12

THE OTHER WOMAN

(Present Day)

It’s the height of irony that I end up hiding in a linen closet to find my cheating husband out.

It’s not my most elegant moment, crouched as I am underneath the bottom shelf, the scent of neatly folded sheets and towels rendering the air thick with domesticity. There are at least a dozen better hiding places in our house, but I panicked.

For the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been scouring the house while Grant’s away at work, searching for some sign of infidelity. What that sign might be, I’m not quite sure. I hardly expect to find used condom wrappers or receipts for shady hotels lying around the house—especially when we’re talking about a highly trained liar—but I don’t know what else to do. I’m not used to this kind of deception.

Yes, my friends and I steal things for a living. And yes, I’ve spent the better part of my life breaking laws and lying to get my way. But I’ve never set out to purposefully hurt another human being—at least, not without them knowing about it ahead of time. Grant and I have always operated under a set of unspoken rules that bind us: we don’t talk about work, we don’t talk about my father, and we definitely don’t talk about what the future holds for us.

The idea that Grant could hold me in his arms, kiss nonsense words into my neck and hair, claim my body with his over and over again…only to do the same with another woman?

No. A cold chill works through my body, a slice of icy fear that has nothing to do with my cramped conditions. That part was real. That part was safe. That part was ours.

The front door opens and closes again, signaling Grant’s return home in the middle of a workday. That’s the reason for my mad dash into the linen closet in the first place. I only noticed his sleek FBI-issued car pulling into the driveway with enough warning to dive into the first hiding place I could find.

Grant doesn’t come home early from work if he can possibly help it. That man lives and breathes for the FBI, spends more time with Simon than he’s ever lavished on me. In fact, I bought them a pair of His and His coffee mugs last Christmas. Grant thought it was hilarious. I’m pretty sure Simon smashed his with a hammer.

“My wife shouldn’t get back for a few more hours,” Grant says, his voice distant in a muffled sort of way. “She’s at the rec center today, and she almost always stays late afterward to make sure all the kids get picked up.”

“That’s nice. She has good maternal instincts.” A throaty female response does little to improve the current state of affairs—pun intended. “Do you have any?”

“Maternal instincts? Can’t say that I do.”

She laughs. Predictably, it’s one of those phony, oh-you’re-so-funny-you-big-strong-man sounds I’d like to throttle at its source. “Of course not, dummy. I meant, do the two of you have any kids?”

“Not yet. But there’s plenty of time for that.”

It’s all I can do not to spring out of my hiding place right then and there. Not yet? Not yet? What the heck is that supposed to mean? Not only is it highly unusual for a man to discuss his future procreative plans with his mistress, but I can’t imagine what would possess him to introduce children into our relationship. He works eighty hours a week, and I have all the benevolence of a scorpion. Riker would make a better parent than us.

“If we’re not in a hurry, do you want to have drinks or something first?”

Grant pauses. “Nah. We should make this fast. I want a chance to get everything cleaned up before she gets back.”

“We could always do it later, if you want. I’d hate to get you in any trouble with the missus.”

“Don’t worry. I can handle her.”

I beg your pardon. I’m not a trick pony whose reins he can pick up anytime he feels like it. I’d like to see him try handling me after this.

“You’re sure she won’t mind? I don’t want to step on her turf or anything.”

“I’m sure.” His voice is grim. “If there’s one thing Penelope has made very clear to me, it’s that she doesn’t care about what I have to offer.”

My chest clenches tightly, squeezing my heart and cracking a few ribs along the way. That isn’t true. I do care. Maybe not the way other women care, and maybe not enough to overlook the fact that I’m a hardened criminal, but I’ve done the best I can.

“Now turn around,” Grant says. “I’m going in.”

The firm way he commands her is familiar, almost primitive, and I’m hit with an overpowering urge to well up in tears at the sound of it. Which is bad, because as soon as my tear ducts start working, I feel a tickle building up in my nose. It’s the combination of emotion and all the fabric softener in the close air of the closet.

“You mean I can’t watch? You’re a bit of a tease.”

