16

THE COUCH

(Seventeen Months Ago)

Riker’s favorite place to plan a heist was on the outer decks of the Hudson River Ferry. I never knew if he was afraid of being bugged or if he just really liked boats, but nine times out of ten, we conducted our plotting on the familiar waterway between New York and New Jersey.

Most of the time, I didn’t mind. I liked a fresh river breeze as much as the next claustrophobic girl, and I was long since used to accommodating Riker’s whims. But on a day like this one, with a bitter fall wind whipping along the water and a sky so overcast that the clouds weighed heavily on our shoulders, Riker’s whims weren’t at the top of my priority list. I mostly wanted a blanket.

“The job should be straightforward after that.” Riker spoke directly into the wind, which meant Jordan and I had to strain to hear him, even though we brushed shoulders. Oz was, as usual, hiding somewhere in the distance. I figured he had equal chances of being the man reading the newspaper just inside the window or the captain of this vessel—they both looked enough like him to pass. “The key will be rigging the rooftop explosion in perfect alignment with the delivery driver’s schedule.”

“And we’re sure Pen can make it up the laundry chute in that amount of time?” Jordan asked, glancing at me.

“I can’t feel my face,” I replied.

Jordan wrapped her hand around her ear and leaned closer. “What was that?”

“My face,” I repeated, louder this time.

“What about it?”

“I can’t feel it.” If you’ve ever wondered how difficult it is to hold a conversation in forty-degree wind and sideways rain, the answer is very. “It’s numb. Are my lips moving right now? It’s hard to tell.”

Jordan hid her smile behind a discreet hand, but Riker turned to me with a scowl. “No one cares about your stupid face. Can you or can you not handle your part?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? Because the last time we tried to use a laundry chute, you slipped two stories—”

“I’ll get a pair of those grippy socks. No big deal.” I wasn’t as confident as my tone indicated—they must oil laundry chutes to try and make them unnavigable—but if we didn’t wrap this up, Riker would make us ride the entire length of the river again to hash out the details. Not only was my body temperature unamenable to this plan, but I didn’t relish the idea of reaching the terminal looking like a drowned rat. “We’re about to dock. Can we finish this later? Somewhere with heat or a roof, maybe?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to steal a Civil War coin collection getting in the way of your comfort?”

“She has a date,” Jordan informed him and turned to me to adjust my windblown hair. I wished her luck with that endeavor. I’d spent quite a bit of time that morning attempting to make myself more presentable than usual—lipstick and everything—but I doubted there was much she could do to salvage me now. “Grant’s picking her up at the terminal.”

I didn’t have to look at Riker to know he wasn’t pleased by this information—he was so hot and angry, my hair practically steamed flat again. “Oh really? You’re meeting your FBI boyfriend at the place where we regularly conduct business? How nice. Would you also like to give him a list of the crimes you’ve committed in the past year?”

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure he already knows,” I said. “I told you before—it’s not us he’s after. It’s my dad’s fortune.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Call it a woman’s intuition.”

“I’d rather call it a woman’s infatuation.”

That, too. “If you’re so convinced I don’t know what I’m talking about, why don’t you come with me?”

Riker jolted so much, he almost pitched himself over the side of the ferry. “Come with you? Like, on your date?”

“Sure. Why not?” I shrugged with a nonchalance that was largely faked. I wanted Grant and Riker on a date with me the same way I wanted to dine with a bear and a wolf at the same time, but I wasn’t sure what else to do. Riker wasn’t going to be happy unless I made him see for himself that I could handle Grant.

Our guard dog was clever, yes, and he knew things about us that indicated months—if not years—of careful surveillance. And, okay, any more of those dangerous kisses from him and I was likely to give up the whole show, but I was taking just as much as I gave away. Riker wasn’t the only one who could plan a perfect deception.

“You obviously don’t trust my judgment, even though he’s met Jordan and refrained from slapping her in irons,” I said. “So come along. I’ll introduce you. You can buy furniture with us.”

As usual, he latched on to the least important part of that statement. “He’s buying you furniture already? Let me guess. It’s a bed.”

