Saving Mr. Perfect Read online

  “Give me something,” I beg. “To whet my appetite. Is it diamonds?”

  Riker remains unmoved, not even sweeping away the swatch of dark hair that falls over one eye. Jordan is equally impassive as she puts a lock—a lock, of all things—on the chest where she’s tucked the blueprints. Like everything else about her, the chest is neat and chic, with cute, hand-scrolled gold swirls painted on the outside. Also like everything else about her, I don’t let its appearance deceive me. That sucker is as secure as Cheryl’s gun safe.

  Oz is the only one to take pity on me, shaking his head as I turn my pained plea on him.

  “Really?” I ask. “But if it’s not diamonds, what are you after?”

  Riker whirls on him. “Goddammit, Oz! Can’t you keep your mouth shut for five minutes?”

  I laugh. Oz can, when spurred, keep his mouth shut for five months, but that wouldn’t stop him from saying everything he needs to through alternate means. In addition to relying on a bizarre version of sign language developed between him and Jordan when they were foster kids together, his nonverbal skills are top-notch.

  So are mine, and I land a sloppy kiss on his cheek before settling onto the couch. “Well, that’s something, at least. I don’t think I could handle it if you guys were after a big take without me.”

  The pang near my heart indicates I’m not too great at handling it, even if it’s not a big take they’re after. I force a smile anyway.

  “Guess what, Oz?” I say brightly. “You’ll be happy to hear you’re developing quite a reputation over at the Bureau. As soon as Grant smelled the Liquid Evacuation, he put out a call looking for anyone of your vague description. He suspected you’d gotten hired on as a window washer.”

  “I did, once.”

  “Pretend to be a window washer? I know. We’ve taken that approach a few times.”

  “No, get hired at the FBI,” he says.

  He doesn’t elaborate, and as intrigued as I am, I don’t bother asking him to. Although Riker and I have known Oz and Jordan since we were teenagers, we haven’t always acted as a unified crew. Some of the things Oz has seen and done could make it into the annals of history, but he won’t be the one to talk about it. I doubt even the best interrogators at the FBI could force him to do that.

  “Not that it matters where you get hired,” I say with a sigh. “Breaking in was a complete waste of our time. Sorry, guys. That was about a month of planning for nothing.”

  I expect there to be outrage, annoyance, even an avowal never to assist me in my schemes again. Instead, Riker holds out his hand and waits patiently as Jordan fishes a handful of bills out of her purse.

  “That’s five hundred bucks to me. Easiest money I ever earned.”

  “Riker!” I snap.

  “What? I still helped you, didn’t I?”

  He did, and without hesitation, but—“That’s not what I’m mad about,” I say. “Now that I’m retired and we don’t have a regular revenue stream, you promised to lay off the gambling.”

  “This is me laying off,” he replies. “We knew Grant’s suspicions only existed in your head. We were just playing along for the fun of it.”

  First of all, that’s not true. When I initially voiced my worry, Riker offered to (a) murder Grant and hide the body, and (b) do whatever it took to clear my name, including murdering Grant and hiding the body. He’d do it, too. He’s happy that I’ve found true love, but fierce loyalties die hard.

  Secondly, betting on a sure thing still counts as betting—especially if it’s Riker. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s had a fondness for all things chance. When he’s on his best behavior, he’ll stick to casinos and the occasional scratch ticket like any normal gambler. In the throes of a binge, he’s been known to bet on everything from raindrops racing down a window to a pair of toms fighting over a female cat in a back alley.

  The binges sound entertaining, but they’re mostly scary. A man sizing up cat testicles isn’t a man who’s capable of making healthy life choices.

  “Besides,” Riker continues, “if I lost, Jordan was going to make me clean her bathroom. There was no financial risk on my side whatsoever.”

  Jordan shoots me an apologetic look. “It’s true. Sorry. I had a bottle of bleach ready and everything.”

