggle for the past ninety days to reconcile the body he once had and the one he’s stuck with now. He’s not healing the way he’s supposed to. He pushes too hard and tries to do too much. His greatest goal in life is to get cleared to return to field duty, and he’s worked single-mindedly toward that goal since the day he was discharged from the hospital, common sense be damned.

  But he’s not ready. I know it and Simon knows it and, yes, even Grant knows it. Getting him to admit that out loud, however, is an exercise in head-against-the-wall futility.

  “Poke him,” I suggest with a gesture at Grant’s stomach. “Go ahead. Stick a finger out and jab him right in the scar. See what happens.”

  Grant’s scowl lightens to a half smile, his lips turned up at the corners. “Is that a challenge, my love?”

  Despite the fact that I would like to poke this man into full-on obedience, I can’t resist that smile or the playful way his coffee-black eyes twinkle in the flashing red alarm. There’s nothing he loves more than turning our arguments into a game. He thinks he has a better chance of winning that way.

  “Sure, if you want to call it that,” I concede. “Let’s make it a challenge. If Dr. Lee pokes you as hard as she can and you don’t flinch, I’ll let you keep your stupid form.”

  “And if I do flinch?”

  “You don’t return here until I decide you’re ready.” I hold his gaze. “You’re not the only one who can be stubborn, you know.”

  He extends a hand, holding it steady until I slip my palm against his. The rough texture of his skin is warm and familiar, as is the way he lingers over the perfunctory handshake a second too long.

  “Then it’s a deal.” He turns to Dr. Lee. “You heard my wife. If you poke me and I don’t move a muscle, you can go ahead and sign the form. We’ll be on our way and won’t bother you again.”

  Dr. Lee blinks at him, her green eyes owlish behind their frames. “That’s, um, not how any of this works. You guys know that, right?”

  “And i
f he does move a muscle, you need to prescribe him at least four more weeks of physical therapy,” I counter, ignoring her. “You might also want to throw in psychological counseling, because the man clearly needs it.”

  Grant takes a step in my direction. “I beg your pardon,” he says, low voice grumbling. “There’s not a damn thing wrong with my brain, and there never has been. Except for maybe the day I married you.”

  I match my step to his, drawing so close we’re practically chest to chest. “If that’s not clear proof you’re out of your mind, then I don’t know what is. A fire alarm, Grant? Really? Have I taught you nothing?”

  As if on cue, the siren turns off, plunging the three of us into a ringing silence. I pause a moment before I move, allowing myself time to adjust to the sudden alteration in my surroundings.

  “Huh,” Grant says. He casts a glance at the clock on the wall and frowns. “That didn’t take nearly as long as I wanted it to.”

  “Probably because I sent Simon to go call in the false alarm,” I say and turn to the doctor. “Does this mean you’ll have time to do a full exam now? I wasn’t kidding before—he’s good at hiding it, but he’s in a lot of pain.”

  “No way.” She holds up her hands. “I’m not doing anything except maybe sending you both down to psych.”

  “Hey, now!” I protest. “There’s no call for drastic measures.”

  “Yeah,” Grant agrees with a laugh. “I’m probably okay, but you can’t send my wife down there. She’d never make it out again.”

  Grant and I turn toward the doctor as one, aligning together to defend ourselves against her. The way we conduct our marriage may be unorthodox, but there’s no denying that we work best when we work as a team.

  Unfortunately, there’s no time for me to convince the doctor to perform her test after all, because Simon appears at the door, breathless and red-faced.

  “Oh, good. You’re both still here.” He nods in Grant’s direction. “I was up in the section chief’s office calling off the alarm, and you’ll never guess what just got the all clear.”

  “No way,” Grant says, his eyes lighting from within. “They actually approved it?”