“We do this my way, or we don’t do it at all.”

“A man of decision. I like it.”

The pressure behind my eyes is so strong now that I have to crinkle my nose and bite my fist to keep from giving away my position. If I’d known he planned on bringing her here, to our home, testing the springs on the antique couch we bought together before we were married, I never would’ve put myself in such a prime eavesdropping position. The last thing I want to do is sit here listening to the muffled sounds of my marriage ending. In fact, I don’t think I can do it without making myself sick.

I risk peeking under the crack in the door to evaluate the topography of retreat. The hallway is set back enough from the living room that there isn’t a clear line of sight to my hiding place. I might be able to sneak across the hall to our bedroom and escape out the window. It’s not a great plan, but it’s all I have. I shift on my haunches.

I’m about to edge the door open when Grant speaks again. “I should probably warn you—it’s a lot bigger than you think. Penelope had a hard time believing it was real at first.”

My skull cracks the shelf with a start. There’s no way to hide the sound, but I can’t move right away. I’m too rattled, too confused. Grant wouldn’t talk about the details of our sex life with another woman—with another lover—like that.

Would he?

“Do you have a dog?” the woman asks. She sounds less throaty this time, as if she’s alarmed instead of trying too hard to be seductive, and something about it registers with me.

I’ve heard that voice before. I know that voice.

“We don’t have any pets. Penelope doesn’t like animals.”

That’s not true. I like animals just fine, but mine wasn’t a childhood of chocolate chip cookies and camping trips with the family golden retriever. I don’t exactly have a framework for that sort of thing. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to quibble over the details. This is clearly another abort, abort now moment, only I don’t have the promise of Riker’s plunge into darkness to count on.

Without wasting another second, I slip the door the rest of the way open and roll neatly to the master bedroom across the hall. Equal parts ballet, gymnastics, and desperation, it’s an impressive feat. I wish there was enough time to scramble out the huge window overlooking the back porch, but the sound of footsteps makes me reevaluate my plans.

They’re her footsteps, in case you were wondering. The clack of high heels on our newly varnished wood floors is a foreign sound, since the tallest shoes I own are my thick-soled winter boots, but at least it’s more of a warning than I get from Grant. As always, it’s impossible to hear him coming.

I flip my head down to infuse a sleepy red color to my face and pull my loose T-shirt from one shoulder. As a last-second gesture, I also tug the blankets from the bed to make them look as if I was in there. I’ve always been a light, restless sleeper—something Grant knows all too well. I warned him early on in our marriage that the only way he’d get any rest at night was if we kicked it old school and got separate twin beds, but he just grunted at me and threw his massive arms and legs over my side. It turns out a girl literally can’t be restless with almost two hundred pounds of man-muscle pinning her to the bed.

I always sleep best when he’s with me, anchoring me in place.

Faking a bleary-eyed look isn’t necessary after that. As Grant rounds the corner and looks into the room, I dash a hand against my eyes. To anyone seeing me for the first time, it probably seems like nothing more than a gesture of wakefulness.

“Penelope!” Grant doesn’t have time to hide his surprise or come up with a clever excuse. His mouth opens and closes again as he takes in the room at a glance. “What are you doing home?”

“I’ve had a massive headache all day.” It’s only a partial lie. Something certainly feels like it’s about to rip me in two. “I was taking a nap.”

“But you never sleep during the day.”

I’m saved from having to respond as his bit of arm candy totters up behind him. Her shiny silver heels distract me enough that I start at the bottom and work my way up, my heart sinking with every inch of finely crafted female skin. I’m a dancer—ostensibly—and Riker makes me jog three miles every day to stay in shape, so I have fairly decent legs, but this woman could crush me with one flex of her calves. There’s nothing but miles of taut, creamy skin, all of it leading up to a tight red dress that might have functioned as a Band-Aid in a past life.

Its primary function now is to lift. Ass, waist, boobs—there isn’t a part of that woman that sags the way God and nature intended.