  The financial risk of Riker’s gambling addiction is only part of the problem, and I’m about to say so when Riker and Jordan share a look of playful understanding. It’s the type of look Riker and I used to share all the time, a look born of years of friendship and dependence on each other for survival.

  My heart sinks, cementing itself even deeper in the pit of my stomach. There’s no denying the meaning of that look. It says that this conversation, like so many others these days, has already been had. Jordan is the person Riker turns to for help in planning his next big heist. Jordan is the person in charge of keeping him out of trouble. In this, as in all things, I’ve become superfluous.

  “Not that cleaning her bathroom would have been hard. It’s so sanitized, you could eat off the floor in there.” The left side of Riker’s mouth lifts in a smile. He has a lot of easily recognizable looks—including his dark, broody eyes and the sharply molded features of his face—but it’s the half grimace, half grin that truly characterizes him.

  “Please don’t do that,” Jordan says. “I’d prefer if you ate in the living room like normal people. Which reminds me…”

  In picture-perfect-hostess fashion, she reveals a plate of chocolate chip cookies from the kitchen and hands it to Riker. He takes a cookie for himself before tossing one to me.

  “Since you’re not in prison, I assume your dear husband didn’t mind the minor trespass,” he says with another of those half grins.

  I catch the cookie but don’t bring it to my lips right away. This, more than anything else, is a sign of how drastically our relationship has changed. Back in the old days, Riker’s favorite hobby was policing my diet with an iron hand. In his mind, every cookie that touched my lips was an extra five pounds that would prevent me from squeezing into the next tight space. I still have PTSD from the amount of vegetables I consumed under his dictatorship.

  “Of course he didn’t,” I say tartly. “I’ll have you know we had a nice, healthy discussion about our differences and settled on mutually agreeable terms.”

  Riker snorts. “Bullshit.”

  “We did! Just because you can’t fathom treating a woman as an equal doesn’t mean all men are walking around scraping the skin from their knuckles. In fact, I’ve been given an assignment.”

  Riker might still be mocking me with his chiseled smirk, but Jordan perks up at that. “Really? What kind of assignment?”

  “Intelligence gathering.”

  Okay, so it’s a slight misrepresentation of the truth, but the idea is basically the same. Grant may not have used the terms assignment and intelligence, but I feel sure he would have if he hadn’t been so caught up with the smoke billowing out of his ears.

  “He’s got a prime suspect, and it’s my job to tail her,” I elaborate.

  “Her?” Riker laughs. “That’s not a real assignment, Pen. He just wants you to spy on Tara.”

  “How did you already know she’s back in town?” I cry, mostly outraged at having my thunder stolen. It’s not like I’m rolling in the stuff to begin with. “I only found out yesterday.”

  “Deduction, my dear Blue. There are only three women in the world capable of pulling off the Peep-Toe Prowler heists, and two of them are in this room. I assumed it was Tara from the start.”

  “You did not. You never even mentioned her name until two seconds ago.”

  “So? I don’t tell you everything. I’ve got a whole life going on you know nothing about.”

  Jordan sends him a rebuking look.

  “It’s true,” Riker protests, flushing mildly. “Only last week, I was approach
ed by a talent agent who thinks I could become an underwear model. I’m thinking about making a career change.”

  “Oh, please. You’re just trying to distract me from the fact that you guys don’t include me in anything anymore—which hurts, by the way. After I let you help me break into the FBI building and everything.”

  “But you said that was a complete waste of time,” Jordan points out with both of her eyebrows perfectly arched. Like Riker, she’s also got model-level good looks, most of which can be credited to the deep ocher of her skin and those selfsame brows. They’re thick and expressive and so unlike my own blondish wisps that I feel an unholy amount of jealousy just looking at her.

  “That’s why I want to make it up to you with this Tara assignment,” I say. “There’s no promise of payout at the end, but we’d be assisting the FBI. Think of what you could do with that gold pass in your pocket.”

