27

The Report

The evacuation of several hundred people from a fiery cruise ship is the kind of thing that makes the news in a big way, even when the people involved in it aren’t all that keen on being made into international celebrities.

For days, all anyone can talk about is the heroic rescue, an effort generously coordinated and funded by several government organizations interested in the various passengers aboard the Shady Lady’s life rafts. I should feel bad for sending so many of my peers into the arms of law enforcement, but considering that most of them would have happily tied me to the ship’s bow to be pecked by birds and fish alike, I’m managing my guilt just fine.

Fortunately, five people managed to escape without scrutiny. From all accounts, Riker and my father only refrained from killing each other thanks to Jordan’s diplomacy, but they made landfall with both their lives and the tiara intact, which is good enough for me.

“I still don’t see why we don’t get to keep the tiara,” Riker grumbles as the pair of us sit inside a conference room at the FBI building back home. Apparently, after a job like that one, the FBI requires us to be debriefed. It’s all very official and boring. “It’s not as if it was easy, sitting in a life raft with your dad and Tara for eight hours. I’d like to see you do it.”

“Poor dear,” I say with mock sympathy. “If it makes you feel better, Grant says it’s going to a museum.”

“A museum?” He perks. “Which museum?”

I know that perk. I don’t trust that perk. “One with a really good security system,” I warn. “So don’t even think about it.”

“You can’t stop me from thinking,” he says, but his attention quickly turns to more important matters. “And that’s another thing. I’m also still having a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that our Lola is the infamous Johnny Francis.”

Me too. Our Lola, as Riker so endearingly puts it, is turning out to be a lot of things none of us saw coming. I knew she was smart—her eidetic memory and penchant for statistics more than proved that—but to have masterminded an entire personality under her father’s watchful, vigilant eye speaks of a level of bravery I don’t think I’ve encountered before.

It makes me a little nauseous to think of it, to be honest. Had her father caught on to her at any point, his revenge would not have been merciful.

“I’m halfway convinced she made it all up,” Riker adds. “She had to have been, what, twelve when she started tracking her father’s activities?”

“Thirteen, actually,” Lola says from the doorway. She’s breathless and youthful in a white summer dress, her hair wrapped around her head in a crown of braids. She looks barely above thirteen now. I’m curious what all the dark suits around here make of her. “Hi, Riker. Hi, Penelope. I sure am glad to see you two.”

I leap up from the table and take her into my arms for a gentle hug. It’s probably silly—coddling a girl capable of the feats of daring Lola has managed in her lifetime—but I can’t help it. Even daring, highly capable girls need a hug every now and then. It would have done me a world of good at her age.

“Are they done with you back there?” I ask.

“For now. I’ve been asked not to leave New York for a while, but I don’t mind. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.” Her smile wavers, but she doesn’t let it go easily. “I haven’t been here before. Daddy came once or twice, but those were the trips I wasn’t allowed to accompany him on.”

“How many of his trips did you go on?” I ask, curious. I also pull out a chair so she can take a seat. Her shoulder is healing nicely, but it’s early days yet.

“One hundred and forty two,” she says matter-of-factly. “He always said I was too stupid to understand the business, so I didn’t get to go on the dangerous missions, but I came along whenever I could. To try and learn, you know?”

I reach for her hand. I do know how it feels to strive so hard to earn the respect of a father as skilled and dangerous as hers or mine. I also know how it feels to have it—something Lola will never accomplish, especially now that she’s laid information on virtually every crime and connection the man has.

“He didn’t deserve you,” I say.

“No, he didn’t,” she says, and with such a firm little voice, I raise a silent cheer. “And Mr. O’Kel—I mean, Grant—says it was a smart thing I did, putting out the word that my Johnny Francis alter ego would be on the cruise to try and get the tiara. He says there were French and German agents on board, too. One of the governments would have eventually picked me up.”

“Why did you do it?” Riker asks, leaning across the table. “I mean, rather than just running away from your father when you had the chance?”

“I didn’t know who to go to, who I could trust. I’d always heard about Penelope growing up, so I thought she might be a good place to start—especially since she was married to a federal agent.” She turns to me with a hesitant, almost wistful smile. “When I finally met her, I knew I was on the right track.”

I’m about to puff up in my own vanity when she keeps going.

“But I couldn’t be sure, you know? Then I met Mr. O’Kelly. And Tara. And Jordan and Oz.” The smile becomes less hesitant, less wistful. “And you, Riker.”

Riker jerks back from the table, almost knocking over his chair in the process. Although it would afford me infinite amusement to watch him worm his way out of this one, there’s no chance. Grant appears in the doorway, casting a shadow over us all. I look up, pleased to see him in a T-shirt and jeans, his hair back to its normal color. He wanted to go full suit and tie before he headed in today, but I begged him to take it easy. Being all laced up like that has always made him stiffer and sterner.

I need him to unwind. I need him to unbend. I need him to put his own health above the job for once.

“Riker, Simon is waiting for you back in his office. Lola, Cheryl has ordered me to send you to her at the front desk. I believe she’s taking lunch orders and is hoping you’ll lend her a hand.”

“Oh, is she?” Lola asks. “That’s so nice of her. I told her I didn’t have any plans this afternoon, so she promised to let me help her answer phones. I think I could make a good receptionist, don’t you?”

From the glance Grant and I share, we both think she could make one hell of a good federal agent, but we don’t say so out loud. There’s time enough for her to make decisions about her future. For now, what she needs most is a safe place to land.

