2

THE HUSBAND

(Later that Night)

“I know it’s a day early, but I got you something.”

I don’t make a sound as the low timbre of my husband’s voice surprises me from the bathroom doorway—that’s two decades of on-the-job training put to good use right there—but I do fumble with the razor I’d been drawing over my leg. I see the nick before I feel it.

“Jesus, Grant.” I twist my leg to keep the sudden welling of blood from dripping all over the claw-foot tub. “Give a girl a little warning, will you? I think I might need stitches.”

“No, you don’t. Stitches are only for wounds of depth—not breadth. There’s nothing there to stitch.”

It’s a fair assessment, but I’m not about to let him bury my gaping leg wound under his practical streak. Grant has the annoying habit of FBI agents everywhere in believing that an injury isn’t worth note unless it’s a gunshot wound sustained in the line of duty. He and Riker share that in common, actually. My pain is a matter of complete indifference to them. I could be hit by a car, and both of them would expect me to remember to sit up and jot down the license plate number before it got away.

“Are you going to give me a first aid lecture while I bleed all over the bathroom floor?”

“If your plan is to sit there until you pass out, then yes. It sounds like you might need one.”

“What I need is sympathy, you jerk.”

He complies in an instant. “Of course you do, poor baby. Let me see it.”

He passes silently from the doorway to my side, where I’m perched on the edge of the tub, my leg extended at an awkward angle and propped by the tiled wall. It baffles me that a six-foot-two former Virginia Tech quarterback can walk around without making a sound, but he’s always had an uncanny ability to move on a cloud of air.

I want to protest as he perches himself on the toilet seat and draws my naked leg into his lap, but, well, my naked leg is in his lap. Nudity has a way of taking over every other consideration, and I’m reminded that the rest of me is also quite bare, wrapped up in a fluffy white towel and nothing more. He’s aware of it, too, his eyes following the line of my thigh up to where it disappears into the terry cloth.

It’s all I can do not to melt into a puddle alongside the overspray from my shower. Even though tomorrow will signal an entire year of wedded bliss, I haven’t yet figured out how to be naked in a room with my husband without being all too aware of my body’s discrete parts. I’m all skin and nipples and legs, my nerve endings pricking to awareness thanks to his proximity alone.

His proximity is, unfortunately, impossible to ignore. Although it’s been a good eight years since he played football, he hasn’t lost a fiber of the well-formed muscle from his athletic youth. I should know. I’ve seen the pictures. I’ve studied the pictures—not to mention the school reports, his recruitment to the FBI, an obscene list of professional accolades, childhood immunization records, and even an article from when he was twelve and won the Pinewood Derby.

In short, I’ve discovered just about everything there is to know about this man, but I still couldn’t tell you how he knew I was going to be at that jewelry store today.

And he knew. There’s not a doubt in my mind that Grant planned today’s botched job down to the last frantic second.

He’s too good not to. That man sees, hears, and knows all. Let me tell you—there’s nothing worse than a husband who’s always right. Unless, of course, he also happens to be your mortal enemy.

“I think you’re going to live.” Grant’s gentle smile mocks me, but that doesn’t make it any less powerful an aphrodisiac. His movements are careful as he pulls out a box of Band-Aids from under the sink, and he even goes so far as to blow on my shin before putting the bandage in place. His breath is hot and cold at the same time, and even though admiration is the last thing I should be feeling for him right now, I can’t help but appreciate the way his generous lips form a familiar and enticing shape.

Dammit. I lied before. There is something worse than a lover-slash-enemy who knows too much. If there was any justice in this world, he’d at least refrain from being a heap of masculine perfection in shirtsleeves. I swear, someone beyond the pearly gates must be laughing it up at my expense. I hope they’re enjoying the show.

Fortunately for my sanity and self-control, his hand brushes my ankle as he tosses the wrapper in the garbage. Even that slight contact shoots fire up my leg. Since I know I’m not going to get any sympathy from Grant unless I can magically transform a twisted ankle into a bullet wound, I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

Conversely, my stoicism brings out the nurturer in him. “Oh, Penelope Blue—what did you do?”