  “Grant really wants our help?” Jordan asks, only one brow arched now.

  “He doesn’t not want it,” I reply, wondering how much I should tell them about my husband’s true suspicions. Part of me wants to spill the gritty details—Christopher and Tara and the treacherous intrigue of it all—but a bigger part of me hesitates. Grant didn’t give me the go-ahead to tell anyone about Christopher, and I doubt it’s standard protocol for an FBI agent to let his wife help with investigations of this sort. Having me for a wife is a trial for him, I know, but I would never purposely jeopardize his job or put his life in danger.

  I mean, I trust my friends with my life—I really do. I’m just not sure I trust anyone with Grant’s.

  “Won’t you indulge me this once?” I beg. “It’s the first real job I’ve had in ages, and it’ll give us a chance to work together again. You guys never call, you don’t write…”

  It’s an underhanded tactic, and it’s beneath me, but it works. The three of them share a look of guilt and understanding, and there’s no need for Jordan’s eyebrows or Oz’s sign language to communicate between them.

  Poor Pen. We’d better indulge her. We’re all she has.

  Sadder, truer words have never been left unspoken.

  Riker takes a bite of his cookie and sighs. “You know you can count on me for anything.”

  “Me too,” Jordan agrees with only a slight hesitation. “If it’ll make you happy.”

  “It will,” I say before I realize the implication of her statement. That sentence is almost exactly the same as what Grant said to me earlier—a plea for my mental state, a desire to indulge me in anything if it will fill the gaping maw of my current life—and I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s not as if I’m wandering around in the depths of despair all day. I do things. I stay busy.

  Oz rubs his hands together. “So what’s the plan?”

  Since I haven’t made any plans beyond recruiting my nearest and dearest, all I can do is shrug. “Well, I obviously need to get close to Tara by gaining her trust and affection, so let’s start there. What do ordinary daughters do with their stepmothers?”

  What ensues is a long, painfully drawn-out moment of silence. Jordan covers it by making another attempt to pass around the plate of cookies, Riker recounts the five hundred dollars in his wallet as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world, and Oz sits there looking confused.

  That’s all they give me.

  With a sigh, I realize I may have overestimated my team’s ability to pull this one off. We don’t exactly have experience with healthy parental relationships.

  With our backgrounds, we barely have experience with any relationships at all.

  * * *

  Jordan waits until after Riker leaves to pull me aside.

  Despite our slow start, we managed to come up with a plan of attack, one that involves the time-honored tradition of women bonding over commercialism. In other words, I’m going to ask Tara to take me shopping.

  Hey, I didn’t say it was a good plan of attack.

  I’m prepared to leave and get things underway, but Jordan gestures for me to take a seat on her couch first. Like a psychologist’s leather recliner, there’s something about the combination of floral linen and knitted afghan that invites confession. So when she asks, “How many times did you bail Riker out of trouble?” I’m only partially taken aback.

  “Um, in his entire lifetime? Probably close to a million, give or take a couple of zeroes.”

  “Do you have a more accurate count than that?”

  “Oh, God.” I groan, interpreting her serious look in the worst possible way. “What did he bet on? Who did he bet on it with? And how much money does he owe?”

  She shakes her head, and my sense of foreboding increases.

  “We always knew that a lot of the money you guys stole ended up in the hands of Riker’s bookie, but how often would you say that happened?” she asks. “Monthly? Weekly?”

  “Not weekly, that’s for sure. I mean, he had his slipups, but it was never so bad I couldn’t cover it with what I had saved. We always managed to make it out okay.”

  Jordan chews on her lower lip, causing me to turn an anxious look at Oz standing nearby. I might as well not be in the room for all the attention he’s paying me. His gaze is fixed on Jordan’s frown, his own lips mirroring the sentiment. As Oz isn’t one to show concern—part of his incredible ability to blend into any environment is his own lack of outward emotion—I can tell this is a big deal. Jordan once told me that Oz’s impassivity was the only thing that helped him survive their childhood together. If no one knew when you were happy or sad, they couldn’t turn around and use those feelings against you.

