Saving Mr. Perfect Read online

  “That’s all I’ve been able to get without raising any red flags.”

  “That’s all I need.” To be honest, I didn’t even need that much. Tara isn’t an inconspicuous person. I could walk into any shop on this block, and I’m sure the clerks would remember precisely how many times she’d walked by their window and how little she was wearing at the time. “And stop acting so worried. I’m just going to ruffle her feathers, see what shakes out. I’ll report back at oh-five-hundred hours.”

  “Do you know what oh-five-hundred hours means?”

  “No, but it sounds cool. Did I sound cool when I said it?”

  “It’s five o’clock in the morning.”

  I make a horrified face. “Oh. Never mind. I’ll report back at that plus about twelve more.”

  Grant is trying hard to play it cool, but he kisses the top of my head in a worried, possessive way that makes me feel like a breakable doll instead of the highly bendable human being that I am.

  “I don’t know why you’re being so weird,” I grumble, but I kind of like it when he’s weird. Being cherished is still new enough to appeal to my romantic senses. “Riker and Oz will be watching me the entire time. We have a plan.”

  “That shouldn’t comfort me, but it does.”

  “That’s because you don’t have any other choice. There’s no one you can trust inside the Bureau, so you have to turn to your dark, seedy connections for the inside track.”

  “If you don’t stop talking like you’re in a gangster movie, I’m not going to let you help anymore.”

  “You can borrow Oz later, if you want,” I offer. “You could use him to investigate Christopher on the sly—maybe set him up as his new hedge fund manager or something. Christopher looks like the type of guy who has one of those.”

  Grant shakes his head. “It wouldn’t work. Leon’s known about Oz for years.”

  “Really? For years?” It doesn’t take much of a mental calculation to reach the next part. “Wait a minute—does that mean Christopher has known about me for years?”

  My jewel thief senses start tingling, and I don’t mean in a good way. Nothing about Christopher’s actions that day at the FBI indicated he thought of me as anything other than the sweet, docile wife of a coworker. One who needed protecting, no less. He even called again yesterday to remind me of his phone number, in case I didn’t write it down the first time around.

  Highly suspicious. But then, that’s what you’d expect from a double agent.

  “Yeah, he knows,” Grant says.

  “So he also knows I’m a jewel thief?”

  Grant groans. “When we’re sitting inside government property, could you please use the past tense? I swear, it’s like you’re trying to get the FBI to keep investigating you.”

  I ignore him. I know for a fact my husband checks his vehicle for bugs on the regular. “How long have you known him?”

  “Long enough not to trust him.”

  “Does he know our personal story?”

  “Most of it, yes.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense! He was so nice to me at your office—not at all like Cheryl or Simon. They treat me like I’m going to steal your soul if they take their eyes off me for one second. He actually seemed pleased to meet me.”

  “Yeah, well.” Grant casts me a speaking glance. “As I’ve said about a dozen times already, Leon’s motives aren’t exactly pure where you’re concerned. You’d almost think there was a reason I told you to stay away from him.”

  Not good enough. Grant has never warmed up to Riker, not really, and he’d gladly sit here for the next half hour and share a litany of reasons why. In fact, I suspect he’d enjoy himself in the process. If he has nothing to say about Christopher except stay away, I can only assume he’s gone well beyond dislike. We’re talking out-and-out hatred here.

  I cast him my most alluring smile. “But if I’m going to try and weasel information out of Tara about this guy, don’t you think you should give me some insight into his background? It’s not good to send a fellow agent in blind.”

  He groans again, this time passing a hand over his eyes. “For the love of all that’s holy, you are not to go around claiming you’re a federal agent now,” he says. “And you’re not going to weasel information about him out of Tara. You’re going to see what she’s up to, remember? Chat about hairstyles and diamonds. Normal stuff.”

  “You’re deranged if you think anything Tara and I do together is normal.”

  The deep, laughing breath he draws at that is a clear sign he’s aware of that fact and is doing his best not to dwell on it.

  “Forget Leon,” he says. “Forget the double agent theory. I’m sorry I mentioned it in the first place. This is just you spending some time with your family…and if you happen to come across helpful information in the process, you can pass that information along to me. But there’s no pressure whatsoever to make that happen.”

  “Geez. You make it sound so boring.”

  “Good.” His laughter drops at the same time his hand comes up to cup my face, the pad of his thumb tracing my lips. The rough texture causes a shudder to move through me, the pressure of his skin on mine more intimate than a kiss. “Boring is safe, Penelope. Please remember that.”

  I do remember it, but I also know, deep down, that safe is boring. And if that’s what my husband wants in a wife, I’m afraid our troubles have only just begun.

  * * *

  “Penelope!” Tara pulls open the door to her hotel room with delighted surprise—or, at the very least, a convincing approximation of delighted surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. What are you doing here?”

  “I went to visit my dad, but he’s not in his room,” I lie, and then, because it’s a lie she could easily verify for herself, I add, “Either that, or he’s hiding from me. I think he sometimes bribes the bellhop when he doesn’t want company.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought the same thing myself a few times.” Tara pulls the door open, inviting me in. “Makes us seem pathetic, doesn’t it? Clamoring for a man’s attention rarely looks good on a lady.”