I glared at him—ineffectively, I might add, as my eyes stung from the rain. Not only was Riker being offensive, but he was putting an innuendo on my relationship with Grant that didn’t belong there. To need a bed, Grant and I would have to participate in activities of a carnal nature. Unless you counted the unholy thoughts that made up basically all of my waking—and sleeping—hours, Grant and I had done nothing of the sort.

Oh, we’d kissed plenty. I could tell you exactly how he preferred to hold a woman while his lips devoured hers, describe in detail the way he tasted when he was at his most demanding. I knew the contours of his body through his clothes so well, I could draw him from memory—and let me tell you, my memory liked what it saw.

Even though I’d always known Agent Grant Emerson was a strong man, nothing could have prepared me for the strength of his resolve in stopping each kiss before it got too heated. He licked and nibbled, taunted and teased, groped and groaned. But he never, ever took a bite.

He was a gentleman through and through. It was killing me.

“It’s not a bed, Riker, and he’s not buying me anything. He’s just taking me to a store where I can trade my own hard-earned cash for worldly possessions. I’m thinking about getting a lamp.”

Riker’s scowl was replaced by a normal, everyday frown. “A lamp, Pen?”

I blushed despite the numbing cold. Riker could lay out all the insults he wanted without affecting me, could yell and scream and bluster until he lost his voice, and he never hurt me in the slightest. But that simply worded question spoke volumes.

See, my apartment wasn’t a sad, empty space because I was broke. The reality was that I’d never felt an urge for furniture ownership before. I didn’t want roots. I didn’t want ties. I didn’t want to grow attached to anything that could be taken away from me again.

To most people, a lamp signified nothing more than a convenient way to see after dark. To me—and, in many ways, to Riker—a lamp was a heck of a lot more. It was investing in the future. It was paying down on a life you weren’t sure would be there the next morning.

“It’s dark inside my apartment,” I said and left it at that.

As was often the case between us, Riker understood perfectly. He nodded once and turned to look out over the water. “Okay. I’ll come. But you’d better go inside with Jordan and have her do something with your hair first. You look like a drowned rat.”

* * *

Years ago, I took a class on manners. A finishing course, the fancy people of the world called it—one of those weeklong affairs where young ladies go to learn things like which fork to use and how to walk around with books on their heads. We’d been running a job that required me to make it through an entire five-course meal at a political fundraising dinner, and Riker was certain I’d do something to give away my roots, like shovel food in my face with both fists—which, let’s face it, was a real possibility.

I don’t remember much about the class except that I wasn’t very good at being a gracious lady. For one, a gracious lady wouldn’t have pocketed the silverware before she left. For another, a gracious lady would have walked away knowing how to skillfully manage the introductions between two men predisposed to loathe one another.

I only got as far as, “Grant, this is my good friend, Riker. Riker, this is Grant,” before I ran out of things to say.

“It’s nice to finally meet,” Riker said stiffly and extended a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Most of the people standing around the glass-paned terminal could probably tell he was lying through clenched teeth, but Grant stepped up with all the good breeding and manners that no finishing class could ever give me.

He took Riker’s hand in his own giant paw and shook, his smile deep and seemingly genuine. “You have the advantage of me there. I haven’t heard anything about you, but any friend of Penelope’s is a friend of mine.”

What a liar. But a cute liar.

“Riker and I sort of grew up together,” I offered. “I don’t have any official family for you to meet, but he’s as good as the real thing. Better, probably. We used to date.”

Once again, I appeared to have caught Grant off guard with the truth. His startled gaze flew to mine for the briefest of moments before appreciation settled over his expression. Riker’s startled gaze, on the other hand, stayed intensely unappreciative.

“I didn’t care for her sense of humor,” Riker said. Grant had yet to relinquish his hand, so they stood at an impasse, clutching one another as crowds of people streamed by. “In case you were wondering why we broke up. She thinks it’s hilarious to pitch her friends into uncomfortable situations against their will.”

Right. Because he never pitched me into uncomfortable places. Like boxes. Or laundry chutes.

“She does seem to have an unusual levity about her,” Grant agreed. “I can see how that might get exhausting after a while.”

“Hey, now—” I started.

“She’s also surprisingly ambitionless,” Grant continued. He finally released Riker’s hand, turning so they walked shoulder to shoulder, leaving me no choice but to trail ineffectively behind. “You’d think a woman with so many talents would want more out of life.”

