Seeking Mr. Wrong Read online

  “I’ve got the paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered.” Simon rubs his hands together. “Complete that release form, Doc, and let my man get back to the field. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Simon!” I cry. I thought he was supposed to be on my side.

  “Sorry, Blue,” he says, sounding like the least apologetic man of all time. “But you’re going to want to get in on this one, too. Leon called an emergency meeting up in his office. If all goes according to plan, you two ship out Monday.”

  2

  The Mission

  As it turns out, Dr. Lee can be persuaded to sign a release form without the requisite medical evaluation. One quick phone call upstairs, and Grant is suddenly fit to return to duty, no questions asked.

  “But what about the Hippocratic oath?” I demand. “What about the fact that he pulled a fire alarm to avoid his appointment today?”

  “You don’t have proof that was me,” Grant points out.

  “And he did pass the physical test last week,” Simon adds.

  “Sorry, but this one’s over my head,” Dr. Lee says with a hunched shrug. She’s the only one in the room to sympathize with my plight, but even she’s unmovable. “Hippocrates has nothing on the director of the FBI.”

  I swear, I’d be amused at how quickly they all turned if I wasn’t so outraged. For these people, the job always comes first.

  I treat both men to a barrage of insults on their intelligence and dubious moral code until we make it back up to their floor. I continue as they lead the way to the office of Christopher Leon, Grant’s half brother and the agent who currently heads up their department. I especially don’t stop when we’re all seated at the table and the proposed mission is finally laid out before me.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” I cry. “No way. It’s a death trap. It’s not happening.”

  “Penelope, I don’t think you understand—” Christopher begins. His booming voice is cut short by an almost imperceptible shake of Grant’s head. Even though Christopher is technically Grant’s superior, he’s not his equal in terms of either experience or wisdom, so he has a tendency to defer to my husband’s wishes.

  It’s part of what makes my attempt to slow Grant down so difficult. Few people are willing or able to stand up to the full weight of his charisma—Christopher included.

  “But if she’ll just hear us out, I know she’ll come around,” Christopher protests. “She must have misunderstood the details.”

  “As she is neither an idiot nor a child, she understood just fine.” I push back from the table. “Thank you for inviting me, gentlemen, but you’re clearly deluded—every last one of you. The answer is no.”

  I doubt many people have said no quite so forcefully when confronted with Grant Emerson, Simon Sterling, and Christopher Leon, their massive shoulders crowded in a row, but I’m not scared of them. I’ve faced firing squads of this caliber plenty of times before. In fact, I’ve faced this particular firing squad more times than I care to count.

  “But Penelope—” Christopher begins again, his voice even louder this time.

  In case it isn’t obvious, there’s a strong family tendency toward obstinacy running through his and Grant’s shared bloodline. The two men might not have grown up together, their father being the sort to stick around only long enough to leave his DNA behind, but their ability to hold fast to one dogged path is nothing short of miraculous. And annoying.

  “We aren’t asking you to play in the poker game,” Christopher says. “We only want you to be on the boat where it will take place.”

  The specs for the game he’s talking about are spread out on the table in front of me, glossy page after glossy page of carefully snapped photos arranged like a brochure meant, I assume, to entice me. Most of the photos are of a cruise ship gilded to the hulls and equipped with every modern convenience known to mankind.

  According to Team Shoulders over there, it’s the site of an upcoming poker tournament between some of the most cunning card players in the world. And by cunning card players, I of course mean criminals. Known criminals, suspected criminals, criminals who are wanted in every single one of our world’s 196 countries… The stack of dossiers in my hands reads like Facebook for Felons. For one full week, they’re going to gather and mingle and cheat at poker together.

  In theory, I have no objections to all this. I like ocean views, and I like people who break the law, and if you’re going to hold a giant illegal poker game, why wouldn’t you put it on what amounts to a floating casino?

  Unfortunately, few things are as simple as they seem—especially where the FBI is involved. According to the ridiculous plan they’ve been putting together behind my back, they’d like to send someone undercover on that boat. More specifically, they’d like to send my husband undercover on that boat.

  Alone. Without backup. Protected by no one but me and anyone from my team I can convince to come along.

  “We’ve looked at every scenario, but nothing else is viable,” Christopher says.

  I’d say he’s being purposefully obtuse, but I’m never quite sure with that man.

  “It’s a small ship, and everyone buying a ticket is being thoroughly vetted ahead of time, so there’s no way we can land a full team without detection,” he continues. “It’s going to be a stretch just to get Grant on board.”

  I throw my hands up in annoyance. “Of course it is. In case you weren’t aware, criminals don’t enjoy having their illegal activities monitored by the feds. We’re picky about that sort of thing.”

  “But, Penelope—”

  “Enough!” I cry. “It’ll never work. Even if I could convince my team to hop aboard the—what, Shady Lady?—there’s not going to be much we can do to protect Grant out there on open water. We’re thieves, not thugs. Have you asked my dad’s opinion?”