  I’m so taken aback by her friendly overture, I don’t step over the threshold right away. This feels suspiciously like a trap.

  “Can I get you a drink?” she asks. If she notices my hesitation, it doesn’t show as she waves over the modest accommodations. And by modest, I mean it still costs at least a thousand bucks a night. “I know you’re more of an eater than a drinker, but I don’t have any food except what’s in the minibar. You’re welcome to it.”

  As tempting as an eight-dollar Toblerone that Tara has to pay for sounds, I pass. “Water is good, thanks.”

  While her back is turned, I peek around the hotel room, which has much more of that lived-in feeling than my father’s. Like I said before, my dad likes to be able to pack up and leave without a trace at a moment’s notice. With this much stuff lying around, Tara wouldn’t be able to get rid of her traces in a moment—probably not even five moments. In addition to overflowing garbage cans, there are more than a few discarded outfits draped on the bed and a stack of books on the coffee table. I tilt my head to try and make out the titles, but Tara interrupts me by handing me a glass of water.

  Huh. I never thought of my stepmother as a reader before. I’m not a reader, either—you can’t eat books or hawk them at pawn shops, so they didn’t figure much in my adolescence—but libraries have always had a special place in my heart. You could say Grant and I fell in love in one.

  “So, what’s up?”

  I stare at Tara for a second before I realize she’s posed a question and is waiting for my answer. “Oh. Um. Shopping.”

  The plan—so far as we have one—is to get Tara into as public a place as possible so Oz can cause a distraction while I rummage through her purse for clues. Breaking into her hotel room is out for the same rea
son Grant and his team can’t gain access—it’s not just bellhops being bribed by my father around here—and there’s a limit to how much information I can glean through cunning alone.

  I mean, I’m good at cunning, but I’m not without my limits.

  “You want to go shopping?” Tara asks, slightly perplexed.

  “Yes.”

  “With me?”

  “Yes.”

  “On purpose?”

  She’s making this much more difficult than it needs to be. “Yes. You did say you wanted to maybe grab lunch with me sometime soon. Or were you showing off because my dad was in the room at the time?”

  It’s not the nicest thing I’ve ever said to Tara, but it’s not the meanest, either, and she takes the challenge as intended. One thing that’s great about only knowing conniving, egotistical thieves is we’re easy to manipulate. Few of us can resist a dare.

  “Of course not,” she says, proving my point to perfection. “I’ll get my purse.”

  * * *

  “But I want to go to Barneys.”

  I follow Tara’s breakneck speed down the sidewalk with a hitch in my step and a stitch in my side. It’s been too long since I adhered to Riker’s strict exercise regimen, and the speed at which that woman moves in high heels is nothing short of miraculous. If I’d had any doubts about the likelihood of her being the Peep-Toe Prowler before—or about the ability of any thief to manage million-dollar heists in those monstrosities—those doubts are shot, buried, and long since decomposed. She could hike the moon in stilettos and not miss a step.

  “I have a whole list of things I need to get,” I say with a pant. “I counted, and it’s been at least four years since I bought a new bra. I can’t decide if that makes me ecologically responsible or just gross.”

  “I hate those big stores. They have too many floors and way too many hiding places. You never know who could be in there, waiting for a chance to pounce.”

  I can’t argue with that logic. That’s why we picked it—and why Oz is lying in wait near the sprinkler system. The forecast inside that building is looking very cloudy indeed.

  “But you love Barneys,” I protest.

  “And it’s gross, Pen. Really gross. You should get a new bra at least every six months.”

  Oh, sure. Now she’s full of motherly advice. “You used to go there all the time without any complaints,” I say. “I remember you dragging me along and making me pretend to raid the makeup counter so you could hit the designer purse section.”

  There’s a slight halt in her step. “That was over a decade ago. It doesn’t count.”

  “Easy for you to say. You didn’t get felt up by that creepy security guard in the holding room. He never pressed charges against teenage girls on purpose. He wanted us to come back and try again.”

  “I know.” She pauses. “For what it’s worth, I feel terrible about it now. I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”

  Her apology is so sudden and unexpected, I almost topple on a sidewalk crack. I’m also startled into offering a piece of solace in return.

  “It wasn’t too bad.” I hurry to catch up, and when she slows her pace to match mine, it almost feels as though we’re purposely walking side by side. “I was ready for it the second time he tried. I bit his hand. Drew blood, too.”

  “Good girl.”

  A surge of pride fills me, followed shortly by another surge I strongly suspect is guilt. Both feelings are foreign to me, and I’m not sure where I’m supposed to put them. Tara’s approbation has never been something I’ve sought or desired, and to receive it now—eleven years too late and from a woman I consider a peer rather than a mentor—is absurd. Guilt is equally unwelcome, because it’s not like I’m doing anything to her that she wouldn’t do right back, were our positions reversed.