I should point out that Grant is the only person in the world I allow to call me by my full name. He infuses it with a playful, singsong quality that should make me annoyed but doesn’t. There’s something about a large, arrogant man falling into sudden outbursts of rhyme that gets to me.

He moves his hand over the eggplant-colored bruise running parallel to the arch of my foot, his touch featherlight and almost reverent. “What happened? Were the kids hard on you today? Lots of pirouettes gone wrong?”

Now, this is where things get tricky. In case you aren’t confused enough, my cover story is that my professional goals extend no further than teaching dance to a group of four-year-olds at a midtown rec center—something I actually do a few days out of the week to lend credence to the lie that is my life. But there is no class on Fridays, and Grant knows it. I know Grant knows it, but I’m not sure if Grant knows that I know he knows it.

See? Tricky.

“It’s nothing—I just fell when I was leaving.” I stick to reality as much as possible in situations like these. One thing I’ve learned in the past year is that it’s much easier to keep up a strong cover story if there’s an element of truth to it.

“Always so clumsy.” Grant makes a tsking sound. “Tripping up when I least expect it.”

My heart picks up, and I steal a peek at his expression. His eyes—always so innocent in their wide, sleepy way—seem sincere, but I’m unable to keep from testing him just to be sure. It’s a problem of mine, this not knowing when to stop. I push when I should back away, argue when I should agree, get married to an FBI agent when I should be running as fast and as far as my feet will take me.

“I’m not clumsy,” I say with a prim lift of my nose. “Everything I do is carefully arranged ahead of time. You could say it’s all part of my master plan.”

His eyes crinkle in what I think is amusement. “Is that right?”

“Yes. I just want you to believe I’m accident-prone. That way, when I dazzle you with my acrobatic grace and contortionist abilities, you won’t know what hit you.”

“Acrobatic grace?”

“And contortionist abilities.”

This proves too much for his gravity. His lips twitch. “I know you’re flexible, but don’t you think contortionist is taking things a step too far?”

I don’t even blink. “I could fit inside that bathroom cupboard and stay there all night without breaking a sweat.”

He laughs out loud at that, his chuckle deep and rich. I feel it tingling in places better left unmentioned. “Nice try, but I know how you get inside small spaces. You can’t even look at an elevator without cringing.”

Instead of making me feel comforted, his words only throw me into greater disorder. I never know what to think when he makes statements like that—so sure of himself, so sure of me. Yes, he knows I get a touch claustrophobic from time to time, but either he believes me to be a jewel thief capable of sitting in an air duct for eight hours, or he doesn’t. There isn’t a middle ground.

If he notices how flustered I am, he doesn’t let it show as he once again turns his attention to my ankle. “Do we need to have this looked at?”

“You’re the first aid expert. You tell me.”

He studies my foot for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration as he gives the limb a delicate twist. I have to laugh at how serious he looks—as if he has X-ray vision on top of all his other superhuman capabilities.

Then I stop laughing, because there’s a good chance he does. Seriously. I wouldn’t put anything past this man. Secret government experiments and all that.

“You’ll live,” he asserts. “As much as I’d like to keep you chained up here for the rest of your life, you’ll be back up and dancing in no time.”

Dancing. Right. That’s what he’s afraid of.

I’m about to make the major mistake of saying more, of feeling him out on the subject of today’s events, but he lifts my foot to his lips and drops a kiss on the bruise. Gone are all thoughts of pain. No more do I care if he knows my secrets and intends to reveal them to the proper authorities. That foot is now the center of my entire being, linked to a million coils of sensation firing like pistons between my legs.

He’s that dangerous. If his lips moved a few inches higher, the pistons would start hammering so hard, I’d end up confessing everything.

Which is why I clear my throat and delicately take my limb back. Now is not the time for leg pistons. I obviously need to get a grip on myself. “First things first. I thought I heard you say something about a present?”

“Always so greedy.” He flicks my cheek with his forefinger before reaching into his back pocket and extracting a long, flat package wrapped in white paper. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute, or I’d have divorced you months ago.”

