Saving Mr. Perfect Page 4

  He smiles and offers me a flash of those dimples before bowing himself out the door, leaving me all alone with my husband.

  My justifiably angry, hulking husband.

  My justifiably angry, hulking husband who may or may not be about to throw me into federal prison.

  “Penelope,” he says as soon as the door clicks to a close, “you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

  It’s an encouraging start. “I know, right? This one might go under my greatest hits. It’s even better than the time I took the place of that tranquilized panda being transported out of the zoo.”

  He takes a step back, and I realize I may have missed my mark. Encouraging isn’t the word I’d use to describe his expression right now. I get the feeling I’d have better luck wrenching sympathy from Simon.

  “Don’t be cute with me. You shouldn’t be here, and you know it. Not everyone in the FBI is as understanding as I am when it comes to your antics.”

  “They aren’t antics,” I protest. “Antics are for cartoon characters. I’m a professional, thank you very much.”

  He doesn’t smile. “I doubt you’ll notice the difference from the inside of a prison cell. I’ve told you a dozen times it’s not safe for you in the city right now.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Then where else should I be?”

  “Staying home where no one’s itching to add you to their list of greatest hits would be a start.”

  “Of course. Because that’s where women belong. Should I be darning your socks and crocheting doilies while I’m at it?”

  “Hardly. I wouldn’t want you around any sharp objects. You’d probably stab one of the needles in my back when it was turned.” He stops, eyes dark. “You’re supposed to be honest with me now. You promised, Penelope.”

  There’s a hint of real anguish in his voice. It stops the retort in my throat and my heart in my chest.

  I was honest with him.

  I am honest with him.

  Sort of.

  “Grant, I can explain—”

  I expect him to launch into a list of my sins, highlighting all the ways I’ve ruined his life and career, but all he does is drop to his chair with his head in his hands, the weight of his worries crashing at once.

  “What is it?” I ask, approaching him on suddenly wobbly legs. “What’s wrong?”

  He laughs. It’s a hollow, bitter sound I’ve never heard from him before.

  “It’s not me, I swear!” My heart is in my throat. “I haven’t lifted a single watch or looked sideways at anyone’s jewelry in six months. I didn’t even do anything today after taking all that trouble to get in here. I wanted to—I almost snooped through my files—but I couldn’t bring myself to do that to you. Not after everything we’ve been through together.” I pause and consider him. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  He looks up. Lines of tenderness about those soulful eyes make my chest grow tight. “It’s not me you should be worried about,” he says. “So far as anyone except Simon and Cheryl know, it was nothing but a fluke, and I intend to keep it that way.”

  He’s protecting me again, shielding me from harm.

  “But why did you do it?” he adds, almost desperately. He rakes his hands through his hair. “That’s what I can’t figure out. What did you hope to gain by breaking in? There’s nothing here to take. Nothing I wouldn’t give you, if only you’d ask.”

  My heart snags. “I had to stop you.”

  “Stop me from what?”

  Do I have to spell it out? The stupid shoes are starting to pinch anyway, so I slip them off and set them in his lap. He looks at them and back at me, confused.

  “I’m not the Peep-Toe Prowler,” I explain. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to or what evidence you’ve discovered, but I didn’t do it.”

  His confusion doesn’t lift, which is strange for him. He’s usually the first to pick up on clues, rushing forward ten steps ahead of the rest of the world. It’s one of the most infuriating things about him.

  “The only reason I’m here is to look at the case notes,” I add. “I needed to know what I was up against, see what it is about the thefts that makes you suspect it’s me. It could be a copycat—did you think about that? I have fans, you know. I got a letter once.”

  He sits up straighter. “What do you know about the Peep-Toe Prowler?”

  I attempt to back away—my default reaction when anyone turns on the metaphorical spotlight—but I don’t get far before Grant’s hand grasps my wrist, the circle of his fingers serving less like a shackle and more as a—what else?—piece of jewelry.

  “Penelope, tell me what you know about the Peep-Toe Prowler.”

  “I know she operates the same way my team and I used to,” I say, meeting his gaze dead-on. He might have me at a disadvantage, but I’m not one to give in easily. “She only chooses wealthy targets, people who can afford to lose a few million without feeling the pinch. She gets in and out of the crime scene undetected—most likely through an open window or air vent. She only takes one item of jewelry at a time, and it’s a show piece, something big and worth the risk.”

  He nods at each fact, adding to my feeling of sinking into quicksand.

  “I also know that you think I’m her.” There. It’s out now. “And that you gave me these stupid shoes to try and trap me into confessing.”

  His response is a groan, which isn’t helpful. Emotional outpourings like this aren’t exactly easy.

  “You accused me of not being honest with you, but that goes both ways,” I say. “I thought we were on the same team now. No more tricks, no more lies. Remember?”

  His groan deepens. “I remember. I only wish you had, too.”