  It would serve me well to remember the facts. Jewels are missing. Tara is in town. There’s pretty much a straight line connecting those two things. She might feel remorse for subjecting me to the wandering hands of a scumbag department store security guard oh-so-many years ago, but her human emotions don’t run deeper than that.

  “It’s only fair that you return the favor now,” I say, doing my best to wheedle her into compliance. “I’ll even be magnanimous and pay for everything so you don’t have to resort to biting strangers.”

  My wheedling may have gone a touch too far, because she halts on the sidewalk and studies me, her perfectly red bow lips pursed. “You suggested we go shopping today because you want to spend time with me.” It’s not a question.

  “I do.”

  “You made it sound like this was some spur-of-the-moment idea.”

  “It was.”

  She’s not buying it. “Why did you want to come out with me today, Penelope?”

  Direct questions have never been Tara’s style, and my mind races as I try to come up with a way to deflect. I could play the woebegone daughter card, claiming a wish to be nice for the sake of my aging father, but there’s no way she’d believe me. My dad has never been in better health, and I doubt he loses much sleep over my feelings for Tara. He seems to regard the pair of us more like bickering sisters than anything else.

  I could also come back with my own direct approach, telling her straight-out that I suspect she’s behind the thefts and will do everything I can to bring her to justice. By now, she has to realize I’ve told Grant about her being in town and that she’s their number one suspect. For all she knows, there’s a whole team of FBI agents waiting inside the department store to arrest her as soon as she crosses the threshold.

  That’s when it dawns on me.

  “Oh my God. You can’t go to Barneys, can you?” I laugh out loud, drawing the attention of several people streaming past us. Their jostling bodies remind me that standing still on a New York sidewalk isn’t the best way to make friends.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tara says without meeting my gaze.

  The truth is sealed after that. Tara isn’t being direct because she wants to unsettle me or because she’s trying out a new intimidation tactic. She’s trapped, and there’s no other way for her to get out of this.

  “It’s not that you don’t want to go. It’s that you’re afraid of what will happen if you do.” I laugh again when I see the flash of irritation that mars her otherwise perfect exterior. “What happened? Do they have your picture posted at all the emergency exits? Did you try to steal one too many pairs of earrings from the jewelry counter? No, don’t tell me. You slept with the manager to get the security codes, and now he’s a gentleman scorned?”

  Tara starts walk-running again, but this time, I find it an absolute pleasure to keep up.

  “It’s not funny,” she mutters.

  “Are there any other places you’re banned from that I should know about?” I persist. “Maybe we should put you in a trench coat and a mustache before we go out in public. Or only hit the bargain basements from here on out. Do you even know how to find a bargain basement?”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” she says. “I’m taking a risk being in New York, let alone shopping for underwear with you, but of course, it’s a huge joke.”

  I slow my steps. “Hey.”

  “No, it’s fine. I get it. I probably even deserve it. I’m a horrible person who only looks out for herself.”

  I wait for her to elaborate, to confess to also being a horrible person who is currently stealing rich people’s jewelry, but all she does is shake her head and sigh.

  “The place I’m taking you isn’t bad, Pen, I promise. You might even like it. It’s got lots of quirky pieces—stuff like chandeliers crafted from animal skulls and underwear made from bioluminescent materials. I saw it a few days ago and immediately thought of you.”

  That is, bizarrely, one of the nicest things Tara has ever said to me. I’d love a b
ioluminescent bra.

  “Okay,” I say and wind my arm through hers. “I like the sound of that. Let’s go there.”

  Her eyes narrow in quick suspicion, but she doesn’t pull away. Our bodies feel strange so close to one another, but we continue that way, the overwhelming cacophony of the city serving as our soundtrack, until we arrive at the storefront in question.

  “Well?” she asks at the door, which is painted black and has a pair of lion’s mouth knockers attached to the front. I can already tell her shopping instincts—or dare I call them mothering instincts?—are dead-on. I adore it.

  “You head in,” I say and pull out my phone to send a change-of-plans text. The team is going to be annoyed to have all their plotting brought to a sudden halt, but there’s not much more I can do without raising her suspicion. “I’ll join you in a sec.”

  I expect Riker to reply with a string of expletives—or even cold, stony silence—but no sooner have I alerted him to the situation than he texts back, No worries. Moving on to plan B.

  No worries? Never in his life has Riker strung those two words together into a single sentence. He worries about anything and everything—his way of interacting with other human beings is to assume them incapable of solving problems on their own. It makes him happy.

  I think, uneasily, of Jordan’s concerns about Riker—of this new venture into self-sufficiency where he doesn’t need money for his gaming debts and he’s crafting alternate plans out of thin air. Pride should be my default reaction, but I can’t help but feel something bigger is going on than Riker reaching maturity.

  But we don’t have a plan B, I reply.

  Oh, Pen, he texts back, and I can almost see him grimacing at me from afar. You might be surprised to hear this, but I always have a plan B.

  11

  PLAN B

  “You’re kidding. You were there? In person? You actually saw him walk the wire between buildings?”

  Tara places a hand over her heart. “On my honor. To this day, it remains the best escape I’ve ever seen. The police didn’t have the heart to chase him down after that. He got away with all ten million.”