I know, in that moment, that what I need more than a diamond necklace, more than a better hideout than the linen closet—more, even, than a husband who doesn’t love me—is a red dress like that one.

Then I see her face.

Maybe it’s the fact that I just tipped my head upside down, so there’s an abnormal amount of blood trapped there, or maybe it’s the overwhelming sensation of too many surprises, but the second I notice the wide-set eyes and perfectly sloping nose, the platinum hair flowing like the mane of a lioness, I lose all sense of my surroundings.

I’m no longer standing in the bedroom of a house I share with my enemy. My husband isn’t cheating on me with a gorgeous blond wearing a Band-Aid. I’m rushing blood and a sensation of hot-cold-hot-cold on rotation. I’m weak in the knees and about to slump to the floor.

I’m out like a—

* * *

“I think she’s coming to. Do you want me to grab her a glass of wine or something?”

“She doesn’t drink. Water will be fine.”

“Doesn’t drink? That’s odd. I remember—”

Even though I’m comfortably ensconced in Grant’s lap and still feeling light-headed, I snap my eyes open before Tara has a chance to say what she remembers. The summation of her worldly knowledge is something I have a profound interest in, but I’m not about to ask her to spill it while my husband sits here, running his palm in a soothing pattern over my forehead.

In fact…

I struggle to sit up, scooting a few inches away from Grant as I go. I don’t want his gentle caresses and warm lap right now. I don’t know where that lap has been…or rather, I do, and that’s the problem.

He can tell in an instant what I’m thinking, because he wraps his arms around me and holds me tight, refusing me the benefit of space. It’s not a hug—it’s more of a choke hold—but I can already feel my body betraying me.

He’s so warm, so solid, so comfortable. And strong. I’m pretty sure he’s not straining so much as a fiber of muscle to keep me pressed against him.

“Let me go, you bastard.” I struggle against that strength, feeling better when the swell of his muscles tenses and he’s forced to exert a little effort to hold me in place.

“Not until you calm down.”

Oh, he does not get to tell me to calm down right now. “I’ll scream. I’ll scream so loud, they’ll hear me in Queens.”

“This isn’t what you think, Penelope.”

How does he know? I glare. “You have no idea what’s going through my head right now.”

“If the look on your face before you passed out was anything to go by, I have a pretty good idea.” He drops his mouth so close to my ear that I can feel the vibrations of his breath. Like a tuning fork, my entire spine tingles its response. “Stop fighting, my love. I’m not going to release you until you let me explain.”

Despite those tingles—or perhaps because of them—I glare harder. He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of himself.

“You can’t force me to listen to you,” I say. “Is this why you left our anniversary dinner early? Is she the reason you went out of town?”

I try a quick bending twist, hoping I can outmaneuver him by being slippery, but he anticipates the action and pins me with some kind of wrestling move. Now it’s not just his arms or his lap trying to lull me into a state of complicity—it’s his whole body, all those pounds of him pressing down on my softest parts. Breasts and thighs, the thrust of pelvises fitting neatly together. He uses that pressure, the laws of gravity and human nature, to try and subdue me even more.

He’s not being very gentle with a woman who just passed out—a fact that’s finally borne on him when he manages to stop my wriggling, his leg pinned between mine and his forearm across my throat. “I’ve never seen you pass out like that before. Are you okay?”

It’s almost impossible to speak while he crushes my windpipe and slowly presses the oxygen out of my lungs, but I manage to croak out a credible, “I just found out you bring women to the house when I’m not here, and now you’re trying to murder me to hide the evidence. Do you think I’m okay?”

His expression goes from concerned to pleased, which, I can promise you, doesn’t push me toward forgiveness. “Are you jealous?”

Jealous is not the right word for what I’m feeling. Angry, maybe. Livid, probably. Hurt, for sure. It’s one thing to step out on me with a hot woman in a flashy red dress. It’s another to step out on me with that particular woman. Even though she’s aged a good ten years, I remember all too well the last time we shared breathing space.

She’d stolen the man in my life that time, too.

“Of course I’m not jealous. I’m suffocating.”