Sticking my tongue out at him is as good a response as any—especially since words are having a hard time rising to the surface.

“And be careful. You’re going to want to be gentle with this one. It’s expensive.”

My first thought is of the jewelry store and Grant’s declaration that I deserve something nice, as if I’m some sweet, docile lamb of a spouse who works with children and cooks regular meals. But this is clearly not a jewelry box, and the package is heavy—much heavier than I expected.

I look up, startled, but Grant’s expression is unreadable. “Happy anniversary. Here’s to another eighty incredible years.”

Damn him. He knows exactly what to say to make me feel as if the room has tipped on its side. “But I didn’t get you anything.”

“You don’t have to get me anything.” His fingers graze my bottom lip for the briefest touch before his entire hand—a big, capable, ex-football-player’s hand—cups the side of my face. I turn into it like a cat. “Being married to you is enough.”

He’s about two seconds away from kissing me and rendering the towel barrier between us null and void, so I crinkle the package and give it my full attention instead. In true man fashion, the wrapping job is clumsy and clumpy, and I have to unroll the paper for what seems like five yards before I finally reach the item inside.

And then I drop it.

Fast—too fast, his reflexes on the ready—Grant catches the necklace before it has a chance to hit the tiles below. I want to act normal, as if being presented with a two-million-dollar necklace for one’s anniversary is a girlish delight rather than a shock of ice water over the head, but I can barely breathe, let alone squeal.

“What the hell?” I can’t bring myself to touch it again. God, those diamonds were heavy. I mean, I’ve held diamonds before—uncut stones and gleaming, polished jewelry sets and once, an entire velvet bag full of gems—but never anything like this. Four people’s futures could fit inside these rocks. One little girl’s dream could be brought back to life. “Why are you giving me this?”

“It’s customary to give one’s wife a gift on an anniversary.” His tone is level and unreadable. His smile gives nothing away. “Or so I’ve been told. You don’t like it?”

I reach for it again, but my hand stops about halfway between our bodies. A trap. This has to be some kind of trap. He wants me to get my fingerprints on the necklace so he can plant the evidence somewhere. He’s going to put the stones around my neck and strangle me with them the second my guard is down. Something.

“It’s…lovely.”

“Lovely? Are you sure? That’s what women usually say when they’re disappointed.”

“Gorgeous,” I hastily amend.

“That’s better, but a little generic, don’t you think?”

“Too much,” is my final answer.

His expression gentles. “Nothing is too much for you, Penelope Blue.”

He makes a motion as if he wants to hang the necklace around my neck, but I’m still stuck in place, glued by paranoia. I’m usually better able to parry with my favorite adversary, but this is what they call a killing blow. Nothing about this situation makes sense.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

All I have to offer is a feeble, “I don’t get it.” If it were possible to understate an understatement, I just accomplished it in four words. Yay me.

“No, you don’t get it,” he agrees. “Not permanently, anyway. This one’s just on loan. I’ve been asked to babysit it for a few days.”

“Babysit?” At that, I dip my head, drawing myself closer to the necklace. I can’t help it. There’s so much shiny coming my way. Besides, given the fact that I’m naked and trapped with a man who could bench press me two times over, playing along seems the safest course of action.

“Yeah. It was the craziest thing.” His hands are on my neck now, close enough to strangle me, though, of course, he doesn’t. Those aren’t murder hands—they’re seduction hands, and they linger on the slope of my clavicle as he fastens the necklace in place. A shiver works down my spine and covers me in goose bumps, the way it does when someone supposedly steps over the site of your future grave. “I was assigned to help a woman pick it up from a jewelry store today. It was supposed to be an easy task—no one in their right mind would try to steal a necklace like this in broad daylight—but someone actually made the attempt.”

My mouth goes dry at the full weight of his words. Of course I’m not in my right mind. If I was, I’d hit him over the head with our industrial-sized shampoo bottle and make my escape out the bathroom window—nudity be damned—without another moment’s hesitation.

But I stay in place, the biggest rock in the center of the necklace settling on my chest, right over my pounding heart.