  I glance up, surprised. He still looks as if he might enjoy hoisting me over his shoulder and hauling me out of the office caveman-style, but the lines around his eyes are the good kind. The crinkly kind.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “We are on the same team, Pen. Of course I don’t think you’re the Peep-Toe Prowler.”

  I blink. “You don’t?”

  “Okay, I will admit there were a few hours when it seemed like a possibility. And yes, I did have your friends tailed for a week to make sure. But even if I thought you were behind all this, I wouldn’t have started investigating you again.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  He lifts his hand to cup my cheek, a tender gesture that has always managed to break my defenses. This time is no exception. “I would have just asked you, Penelope Blue.”

  “But…” My head swirls from the combination of his touch and the relief of hearing that rhyme back on his lips. “That doesn’t make any sense. You’ve been treating me like a suspect for months.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve been treating you the same as I always have. I mean, I’ve been working a lot of overtime, yes, but that’s not anything new.”

  I stare at him, incredulous. Is he seriously going to pretend this is all in my head?

  “Besides, everything else seems to be in working order.” His voice drops to a sexy rumble over that everything else. “Just the other night, we did that thing…”

  I know the thing he’s referring to, and I’m not about to let him elaborate. We are, after all, in a professional setting.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “Exactly what?”

  “You always get demanding and sexy when you think I’m stealing things. It’s how you assert your dominance.”

  An enticing gleam sparks in his eye, and I can tell he wants to assert his dominance here, now, with his full dedication. Despite the thrill of desire that works through me at the thought of us tossing his desktop knickknacks to the floor and enjoying a full reconciliation, I’m determined to hold my ground.

  “Sex has never been the issue, and you know it,” I s
ay sternly. The soft upturn of his lips indicates his agreement. Whatever else, we’ve always been great at that. “But you’ve been a walking, talking stranger for the past two months. You refuse to let me come to the office or even call in to say hello. The only time I see you is when you come home to sleep and shower and give me shoes…”

  I trail off and let the footwear say the rest. Unfortunately, they aren’t adept at communication, because he touches one with a puzzled furrow in his brow.

  “What’s wrong with them? You look sexy as hell when you have them on. I distinctly remember you wearing them when we did that thing—”

  “Grant, if you so much as mention that thing one more time, we will never do it again.”

  “Never?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  “A million years is an awfully long time.” He caresses the shoe, his fingers trailing over the curves of the red patent leather in obscene and titillating ways. “And you seemed to enjoy yourself at the time. I know I did.”

  I snatch my shoes away and shove my sweaty, swollen feet back into them. It doesn’t dampen his ardor as I’d hoped, so I have to resort to the obvious.

  “They’re peep-toes,” I say and hold out a foot. “See my toes? Peeping out?”

  He laughs, his voice crooning as he says, “It’s just a shoe, Penelope Blue.”

  I look at him, waiting.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was talking about them at work one day, for obvious reasons, and I thought…”

  “…that you’d dress me up like a suspect in a federal investigation? And you didn’t think I’d notice?”

  He has the decency to look chagrined, and I fight the triumph rising to my throat. Sure, he’s the picture-perfect FBI hero, swooping in and solving cases with his mighty powers of deduction, but I didn’t get where I am today without some intelligence.

  “Hmpf.” The sound he makes is neither an admission of guilt nor a refusal of it, but I accept it like a trophy. “Maybe I should have seen that one coming, but you could have asked me instead of going through all this trouble. I would have told you the truth.”

  He’s not getting off the hook so easily.

  “And you could have told me you have a new partner, but you didn’t,” I accuse. “I guess we both need to start sharing more.”

  My only intention is to remind him that there are two of us in this marriage of ours, but his whole body tenses, and the light in his eyes flickers off.

  “Christopher Leon is not my partner.”

  “But he said—”

  Grant gets to his feet. “Do us both a favor and forget anything and everything he said to you.” Then, suspiciously, “What did he say to you?”

  “Hello. How do you do. The usual.”

  “That’s all? Are you sure?”

  I spread my arms helplessly. “You can double-check with him if you don’t trust me to tell you the truth.”

  That does the trick. Even though it’s obvious from the way he’s looming that he wants to shake more information from my parted lips, he restrains himself.

  Well, almost.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to be so overbearing, but you have to remember that as much as I love you, you’re not a favorite with everyone at the Bureau.”

  “Give me time,” I say. “I’m only one woman. It might take me a few years, but I’ll get there.”

  His lips twitch. “Penelope…”

  “And it’s not as if he said or did anything bad,” I add, eager to leverage that oh-so-promising break in his exterior. “We mostly talked about you. He seemed nice.”

  “That man is not nice. I don’t want you to have anything to do with him or with this case from here on out. Promise me.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” I scoff. “I’m not a child you can order around.”

  “Promise me,” he repeats, firmer this time. He also takes an anticipatory step forward, though I’m not sure whether it’s to kiss me or throttle me. “If there’s any self-preservation in that crooked heart of yours, you’ll swear not to have anything to do with Christopher Leon or the Peep-Toe Prowler.”

  As if I could promise that now.