He releases me from his death grip and rocks back on his heels, his lips still turned up in a smile. “You’re not suffocating.”

“I’m not now.” I rub the front of my neck—an action that was supposed to highlight my near-death injury—but my fingers brush against the infinity knot of my necklace instead, and I drop my hand like it’s on fire. “Stop smiling at me. You’re a cheating bastard, and you can’t charm your way out of this one.”

He obeys my command—for what has to be the first time in his life—but he replaces his smile with a gentle expression that unsettles me even more. “I’m not cheating on you, Penelope Blue. I decided a long time ago that I was going to have you or no one.”

Gah. Now is not the time for singsong antics and sweetly sexy voice rumbles. Tara will be back here with a glass of water any second, and I need to figure out whether I’m supposed to recognize her.

Why, no, Grant. I’ve never seen this woman before. You might want to run a background check, though. She has the cheap look of a con artist, don’t you think?

The reason I passed out isn’t because you’re a two-timing jerk, Grant. It’s because the woman you decided to cheat on me with happens to be my stepmother. How long have you two known each other?

Neither of those options holds much appeal, but I’m a woman floundering in the deep end over here—and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to keep my head up.

“She’s a business associate,” he says, his voice low enough that only the two of us can hear. Any lingering playfulness is gone. “That’s all.”

As I’m fully aware of her line of business—making men fall in love with her and ruining their lives a few short months before they disappear into thin air—that doesn’t bring me much comfort.

“She’s in the FBI?” I ask incredulously. “The physical standards must be slipping over at the Bureau.”

“She’s a contact. Contacts aren’t required to pass the physical, or we’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble. Not everyone can stay in this kind of shape, you know.”

I ignore the provocation. “What kind of contact?”

“The usual kind. Slightly shady but useful enough for the good to outweigh the bad. You of all people should know how lenient the government can be about that sort of thing.” His dark gaze doesn’t leave mine, and I swallow heavily. “I had to call her in when my other plans fell through. My first choice refused to take the bait, so I was forced to resort to extreme measures.”

That’s all I’m able to get out of him, because the woman of the hour totters back in, a glass of water extended in one hand.

“She looks like she’s feeling better,” Tara says when Grant twists to glance up at her. “Drink this, honey. It’ll help.”

“I’m not your honey,” I grumble.

I don’t want to drink her water, and I don’t want her to slip back into this ridiculous Mommie Dearest role—the same one she fooled me with all those years ago. Tara had only been nineteen years old to my fourteen when she married my dad, but those five years might as well have been fifty for all it had mattered to me. I’d wanted to like her. Love her, even. She knew things—practical things, common sense things—that had eluded me for years. Makeup, tampons, that always tricky question of how to shave your legs without ripping off all the skin. I’d thought she was some sort of goddess sent to soothe my adolescent woes.

The feelings hadn’t been reciprocated. Tara had hated me on sight—not that she would have done anything to let my dad know. To hear her tell the tale, all she’d wanted was for me to be her dear, sweet stepdaughter, but my surly attitude kept her away.

I was fourteen, motherless, and had taken up a life of crime mostly to get closer to my absent father. Of course I’d been surly.

“She’s right.” Grant holds the glass to my lips. “Drink this.”

I do, but begrudgingly, glaring at him all the while. Grant pulls me to my feet and takes a look at the two of us—his angry, disheveled wife and the siren business associate—as if deciding how best to proceed in this tangled web of his making.

Tara takes the guesswork out of it. She extends her perfectly manicured hand and smiles, a familiar flash of teeth that makes what’s left of my heart turn to lead. “I’m Tara. Tara Lewis. So pleased to meet you.”

Lewis, huh? When she married my dad, she took on the Blue surname. The fact that she returned to her maiden name—or what she always told us was her maiden name—speaks volumes. Also, it seems we’re pretending not to know each other. How interesting.

“Penelope Blue,” I reply and shake.

Her brow lifts once she realizes that I, too, am using my real name at a time like this. It’s almost funny, actually. If I think it’s weird that she’s working with an FBI agent, she must be losing her shit over the fact that I married one.