“What’s Simon going to do to Riker?” I ask as Riker and Lola head out the door. As far as I can tell, the debriefing requirement extended to the three of us but no one else. The rest of my friends and family were thanked and dismissed hours ago.

“Nothing much. Just a few follow-up questions.”

My husband doesn’t look me in the eye, an action that has always filled me with a sense of foreboding. Add both Riker and Simon into the mix, and nothing good can result.

“Grant…” I warn.

“He’ll be fine. It’s just a small project Simon wants his help with. It’ll be good for him. A sight better than teaching card-counting tricks to a gambling addict.”

“Fair enough,” I’m forced to say. It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. With Riker, the best way to keep him out of trouble has always been to keep him busy. Maybe a few buddy cop missions with Simon is just what he needs to get his head straight.

Grant must agree, because he shuts the door and says, “I didn’t come here to talk about Riker. I want to talk about you. More specifically, I want to talk about what happened on board the Shady Lady.”

Hearing the ship’s name aloud brings a wash of emotions over me—not the least of which is anger commingled with fear, the last vestiges of this man’s obstinance in putting himself in harm’s way.

Never mind that being in harm’s way is where he thrives. Never mind that he eventually came around and put his trust in my hands. He has to know by now that nothing is more important to me than he is.

He has to know by now that danger is only acceptable when he lets me share it.

I push out of my chair and cross the room until I’m right in front of him. “Oh, yeah? Well I want to talk to you about what happened on board the Shady Lady.” I poke my finger in his chest. “You were supposed to be my partner out there, Grant. We were supposed to be working as a team. Instead, you abandoned the plan and left me in the dark from the first day. That’s not how partners work.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

I’m so taken aback by the apology, my hand drops. He catches it and weaves his fingers through mine.

“Yeah, well.” I try to find the thread of my argument so I can pick it back up again. Ah, yes. Stubborn stupidity. That’s where we were. “And you shouldn’t have even been on that mission in the first place. You weren’t fit to return to duty, and you knew it. You went against protocol and against common sense and, in the process, put every single one of my family members and friends in danger.”

He brings my hand to his lips and drops a kiss on the surface. It’s a very Kit O’Kelly thing to do, and I can’t help being thrilled by it. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

Gah. What is he doing? Doesn’t he realize I’m full of righteous fury over here?

“He would have killed you, Grant,” I say, pulling my last card. “Peter wasn’t about to let you walk off that ship alive. The second the game was over or he found Johnny Francis, your usefulness would have ended. Not even my dad could have saved you from that.”

My throat catches as I picture all the ways in which Grant might have been torn from me.

“I know you didn’t like the way I pulled things off,” I manage, “but it was the only way to get you out of there in one piece. I did what I thought was best for the mission, and I stand by it.”

“I know,” he says one final time. “And I’m sorry.”

By now, I’ve officially run out of steam. All my arguments and all my defenses are gone. “That’s all you’re going to say? That you’re sorry?”

“If you don’t mind, yes. I know I owe you a lot more than that—my gratitude, for starters—but I’ve spent enough time today explaining myself to the director. I took on too much, too soon. I should have never attempted the mission. I was wrong.”

I goggle at him. He was wrong? My husband—mine—is admitting to being wrong?

“I was wrong,” he echoes, as if he knows I need to hear it again to believe it. “And the only person on my entire team to do anything about it was you. I told you there was no one I’d rather have my back out there, and I meant it. You’re the only one willing to call me out when I need it. You make me a better agent, Penelope.” His smile is soft as he brings my hand to his lips once again. “You make me a better man.”

I open my mouth and close it again, unable to think of anything to say.

“And as my punishment, I’ve got a long road of desk work and physical therapy ahead of me,” he adds. “Frankly, my love, I’m exhausted just thinking about it. Can we go home now?”

It’s all I need to hear. In the entire time we’ve been together—dating and engaged, married and coworkers—Grant has never admitted to physical weakness of any kind. I’m under his arm and supporting his weight in seconds. Even though I doubt he needs me to hold him up, he lets me stand there a moment, pretending I’m the strength he requires, promising to carry him anywhere he needs to go.

“Does this mean you want me to drive?”

“Yes, please. I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

I sneak a peek up at his face. “Just sleep?”

“For starters.” His voice drops to a low rumble. “But then you have some more interrogation to undergo.”

“Interrogation?” I echo, my knees growing weak. It hasn’t been long enough since the last one—even the word has me flushing hot and cold, my body primed in seconds.

“Oh, yes. Lots of long, painful interrogation. For starters, I’d like to know what the hell you think you were doing setting a cruise ship’s ventilation system on fire.”

“It was Jordan’s idea, I swear!” I squeal and try to dart out from under his arm, but he holds me fast.

“And then we can move on to the sheer audacity of you sauntering around in that bikini with a twenty-million-dollar tiara on your head.”

“I had to make sure everyone saw me,” I protest, but it’s no use. Despite his professed exhaustion and the prospect of many long, boring weeks of sitting behind a desk, my husband wraps his arms arounds me and lands what can only be described as a punishing kiss. It’s nothing but teeth and tongue and desperation, the intensity of his mouth pressed against mine all I need to confirm that Grant is fully capable of seeing his interrogation through to the end.

I’m not surprised. No matter how exhausted my husband might be, he always finds strength for the things that matter.