“Really?” I say, feigning shock—and doing a decent job of it, if you ask me. “How exciting. I’d love to hear how you managed to save the day.”

Is it my imagination, or is that a gleam of appreciation in his eyes? “Well, there I was, keeping an eye on all the exits, the owner getting ready to pick up her package, and BAM”—I jump a little—“out go all the lights. It’s pitch dark. The security bars come crashing down over the windows, and there are no emergency backup generators coming on to bring the lights back up.”

“Sounds like maybe it was an electrical problem.”

“That’s what I thought, too, but then we heard the gunfire outside.”

Good old Jordan. “There was gunfire?”

“Heading straight for me. I barely made it out alive.”

I know it behooves me to fall into a ladylike swoon at this point. A good wife—heck, even a barely competent one—would show at least a little concern for her spouse being caught in the crossfire of a major jewelry heist. But of all the lies that are lodged between us, my being a good wife has never been one of them.

“How could the gunfire have been heading straight for you if you were locked inside the jewelry store?”

“I was speaking metaphorically, of course.”

“It was metaphoric gunfire endangering your life?”

“Gunfire is gunfire. If you’d ever been shot before, you’d show proper deference to the dangers of firearms.”

See? I told you. Gunshot wounds trump everything else. It’s like no other injury even exists for these guys.

“I’m sorry, you poor, highly trained field operative,” I say, since he’s obviously in search of some wifely sympathy. “You must have been so frightened. Whatever did you do?”

“Brat.” His fingers pinch my chin, forcing me to glance up and find his deep, brown eyes searching mine. “You wouldn’t care if I was killed in the crossfire, would you?”

My pulse leaps, but I’m not about to be coerced into a confession. Not when I have no idea how much he actually knows. “Well, we do have that lovely life insurance policy.”

“Lovely, huh? You keep using that word against me—I don’t think you realize how much it stings.” I’m saved from having to reply when Grant releases his hold on me and shrugs, his careful nonchalance back in place. “Anyway, nothing happened after that. The lights came back on, but no jewelry was stolen. Not even a wallet or a purse. We aren’t sure yet what happened—maybe the perps got spooked—but my section chief thinks the woman’s home is the most likely place they’ll hit next, so I’m supposed to keep a watch on the necklace for her. It’s a pretty brilliant plan, don’t you think? No one would suspect the underpaid sap in a federal suit is the chosen keeper of a piece like this. Our house is the last place they’ll think to look for it.”

I open my mouth and immediately close it again, unsure what to say or even what to think. His boss is absolutely right. Our house, located about an hour north of the city in good ol’ suburban Rye, would be the last place I’d think to look for it…if Grant hadn’t just given away the whole show by placing it against my heart.

“Are you sure my neck is the safest place to keep it right now?” I can’t help asking. “How do you know I won’t run off to Mexico with it the second your back is turned?”

“I guess I’ll have to trust you, won’t I?” is his glib response. “Besides, I couldn’t resist the temptation. It’s a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. I spent most of my day imagining what you’d look like wearing that necklace.”

There’s no mistaking the rumble in his voice or the way my body responds to it, every part sitting up and taking notice at once. We’re no longer talking about firing pistons over here. The whole engine is up and running.

“Well?” I give my head a playful toss, exposing all my neck’s curves so he can choose his favorite one. From the looks of it, he prefers the softly beating pulse in the hollow of my throat. The sensitive spot. The weak spot.

My breath catches, my body poised for fight or flight. That pulse is the only sound in the room. I wonder if this is what an animal hears right before it’s clamped in the wolf’s jaws, or if the world goes black first.

Either way, he’s clearly waiting for me to say something—anything—so I manage a feeble, “What’s the final verdict? How do I look?”

That’s all Grant needs to hear to get moving again. His eyes kindle a dark warning as he pulls the towel from around my body, and that’s when I know he plans to elicit a lot more than my fluttering pulse—and that neither flight nor fight is an option anymore.

“Actually, I spent most of my day imagining how you’d look wearing only that necklace.”