Well, too bad. What did she think would happen, abandoning me to the streets without a penny to my name? If it weren’t for Riker, my life could have ended up a lot worse than this. Marrying Grant might not have been the smartest decision I’ve ever made, but at least I’m still alive.

Though probably not for much longer. The next words out of my mouth are designed to irritate everyone in my immediate proximity.

“So, Tara,” I say, “what do you do for the FBI that requires you to dress up like a hooker and go to strange men’s houses?”

“Penelope!” Grant says sharply—more sharply than I’ve heard him speak before—but I won’t be swayed. I’m suddenly very tired. All the lying and sneaking around, the double speaking and near-misses. For once in my poor, twisted life, I’d like to say what I’m thinking: I’m not so sure I want to play anymore.

“What?” I ask, the surliness of my youth rising anew.

“That was uncalled for.”

Uncalled for it might have been, but Tara just laughs, the sound deep and rich and evidence of the chain-smoking I remember from my youth. She actually used one of those cigarette holders from the forties when she indulged in the habit—all part of her man-catching charm.

“No, no. It’s a perfectly fair question.” She casts him a sly smile. “I don’t blame her for keeping a tight leash on you. If you were my husband, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

I scowl. More doublespeak. She means, of course, that the only reason I married him was to keep close tabs on his movements and leverage the relationship for my own purposes.

Whatever. It takes one to know one.

“In fact, I agree with her,” Tara continues, blithe as can be. “I think you should tell her what I’m doing here. That way, we can prep her on what to say if they bring her in for questioning.”

“If they bring her in for questioning, we’re screwed either way. Penelope can’t lie to save her life.”

“Hey!” I protest. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent liar. I lie to you all the time.”

His expression, when he turns it my way, is grim. “What makes you think I don’t know that?”

I’m flummoxed enough, I can’t reply right away.

“You’re right, though,” Grant says to Tara. “We have to do something with her. She’s too much of a wild card to leave hanging.”

“But I thought you said she won’t play along.”

“She won’t—that’s the problem. She’s always hated doing anything that might make my life easier. What she needs is plausible deniability.”

“I’m standing right here,” I say. “I can hear you.”

Grant turns to me with a half grimace, a twist of his mouth I can’t quite read. If I didn’t suspect this is all part of some secret government plot to drive me over the edge, I’d think he was almost remorseful.

Well, if he’s not remorseful now, he will be soon. I told him once that it was hard to get rid of me. He’d see how much I meant it. He’d discover I had no intention of letting him walk out of my life without a fight.

“Whatever you do to me, I’ll hunt you down,” I warn. “I’ll track you and follow you and run all your carefully laid plans right into the ground.”

He studies me carefully. “Is that a promise?”

I glare. “Absolutely.”

“Deal.” He nods once. “You heard the lady. We’ll have to do this the hard way. She’s not going to rest until she has my head on a platter.”

“That’s not the part of you I plan on carving.”

He’s surprised into a chuckle. “This might actually work in our favor, now that I think about it. If we can make them believe I turned on my own wife—”

“You are turning on your own wife.”

He casually ignores me. “That should erase any lingering doubts about my intentions. It’s not how I prefer to do things, but that’s usually the case where Penelope is concerned. I can only take what she gives me. Which, unfortunately, is never as much as I want.”

“I still think it would be easier to just tell her—”

“No. Trust me. It’s better like this. I know how she works.”

Not true. If he did, he’d realize how close he is to being murdered right now.

Tara casts her reluctance aside with a shrug. “It’s your funeral. Let’s tie her up so we can get on with it.”

“Agreed.”

“Hey, now.” I take a step back, my hands up. “I think you two have had enough fun. There’s no need to make empty threats.”

“It’s not an empty threat. I am going to tie you up.”

“Grant—you wouldn’t.”

“I don’t have any other choice. You brought this on yourself.” He lunges for me, but what I noticed the other day while I was hiding in the jewelry store air vent is true. Big means slow, and small means fast. I duck before he’s able to get a grip.