  “We tried.” Simon casts a sideways glance at Grant. “He hasn’t proven himself to be particularly helpful.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “No, not ominous.” Christopher stumbles over his words in his rush to reassure me. “He’s planning on attending the cruise to try and win the tournament for himself. He feels a federal presence would interfere with his plans. He suggested we, ah, abandon the project.”

  I laugh out loud at that. In other words, my dad told them exactly how high they could stick their interfering badges.

  “He’s not wrong,” I point out. “One whiff of the men in black, and everyone on that ship will jump overboard. Either that or they’ll shoot Grant and leave his body for the sharks. Why do you want to go so bad? You can hardly arrest everyone on the Shady Lady. It says here the boat holds six hundred people.”

  “I don’t plan on arresting anyone, actually.” Grant leans across the table and pushes one of the dossiers at me. The name at the top reads Johnny Francis, and there’s a list of suspected crimes underneath that makes my head swirl—armed robbery, extortion, racketeering. The list is impressive enough on its own, but in the place where there’s supposed to be a picture, there’s a question mark instead. “All we want is to track down a potential contact. We got a tip that he’s going to surface for a chance at winning the tournament. I want to be there in case he does.”

  “Who is he?”

  Simon snorts his disgust. “You don’t know who Johnny Francis is?”

  The name, I’ll admit, is familiar, but so are a lot of the people Grant arrests. It doesn’t mean anything. Just because I once belonged to the union doesn’t mean I’m automatically plugged in to every bad guy out there. That’s like assuming all plumbers know each other.

  I glare. “You don’t either, or you’d have a picture of him.”

  Grant laughs. “She’s got you there, Sterling.” To me, he adds, “Unfortunately, most of what we know at this point is speculation. We’ve been trying to get eyes on this guy for three years, but he’s no
t easy to find. Even though he knows everyone, no one seems to know him. He has no associates and no aliases that we’re aware of. He’s a ghost. This poker game might be our only way of putting a face to the name.”

  I’m still not buying it. “So you want to go undercover at an elite illegal poker game in hopes this Johnny Francis character will sit down next to you and introduce himself?”

  “Well, no,” Simon admits. “But between Emerson, you, and any other members of your team you can convince to come along, we can narrow the pool of potential candidates. You guys can ask questions and move around in ways we can’t.”

  He has a point. I might not be as firmly rooted in the criminal world as, say, Johnny Francis, but the name Penelope Blue means something. I hate to brag, but I’m kind of famous.

  “I should also mention that you’ll need to find your own way on board,” Christopher says. “That includes making contact and covering the entrance fee. There can’t be any ties back to us, or Grant’s safety will be compromised.”

  “Gee. How enticing. How much does a ticket aboard this ship of fools cost?”

  “To attend as a spectator? I’m not sure. But the buy-in to play is set at an even million.”

  A million dollars? “Are you kidding?” I ask as my gaze skims from one determined male face to another. “What prize are they offering for that price tag? A trip to the moon?”

  Grant is the first to respond. He lifts a hand to his mouth and emits a sound that goes something like, “D*coughcough*monds.”

  My incredulity morphs instantly to interest. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”

  “D*coughcough*monds,” he repeats, fake cough less pronounced this time.

  “Okay.” I sit up straighter and fold my hands on top of the table. “I’m listening. You may proceed.”

  Grant’s chuckle, deep and rich, fills the room. “I told you we should lead with that.”

  I ignore his gentle mockery, directing my attention to Christopher and Simon instead. “What kind of diamonds are we talking? I want specifics—cut, weight, quality. Leave nothing out.”

  “Calling them diamonds might be misleading,” Simon says. “There’s only a single gem in the center of the tiara.”

  My pulse picks up. I can think of a few tiaras of that design. “Go on,” I urge.

  “There are also a few sapphires affixed to the setting, which I believe is solid gold. The scrollwork is—”

  I hold up one hand, stopping him short. “Say no more. It’s the Luxor Tiara, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Simon’s brows come up in mild surprise. “How did you know?”

  Because I’m an intelligent woman with eyes in her head and carbon in her blood, that’s how. Even though I’ve never seen the Luxor Tiara in person, I can fully picture the two-hundred-carat diamond in its center, the approximate size of an egg.

  I’m starting to feel dizzy, though I can’t tell if that’s caused by outrage or interest. Most likely it’s the second. Luxor and tiara were the first words I spoke out loud. I drew pictures of myself wearing that tiara in elementary school. My dad had a mobile of it hanging over my crib.

  Okay, so that’s not strictly true, but I can remember drifting off to sleep at night with my dad sitting by my side as he recited a list of the most valuable pieces of jewelry in the world. We weren’t a Goodnight Moon sort of family, and my father isn’t the greatest storyteller, so recitations of this sort were common. I could still probably name the estimated value of all the crown jewels in descending order.

  The Luxor Tiara isn’t one of the crown jewels—at least not for a crown that has any real claim to it. Although it once belonged to Spain, it’s most famous for having been lost and buried deep under the Caribbean for most of its history, nestled alongside pirate plunder in shimmering shades of silver and gold. Recovered by treasure hunters in the early 1980s, its ownership has been disputed ever since it hit dry land. Governments want it, museums want it, archaeological experts want it, and most important, jewel thieves want it.