“I want things out of life,” I said. “Lots of things. Lunch, for starters, wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“She’s always been like that,” Riker said, ignoring me. He still sounded sullen, but I could tell he was warming to the idea of discussing my flaws with an understanding ear. “You try to give her something nice—a present or a compliment or an opportunity—and she immediately wonders what the catch is. It’s kind of sad.”

“You guys know I’m still here, right?”

The look Grant tossed me over his shoulder indicated he was well aware of that fact and enjoying himself all the more because of it. “It’s probably her daddy issues,” he said.

Riker started, but he kept walking. “What do you know about her dad?”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to. But I’ve always found that women who weren’t properly cherished by their fathers have a hard time accepting the idea of unconditional affection.”

“You think?”

“I know. And when you add abandonment into the mix…”

I gave up and allowed them to ramble on as we walked, torn between amusement at Grant’s attempts to mine Riker for facts about my past and fear at how easily Riker slipped under his spell. Was that what I was like? Grant turned on the charm and chatted away, and I lost all control over my flow of information? If I spilled half the things Riker did, Grant must have my whole backstory by now.

Fortunately, any fears I had of Grant and Riker becoming best friends ended as soon as we reached the antique shop where I planned to make my first foray into responsible adulthood and lamp ownership. This was where Grant made his first error of judgment where Riker was concerned—a mistake I have yet to see repeated, but one that made such a deep impression that it didn’t matter how many heart hugs Grant offered later.

“Well, are we ready to head in?” Grant turned to me with a smile, indicating the large wooden door with a jerk of his head. “The sooner you pick out a lamp, the sooner we can head to lunch.”

My stomach growled at the prospect. “You cruel manipulator. With an offer like that, I’ll probably buy the first one I see.”

He turned to Riker next, his hand extended. “It was nice to meet you—Riker, right? I appreciate you delivering her to me. I’ll take care of her from here.”

I was unable to hide my wince at Grant’s unfortunate choice of wording, and both men saw it. They also both turned to me to see how I’d handle the situation. Riker clearly expected me to bristle and show my teeth—my standard response whenever he was the one trying to tell me what to do—and I didn’t blame him for it. I normally hated it when he got all possessive and domineering, treating me like I was incapable of doing anything without him directing my actions.

But this was different. First of all, I couldn’t lash out at Grant while we were still in the heady early days, or I risked upsetting the entire balance of our relationship. Perhaps more importantly, I didn’t want to. There was a part of me—a long-dormant part, now sitting up and taking notice—that loved the way Grant’s words wound up and down my spine, binding me to him.

I’ll take care of her. A threat and a promise. Challenge and seduction. A bad idea that only made me want to play along even more.

So even though Grant made the first mistake—putting me in a position where I was forced to choose between them—it was me who made the second one.

I chose.

“I’ll see you later, okay, Riker? You can come over and admire my new furnishings with Jordan.”

“Sure thing, Pen.” He pulled himself jerkily away from the door and out onto the street. “You do that. We’ll just sit around waiting for your call.”

* * *

“Your friend doesn’t like me very much.”

I whirled from where I’d been contemplating a lion’s statue on a pedestal—the least practical item in the antique store and the one I wanted most. I’d already named him Horace.

“Who? Riker?” I tried not to let my alarm show. We’d been doing so well since Riker stormed off in a huff, the pair of us carefully avoiding the clunker of a cluster we’d made in handling him on the street. “Don’t worry about it. He doesn’t like anyone.”

Grant didn’t move from his position on the vintage floral couch he was trying to convince me to buy. He sat as only a large man on paisley flowers can sit: completely at ease, one leg propped on the opposite knee and his arm across the back, hugging the empty spot next to him. Come sit by me, that spot beckoned. It’s so warm and comfy here in this space we’ve created for you.

I could picture it already, the way our thighs would press up against each other from hip to knee, how our hands would slowly wander into hidden seams to frolic together. He was clearly trying to entice me to buy that couch with hidden frolics, but Riker was in enough of a mood that the lamp was already pushing it. If I came home with a whole couch, I wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive me.