It’s half a victory, because now I’m trapped in the hallway. The only door at this end leads to the bathroom, and even though a window exit isn’t out of the question, there’s no way I’ll have enough time to slip out before I’m caught.

Grant knows it, too. He takes a step toward me, using his wide shoulders to create a blockade. Instinct has me glancing toward Tara in hopes of finding an ally, but she’s conveniently disappeared.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says. “It’ll only be for a few minutes.”

“Don’t come near me. I’ll lock myself in the bathroom.”

“I’ll break down the door.”

“Not before I escape out the window.”

“The latch sticks. You won’t make it in time.”

He draws closer and closer with each word. A sense of danger has heightened my awareness of him, making him appear to grow to epic proportions as he draws near, his body heat lulling me into complicity.

I fight it with the only thing I have left. “Stop. Wait. You know who that woman is, don’t you?”

“I do, actually,” he says. “Someone dear to me once dropped a helpful tip about her.”

I’m the one who stops. I’m the one who waits. I think we all know who that someone was.

“Tara Lewis, one of the most sought-after cat burglars in the world.” Grant appears pensive as he mentally brings up her file. “Put on the FBI watch list before she was legally allowed to vote, married the Blue Fox before she was legally allowed to drink, and believed to be responsible for over fifty million dollars in theft in the United States alone, including the attempt on the Mint back in ’09. She’s the second-best jewel thief I know.”

There it is. He knows. He knows this woman is my stepmother, knows what she did to me, and he still considers her an asset. He’s still choosing her over me.

Grant lunges again. I don’t put up a fight this time, and he catches me easily. It’s a heady feeling, being overpowered and held to his chest, especially when he scoops me into his arms. His heart beats faster against mine—evidence of the adrenaline of the chase—but he’s not the least bit winded by my weight.

If anything, he’s made more confident by my struggle, and he drops a kiss on the side of my mouth. It’s a brief touch, but it’s enough for the impression of his lips to mark mine, for the slightly minty taste of him to linger.

“Don’t be angry,” he croons. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

That jolts me enough to fight back, but it’s too late. Grant has no intention of letting me go, and he hoists me over his shoulder as he enters the living room. There are only so many times I can wriggle and ineffectively punch at the strong breadth of his back before I give up.

“There’s a length of rope in the toolbox under the sink,” he says to Tara as soon as the struggle ends.

“Rope is taking things kind of far, don’t you think?” she asks.

“No. Rope is exactly what’s called for.”

“I hate you,” I say, but no one listens to me.

Grant swings me off his shoulder and onto his favorite leather chair, which deflates with a whoosh as my weight hits. He looms over the top of me, quickly quashing any thought of escape. His legs hit mine, pinning me against the chair, and his arms crash down on either side of me. His lips are inches from mine. It’s a very erotic position—possessive and domineering—but he doesn’t make a move to kiss me.

“What I’m doing isn’t as terrible as you think,” he says, his voice low. “Can’t you find it somewhere in your black, thieving little heart to trust me?”

My black, thieving little heart pounds, taking up residence somewhere in my throat. He knows everything. He has all the power. He’s won.

“Trust you? Please.” He’s still too near, too earnest, so I force myself to focus on reality. This man works for an organization that would happily put me and everyone I love behind bars, even after all we’ve been through together. There are black hearts, and then there are black souls. “I’d sooner trust a snake.”

“One year we’ve been married. One year I’ve never done anything to hurt you—and believe me, you’ve done plenty to provoke it. Don’t you think I deserve some of your confidence by now?”

I provoke him? I set my jaw. “No.”

He sighs and lifts one of his jail-bar arms long enough to run his finger along my cheek. It’s a mocking gesture, condescending in the extreme, but his expression doesn’t match. His mouth is a flat line; his eyes carry the look of a wounded animal. “You really do think I’m the enemy here, don’t you?”

Of course I do. That’s what he is.

“If only you knew how much I—” he begins and draws a deep breath, shaking his head.