  Jewel thieves want it really, really bad.

  Christopher’s brow furrows in concern. “She’s not saying anything. Why isn’t she saying anything?”

  “Give her a moment.” Grant leans back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. “She’ll come around.”

  I do, too, but it takes me a minute. An offer like the Luxor Tiara doesn’t pop up every day.

  “I don’t understand,” I say as soon as my faculties are back online. “The ownership of that tiara has been contested for decades. How can it legally be up for grabs?”

  “Legally, it’s not.” Simon’s tightly pinched nostrils indicate his continued disdain for all things underhanded and shady. “But the man currently in possession of it—a smuggler by the name of Peter Sanchez—doesn’t care. The cruise departs from Cuba and sticks to international waters from there on out, so no one has any jurisdiction to stop him.”

  “Not that we want to stop him, anyway,” Grant puts in. “All we want is to find Johnny Francis and bring him in for a chat. No one is going to get in trouble, and no one is going to get arrested. I’ll be there merely as a player and an observer. There will be no physical strain whatsoever. In fact, it’s practically a vacation.”

  Despite my reservations—of which I have many—I’m starting to get excited. I’ve seen my husband play poker before, and he’s not half bad.

  “If you win, will you get to bring home the tiara?” I ask.

  “Er, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says with an apologetic air. “Convincing the government to lay out a million dollars for this was no easy task. They’ll claim any of my winnings.”

  “Stupid greedy government,” I mutter. And then, after a few greedy calculations of my own, “Wait—at a million a player, it’ll only take, like, twenty entrants for this Peter guy to get the full value of the tiara. How many people will be there?”

  “We estimate around fifty players total, not counting the five hundred or so additional guests and crew,” Grant says. “That’s the reason we’re asking for your assistance. I can’t realistically sift through that many people on my own in just one week, especially since I’ll have to play in the poker game to protect my cover.”

  “And you can’t bring Simon?”

  “You think Simon could blend in with that crowd?” Grant asks with a laugh.

  Simon just shrugs; we all know he couldn’t.

  “It’s too risky to bring anyone else. It’s too risky to bring you, but I don’t see what other choice I have. It’s you or no one, Penelope. You’re all I’ve got.”

  His words hit me exactly where they’re meant to—right in the heart. I can count the number of times Grant has asked me for help on two fingers. He’s not the kind of man who likes to show his weaknesses, as today’s events have proven, and he’s especially not the kind of man who likes to ask his wife for help in protecting them. In fact, not too long ago, he was the one trying his damnedest to take care of me.

  “If I say no, will you still go without me?” I ask.

  Grant’s dark eyes lock onto mine. “Yes. I have to. It’s my best chance of finding this guy. My fake identity should hold no matter what, but…”

  I don’t need him to finish. If it doesn’t hold and he’s trapped out in the middle of the ocean with a blown cover and a weakened body, there’s no saying what will happen.

  No. Scratch that. There is saying what will happen. I might not know who this Johnny Francis guy is, but I do know what men like him are capable of. If my husband isn’t killed outright, then he’ll be tossed in some dark, dank hold and tortured until he reveals everything. I wasn’t kidding when I said that criminals don’t take lightly to being duped by federal agents. Torture would be the least of his worries.

  The dizzy feeling returns, although this time, it’s accompanied by a surge of excitement strong enough to h
ave me gripping the edge of the table to balance myself.

  “This is a terrible position to put me in, and you know it,” I say.

  “We’re sorry,” Grant says. Of the three men he’s apologizing for, I’m sure he’s the most sincere. “It’s not ideal to spring this on you at the last minute, but we didn’t think the plan would get approved. We’re as surprised as you are—apparently, Major Thefts is only one of several departments interested in Johnny.”

  “Then why can’t another department send someone in?” I ask.

  “Because,” he says simply, “we’re the only department that has you.”

  Oh, dear. Arguments don’t get much more compelling than that.

  “Besides, you did say you wanted to be more involved at work,” he adds. “It doesn’t get much more involved than this.”

  Nor, to be perfectly honest, does it get much better. Despite the dangers, this undercover plot has all my favorite things—intrigue and diamonds and my friends and family gathered under one roof. This kind of job is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to take on when I first joined the FBI. Until now, there’s been a lot less action and a lot more sitting behind a desk than I was hoping for.

  “Fine,” I say and sigh. “But I want it stated for the record that I’m only agreeing under extreme duress.”

  “Noted.”

  “Also, I’m not going as some stupid spectator. I’m playing in that poker game—and if I win, I’m keeping the tiara.”

  “That’s a pretty big if.” Now that he knows he’s hooked me, the smiling crinkles around his eyes come out in full force. “The last time we played poker, I beat the pants off you.”

  He means that literally. He beat the pants off me, as well as my shirt, my bra, a lacy wisp of underwear… You get the idea.

  “Yeah, but that’s because I let you,” I reply with a mild flush at the memory. I think I can safely say we both won that particular poker game. “And I can’t speak on behalf of Riker or Jordan or Oz. The decision of whether they want to participate is entirely up to them, especially since Riker…”