  Alarmed now, I grab Jordan’s hand.

  “What’s going on? Is he in serious trouble?” I try to recall the last time I gave Riker money, but it’s been so long, I can’t remember. “You should have let me know earlier. I have money tucked away. Gobs of it—some even Grant doesn’t know about. Riker can have it all.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Pen, but he doesn’t need it.”

  I start. “He doesn’t?”

  “No. And that’s what worries me.”

  My relief comes out as a shaky laugh. “You’re worried that he’s not drowning in debt for the first time in his life? No offense, but maybe he’s finally cleaned up his act and given up gambling for good. Lord knows I’ve begged him enough times.”

  “Maybe.” Jordan doesn’t appear convinced. “Oz and I assumed that with you out of the picture, we’d need to pick up where you left off. You know, help him out here and there, maybe keep an eye on his finances. But he’s never asked us for anything.”

  I can’t help growing prickly at the sound of those words, which hit too close to home. “For crying out loud, I’m not out of the picture. I swear, you guys are acting like I’m dead and buried. I know things are different now, but I’m still the same Penelope Blue who used to steal change from the Bryant Park fountain with you.”

  “Of course you are,” Jordan says quickly.

  “I’m still the same Penelope Blue who’d steal the whole fountain if you wanted it. In fact, I’ll do it right now. I’ll take it apart stone by stone.”

  “Please don’t. It’s really not necessary.”

  Maybe not, but I’m tempted to do it all the same—if only to prove that I still can, to prove that somewhere deep inside, I’m still me.

  “If Riker did need help, you guys would come to me, right?” I ask. “You’d make sure I’m in on it?”

  She hesitates a split second too long. “Absolutely.”

  I want to believe her, and I really try, but the damage of that split second has been done. When it comes to my friends—my family—I’m no longer a first responder. I’ve become an afterthought in the life we all used to share.

  “I’m sorry.” Jordan presses my hand warmly, but it doesn’t cut the pain. “I didn’t mean to worry you about Riker. He’s probably f
ine, and I’m creating worries out of nothing. I’m sure he’d talk to you if there was a problem. You’re his best friend, his rock.”

  I don’t feel very much like a rock. Or if I am, I’m one slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

  “About that blueprint you guys were looking over before…” I say.

  She gives an elegant shrug. “It was nothing. I thought I could tempt him with a jewelry store that recently upgraded its security system, that’s all. Get him to open up about his troubles.”

  “And he didn’t take the bait?” I find that hard to believe. Jewelry stores with upgraded security systems are Riker’s catnip. Technological glitches as they get the system settled into place are the perfect thief loopholes.

  “He still might. You came in before he could give me a firm answer.”

  Which is a nice way of saying I ruined things simply by walking through the door.

  “Keep me posted on what he says?” I ask. “And if you do end up deciding to break into that jewelry store…”

  The look Jordan gives me is full of pity. Friendly pity, but pity all the same. “You’ll what, Pen? Break your promise to Grant and give us a hand?”

  “You never know,” I say, my shoulders falling. “Stranger things have happened.”

  If nothing else, my life is ironclad proof of that.

  10

  THE OUTING

  Much to my relief, Tara isn’t staying in the same room as my father.

  “She’s on the sixth floor in one of the regular suites,” Grant says with a mixture of efficiency and regret as he pulls his sleek, FBI-issued car into a nonparking spot next to a mailbox. He’s dropping me off a few blocks away from the Lombardy—we’re a husband and wife carpooling to work today—and since his job requires him to use one of their cars, they soften the inconvenience by letting him park wherever he damn well pleases. In Manhattan, that’s a pretty amazing perk. “Payment for the room seems to be routed through an account under the name of Bella Donna.”

  “Cute,” I murmur. “And fitting.”