I hold perfectly still, waiting for him to finish, but there’s no time. Tara returns with a coiled rope under one arm and a handful of zip ties in the other.

“I thought these might be more humane,” she suggests, indicating the latter.

“I don’t want humane.” Grant takes the rope and begins unwinding it with fearful efficiency. This clearly isn’t his first time tying up a woman. “We need it to look real. A little rope burn goes a long way in situations like these.”

“If you so much as bruise one of my wrists…”

“I’ll kiss it and make it better later, I promise.”

If Grant and I were the only ones in the room, I like to think I would have fought more. I’m not a woman who goes along quietly, and he deserves to have his eyes scratched out for how tight he makes the ropes across my chest and over my thighs—two areas he’s never going to come near again, if I have anything to say about it. But there’s something undignified about engaging in a marital squabble with another person present, so I sit with quiet loathing while he goes to work instead.

That decision turns out to be a good one, since it allows me a moment to observe Tara without my husband’s watchful eyes on me. As expected, time has been good to her, settling her with poise and confidence in addition to her phenomenal good looks. She was always a little coltish when I first knew her, as if she hadn’t yet grown into her skin, but she’s definitely grown into it now. There isn’t a cell in her body she’s not acutely aware of and working to the max.

I can tell she’s performing a similar assessment on me. Whatever she finds isn’t nearly as complimentary, because an expression of aversion moves over her, drawing at her perfectly arched brows like the strings of a curtain.

Well, too bad. Maybe I would have done a better job glamming it up if she hadn’t run off and left me for dead. I hope she gets wrinkles from all that disgust.

Grant tugs on a knot and steps back, a look of appreciation on his face as he appraises me strapped to his favorite chair in true shibari fashion. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of wriggling in discomfort, so I settle in with the same forced calm I use when I’m trapped in an air vent. This man has no idea how long I can sit without twitching a muscle.

Or maybe he does. I’m so confused right now.

“Okay,” Grant says and gestures toward the safe, which I realize is wide open. “Tara, you can go ahead and grab the necklace. Make sure you leave lots of fingerprints. I need there to be no doubt you’re involved.”

“We’ve been seen around town for days now. I’m pretty sure everyone knows we’re involved.”

Grant leans close to me. “Not that kind of involved, in case you’re worried.”

“I’m not.”

“You were worried before.”

“I was angry. It’s different.”

“This isn’t how I wanted things to turn out,” he says, and then, with what I’m sure is feigned concern, “Do you want another glass of water?”

“No, I don’t want any stupid water. What I want is a divorce.”

His jaw tightens. “Too bad,” he says and promptly ignores me to watch Tara plant clumsy evidence all over the safe’s exterior and lift the necklace out of its shoebox.

“Holy shit,” she says, holding it up to herself. Seeing the necklace on her perfectly sculpted neck rankles me even more than being tied to a chair, but I don’t have time to protest, because Grant grows equally rigid at the sight of it. He’s at her side in an instant.

“Don’t get any funny ideas,” he chides and slips the necklace into his pocket. “For the time being, this beauty belongs to me. No one else is getting their hands on it until I say so.” He casts a look at me as he speaks, and I can feel my cheeks burn under the intensity of his regard. God, I hope he ends up dropping that stupid necklace off a cliff.

Tara just sighs. “You’re in charge, I guess. So what do we do now?”

“We proceed as planned.”

Tara’s eyes widen. “But what about Pen? We can’t just leave her there.”

“Yes, actually. We can.” Grant leans in to kiss me, but I snap my teeth at him. He settles for a softly planted press of his lips on top of my hair instead. “Sorry, my love, but you leave me no other choice. You’ve always left me no other choice.”

“I swear to all that is good and holy, if you walk out that door without untying me from this chair…” I have a full speech prepared, buckets of names to call him, lawyers to contact to start the divorce proceedings—but it’s no use.

He and Tara are out the door without so much as a good-bye, carrying my necklace and all hope of escape with them.

And that’s when I start to kick and scream and struggle against the ropes that bind me.