To tempt me even further, Grant patted the seat next to him. He seemed to be on friendly terms with the proprietor of the store, a young, pretty brunette who dressed like she was about eighty years older, complete with the baggy sweater and glasses perched on top of her head. We could spend as long as we wanted, er, testing the springs.

In the grand scheme of life decisions, this one hardly ranked high enough on the scale to matter. It was like balking at a lie when you were caught hawking someone else’s gold watch; refusing to share a big take when you didn’t know how to spend what you already had. Sitting on a couch in full public view hardly mattered when I’d happily, willingly, all-too-carelessly let him knock my boots right off.

So I did it. I gave up and gave in and plopped my ass on that couch. And Grant caught me, even though I wasn’t falling.

With a squeal, I found myself ensconced in his lap—which wasn’t a bad place to be, all things considered, but I hadn’t been prepared for that level of physical intimacy. Thighs touching, fingers brushing, maybe his hand on my face again as he leaned in for a kiss…those were the only places my daytime imagination was allowed to go.

This? This was strictly nighttime fantasy territory. My ass fit perfectly in the curve of his lap, my softest parts and his hardest ones nestled together, my legs swung sideways over his so that he could easily run a hand along my outer thighs, inner thighs, or any other part of my thighs he fancied. My arms had nowhere to go but around his neck, which they did, shamelessly and of their own accord, which meant my breasts pressed up against his chest. The areas where our bodies touched grew hot and heavy, and it was impossible not to notice the blood coursing through my veins.

It was a little like someone telling you not to picture an elephant, actually. I wanted to play it cool, act as though sitting in an insanely strong and attractive man’s lap in the middle of an antique store was just another day in Penelope-land, but all I could see and feel and hear was that stupid elephant.

It was a big elephant.

“He doesn’t like me,” Grant repeated. The arms he had shackled around my waist twitched in a way that made me think they wanted to start roving. Not that he indulged. “And I can’t say I blame him.”

“He’s incapable of smiling. It’s because of his weird lips. He can only scowl or smirk. It makes him look a lot angrier and meaner than he really is.”

I thought it was a good way of explaining Riker’s attitude, but Grant shook his head. “Smiling wouldn’t have made a difference. I told you I’m good at reading people. That man was prepared to dislike me before we met. I wonder why?”

Because you’re an FBI agent and he’s a thief hung unspoken in the small space between us, and I thought it was silly of him to ask when we both knew the answer. But Grant tightened his hold on me and locked his gaze on mine, forcing me into this weird and highly alluring staring contest where I couldn’t escape the dark tunnels of his eyes.

Fortunately, I was used to cramped, dark places.

“He doesn’t trust you,” I said.

“Neither do you.”

“Yes, but I find you incredibly attractive, so it doesn’t count. I don’t think you’re Riker’s type. He prefers brunettes.”

The hold that was already crushing my waist grew intense enough to shoot pangs of hot, liquid longing between my legs.

“You find me incredibly attractive?” Grant asked.

“Is it that hard to tell? Here—let me help.” I twisted as much as his grip allowed me, my squirming movements sending jolts of pleasure through us both. “Agent Grant Emerson, you are one strapping beast of a man, and even though I know it’s a mistake, I can’t stop thinking about you. About you taking me to bed.” I lowered my voice, upping the ante. “About you taking me, period.”

I didn’t kiss him, showing a rare moment of restraint, but there was no mistaking the way he grew hard beneath me. Strapping beast was right. It was all I could do to bite back a low moan of my approval.

But if I thought being in his lap and outlining my desires was going to lead to something more, I was strongly mistaken. Grant seemed to take no pleasure in his body’s reaction. He actually frowned, his muscles rigid.

“Are you two together?”

It took me a moment to realize he was still talking about Riker. “What?” I shook my head. “No. I told you. We dated a long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

Was this another ploy to get information? I couldn’t tell, what with the arousal and his grip on my waist and the fact that I’d never seen Grant like this before. He’d been playful and mocking and amused and suspicious…but never angry. This was angry.

“I don’t know? Seven years? Eight? Does it matter?”

“Yes. No. I’m not sure.” He stood then, almost tossing me out of his lap, heedless of the fact that a man in his current condition might not want to strut around so voraciously. I mean, I could watch an ex-football-player-turned-FBI-god strut around hard—because of me—for hours, but we were in a public place, after all.