  “Why? What are you hiding from me?”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” he says too quickly, his normally implacable exterior slipping. “Could you please be conciliatory for once in your life and do as I ask?”

  I think about it. I really do—for a whole two seconds and everything—but there’s more to this situation than he’s letting on. A man doesn’t grow distant and moody from his loving wife for no reason. He doesn’t throw around sex shoes unless he’s trying to create a distraction. And most importantly, he doesn’t lay down mysterious ultimatums without secretly wanting her to do everything in her power to determine the cause.

  That one’s plain common sense.

  “I can promise to try not to get in the way,” I hedge. Trying not to do something always makes for a good promise, since there’s no real rubric for measurement. I tried not to steal things for years. I just wasn’t any good at it. “But you can’t ask me to pretend this whole conversation never happened—that these past few months haven’t happened.”

  “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Yeah, but I’m emotionally invested in the Peep-Toe Prowler now. I want to catch her as much as you do.”

  It’s only through sheer force of will that Grant suppresses his smile in time. “Penelope, so help me…”

  “Helping you is what I intend to do.” I stand on my tiptoes to graze his jaw, rough in all the right ways. “I can, you know. I might be able to access information that’s closed to you. Thieves talk.”

  “You aren’t a thief anymore, remember?” He makes a vague gesture around the room. “The walls have ears.”

  “And you did want me to get a hobby…”

  “Swimming is a hobby. Interfering in a federal investigation is obstruction.”

  “It’s not obstruction if I help you solve the case,” I point out. “Besides, didn’t you just say you wouldn’t arrest your own wife?”

  His reluctant and groan-filled laugh is all the confirmation I need to know I’ve won this round. A nice side effect of having an important and busy husband is that he can’t always spend as much time arguing as he’d like. He has a job to get back to.

  Unlike me. I, unfortunately, have nothing to do and no one to do it with. I’m not one of the good guys, but I can no longer be one of the bad ones, either. I’m just a housewife with nothing but time on her hands and mischief on her mind.

  “To be perfectly honest, my love,” he says with a mock sigh, “the idea of putting you behind bars grows more appealing every day.”

  4

  GRANT

  (Two and a Half Years Ago)

  The first time I worked alongside Christopher Leon, the bastard shot me in the back.

  We were crouched behind a bullet-riddled 1950s Cadillac at the time, sweaty skin sticking to hot metal as shots peppered the dirt. The cloud of dust enveloping us obscured my vision, and I concentrated on attempting to count the number of gunmen firing at us.

  Based on the smattering of shots to the left and the sparse but much more accurate shots to the right, I guessed there were at least six men in the warehouse and a sniper at the top of the tower overlooking the shipyard.

  Not good numbers, but not bad ones, either. I’d faced worse, and if all accounts of the hotshot newbie by my side were to be trusted, he could handle himself.

  “If we can make our way to the loading bay, we should be able to enter through the access port,” I said as soon as the firing died down enough to allow for conversation. “I sure as hell hope you’re lighter on your feet than you look.”

  Christopher Leon, hotshot newbie, glanced at me under lowered brows. I didn’t know what wor
ried him. By placing himself behind me, he’d secured himself a human shield.

  “What access port?” he asked.

  A burst of gunfire broke out again, forestalling my response.

  “There is no access port,” he said as soon as the air cleared. He looked every bit the new recruit in his sweat-soaked confusion. Getting paired with hot-off-the-presses agents from Quantico was never my favorite assignment, but I’d been asked to let him play along with me today. This one is earmarked for the express elevator upstairs, my section chief had said. I need you to show him a good time before he gets on.

  Which was basically a bureaucratic way of saying Christopher had friends in high places. They wanted to promote him as quickly as possible, but they had to make a show of putting him through his paces first.

  “We passed it on the way over the landing,” I said and nodded in the direction we needed to head. “Blue door, probably rusted shut. Do you want to cover or make the run?”

  “There is no access port there,” he repeated, firmer this time. “It isn’t in the schematics.”

  “Schematics can be wrong.”

  “These ones aren’t. There’s nothing there.”

  “Look, I saw it with my own two eyes. Besides, it could be a unicorn waiting to take us up on its back, and it would still be our best—no, our only—chance of making it inside. The other option is to sit here until one of their bullets hits its target. I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer not to be that target.”

  Since Christopher gave every impression of continuing to argue, I made an executive decision. “I’ll cover you by drawing the fire over to the right. Run like hell, newbie.”

  No sooner did I have my weapon ready, aimed toward the cluster of firepower doing the most damage, than I heard the sound of a trigger at my back. It was closely followed by an explosion of pain that spread like metal spikes.

  “What the hell—” I cried, whirling.

  Paintballs aren’t deadly, but they hurt like a son of a bitch, especially when fired at close range. Even though the body shot meant I was officially out for the count, I fell back into position and gauged angles for the shooter’s likeliest hiding spot. I acted on pure instinct at that point, and it was a good one: never go down without a fight.