His hand brushed through his hair as he turned to me, the tunnels of his eyes transformed to black holes. “You aren’t lying about this?”

“Of course not.”

“This isn’t another one of your tri—?” He stopped himself before he finished, but it didn’t take much imagination to fill in the blanks. Another one of my tricks. So much more than lying about the books in the library, he was talking about toying with his affections for the sake of the job. Selling myself for answers to my father’s past.

I couldn’t even be mad at the implication, because I wondered the same thing myself. Just how far was this man willing to go to insinuate himself into my life? Just how far would I let him?

I thought he’d turn the playful charm back on, afraid of having said too much, but he crouched in front of me and took my hands in his, perfectly earnest. “I really want to kiss you again, Penelope. More than is good for me.”

My mouth grew dry, and I licked my lips to keep it running. The way his gaze followed the path of my tongue, as if he’d do anything to make that journey, almost robbed me of speech.

“Then why don’t you?” I asked hoarsely. “I find it hard to believe a man like you would let anything stand in the way of what he really wants.”

He swore and moved in. His hand cupped the side of my face, his lips prepared to devour mine. “You’re a brat, you know that? Does anything unsettle you?”

If he’d waited a few seconds, I’d have given in to the folly of answering his question, but his patience gave out as quickly as my resolve. I was in his arms before I knew what was happening. And then I knew what was happening—the world was spinning, and my heart was flooding my veins.

I was also pinned to the couch by a man determined to unsettle me through any means necessary. Those means included wrapping a hand up into my hair and tugging on the strands until my head was exactly where he wanted it. The pain was slight but the meaning clear—I am master here, and you will do as I command.

I didn’t have the heart to correct him. When it came to his groaning, possessive mouth on mine, I was his to command. He could press me into these cushions and demand anything of my body, and I’d have given it willingly. Skin and sweat and tangled limbs were his for the taking.

But he was not now and never would be my master. I could give as good as I got.

So I did.

My hands found their way under his shirt—an action he seemed to appreciate, if his growl of approval was anything to go by. In retaliation, he increased the pressure on my hair, tilting my head back so he could continue claiming my mouth with his own. His tongue swept a determined path, twisting against mine in an explosion of taste and sensation. Since I couldn’t move, I bit the side of his mouth and scraped my fingernails down his back, lightly scoring his skin.

His hips jerked forward, and I saw stars.

I have no idea how long we would have continued like that, falling deeper and deeper into the couch, the hard line of his erection pressing into the juncture of my thighs, but a discreet cough yanked us back to reality before things got out of hand.

Well, before they got more out of hand.

The cough was followed by a gentle query. “I assume you’ll be purchasing that couch, then?”

Grant pulled away, dazed, as I took stock of the grandmotherly young woman struggling not to smile at us.

“Um, yes.” Dammit. I knew this was going to happen. Fornicating in public was going to cost me a fortune. “It’s very pretty.”

“And comfortable,” Grant said with a mischievous glint.

I smacked him on the arm, lingering a little too long on the hard swell of his biceps. Comfort and looks notwithstanding, that couch—and that arm—signaled a shift I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Which was why I recklessly added, “And the lion statue, too, please.”

Grant looked a question at me.

“To guard my domain,” I explained. “Now that I have something worth protecting.”

“Perfect. And I’ll take the record player from the back room.”

As far as I could remember, Grant hadn’t even been in the back room, which was why I shot him a surprised look. He shrugged. “I figure it’s high time you listen to that record your father left you. Nine years is a hell of a long time to wait.”

I nodded vigorously, hoping the action hid the confusion of emotions swelling up and spreading through me. The kissing and the antique store, the jealousy over Riker—it was impossible to tell how many of Grant’s actions were a planned seduction and how many were real.

It also didn’t matter. Not now.

Because the truth was, nine years was a hell of a long time to wait, and it was sweet of Grant to extend this effort on my behalf…except that not once, in all our conversations, had I ever told him how long it had been since I’d last seen my father.

He was slipping. Agent Grant Emerson, man of determination and gentlemanly morals and oh-so-persuasive hands, was slipping.

With the taste of his lips still lingering on mine, the pounding of my blood drowning out any ancillary warnings, I had a few ideas about how I could get him to slip even more.