2

THE OFFICE

I start with Grant’s desk, since that seems the likeliest place to find clues.

The exact shape and scope of what I’m looking for is hazy, and a surge of anxiety moves through me as I consider how much I’ve bitten off. Under normal circumstances—normal being premeditated theft—the target goal is clear. A two-million-dollar necklace. A shipment of uncut diamonds. A gilded statue in the shape of a horse’s bottom half. These things are straightforward and tangible. Simple, if you will.

Oh, how different my life was when money was the motivating factor. Stealing hearts isn’t nearly as easy as stealing valuables.

“All right,” I mutter and survey the long wooden desk, taking in the vast stacks of paperwork with a sigh. “If I were highly classified information about the most important person in my life, where would I be?”

There is no easy answer to that question. For all his highly professional ways, Grant has always been a bit of a pack rat. He loves antiques and collecting things, and he has a hard time throwing items away if he has any sort of sentimental attachment to them. Our home is a testament to this, filled to bursting with rickety chairs and colorful paintings, all of which are older than dirt and often smell like it.

It’s sweet, his romantic attachment to things of the past, but it’s hardly ideal when time isn’t on my side. I have to shuffle through dozens of file folders, a framed photo of the two of us on our second honeymoon, and several antique paperweights before I even make it to the surface of the desk. There are plenty of serious-looking documents among the piles, but none that contain any mention of Penelope Blue, the Peep-Toe Prowler, or a code name he might be using to protect me.

Man, FBI agents have boring jobs. There’s enough paperwork here to keep me busy forever—and that’s with reading the reports, not writing them. It’s hard to imagine a man as active and virile as Grant sitting stooped over this desk for hours at a time, but his dedication to the job is such that I don’t doubt he does everything asked of him.

I’m not upset about the time he spends here, of course, and I would never ask him to give up something he loves solely because it conflicts with my own worldview. But, oh, how I miss having that same sense of purpose, that feeling of all-consuming passion for the job. Once upon a time, I too buried myself under plans and notes, got home late and left early, lost myself in the pursuit of something huge.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had that in my life, and I miss it more than I ever thought possible—so much, it’s almost a physical ache. Everyone needs a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Even a miserable thief like me.

As the desk is proving itself fruitless as a source of anything but morose self-reflection, I turn to the filing cabinets along the back of the office. There are five cabinets in all, a wall of information just waiting for me to jump in. If I were electronically inclined, I’d probably have more luck trying to crack the password on Grant’s computer, but I have a hunch it’s not my best bet. Having been personally investigated by this man in the past, I know for a fact that he’s a hands-on investigator. He hits the streets, he watches and waits, he talks to people, and he follows paper trails.

He sometimes even marries his suspects. That’s the level of dedication I’m talking about.

The filing cabinet isn’t locked, and the top drawer pulls out smoothly, indicating it’s well-oiled and probably used several times a day. It’s also much better organized than his desk, and it doesn’t take long to locate the bulging folder with my name on it. Penelope Blue. Right behind it, there’s an even bigger one that reads Warren Blue. Two jewel thieves, connected by blood and talent, a menace to society and the world at large.

All I have to do is reach in and grab it. The beige folds practically flutter at me, encouraging me to spread their wings and unlock the secrets of my past. My adolescence, spent as an abandoned teen with only my friends for support. My list of past crimes, including the millions of dollars’ worth of jewels that Riker and I stole over the years, with occasional help from Jordan and Oz. My supposed current crimes, too—the work of a copycat who doesn’t seem to mind that her thefts are being attributed to me.

If I were a betting woman, I’d also place a hefty wager that this file contains the courtship Grant and I shared, including our marriage—that rocky first year when neither of us knew how much love and trust we shared. Everything my husband ever thought or did in relation to me is a few inches away.

I take a deep breath and reach for the folder…and then drop my hand to my side.

To get what I want in this world, I’ve stolen precious heirlooms and priceless gifts, crawled into vents and climbed up elevator shafts. No job was too heinous to consider, no victim worthy enough to give me pause. I even married a man I knew to be my sworn enemy in an attempt to continue my criminal life without consequence.

But I can’t do it. Even if Grant is seconds away from arresting me—either for being the Peep-Toe Prowler or because I tricked him into helping me break into the FBI—I can’t betray the trust he put in me when he looked into my eyes and said I do. I guess some things are sacred, even to a woman like me.

Riker is going to be so pissed.

With a sigh, I shut the filing cabinet and sink into Grant’s office chair to await the outcome of my day’s work. The hiss of the hydraulics drops me further than I expect, and I flail against the backrest, which gives way behind me. Before I know it, I’m sprawled on the ground, the chair crashed to the floor and my head ringing as I stare up at the perforated drop ceiling.

Well, that was graceful.

At first, I think it’s the head injury causing me to see things, because visions of one of the world’s most handsome men start swimming in front of my face. There are three of him—three heads of golden hair glistening above three faces that form a triad of perfect symmetry. The man almost seems too good to be real, what with the three chins containing three clefts in the center, the three pairs of arched brows a few shades darker than the hair, the three dazzling white smiles that culminate in three dimples in three right cheeks.

I blink, and the images blur before coming together as one. The result is only more impressive, the power of triplicate combining to blind me with its brilliance.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” That cleft chin comes at me full force, and I find myself rolling to the side to dodge it. It’s a useless maneuver underneath Grant’s desk, where the heavy wooden legs and overflowing wastebasket impede my progress, so it’s just as well that the man offers his hand instead. “You must be Emerson’s wife. It’s so great to finally meet you.”

All I can do is blink at him as he pulls me to my feet. Still light-headed from the double impact of my fall and his dazzling beauty, I murmur a noncommittal response.

“I’m Christopher,” he says. Booms, actually, his voice loud and full of the arrogant confidence I normally associate with investment bankers and men who tailgate. “Christopher Leon.”

Of course he is. Leon the lion, roaring and golden and proud.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself proud, but thank you.”

“Oh, God. Did I say that out loud?” I put my hand to my head, surprised when my fingers don’t come away sticky with blood. I must have hit the ground harder than I thought if I’m blurting out random compliments. Women who break into the FBI should be a little more discreet than that.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. I’m not sure anyone has called me a lion before.”

“If it helps, I have nicknames for most of the agents Grant works with,” I offer. “It’s the only way I can keep you all straight.”

Sterling Simon. Agent Barrel Chest. Before I got to know him, Grant was our Guard Dog—a great hairy beast of a threat to everything we held dear. Nicknaming people is a pretty handy trick when you have to meet a lot of dark suits who look at you with the same wary disdain.

“Then I accept,” he says. Instead of wary disdain, he flashes his dimple at me. I can only assume it’s the most powerful weapon in his arsenal, and that’s saying a lot—I can tell from the familiar bulge at his side that he’s packing. “Are you okay? That was some crash.”

“I’ll live. The chair was slippery.”

Since I don’t want to dwell on my other slippery movements around the office until I have a more accurate read on this guy, I attempt to defray him with flattery.

“Thanks for coming in to make sure I was still breathing,” I say. “Are you the one in charge of guarding—ah, I mean, protecting—me until this is all over?”

“No, Paulie’s out there for that,” he says. “I just wanted to come in and introduce myself while I had the chance. You don’t mind, do you?”

Theoretically, I don’t mind—I like meeting new people, and I like meeting the people my husband works with in particular—but something about this overloud, overeager man feels off. I watch as he rights the office chair and holds it in place for me to take a seat. He doesn’t move or speak until I lower myself into it.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he adds with an uncomfortable laugh. “All signs indicate we’re dealing with a false alarm. I’m sure you and your husband will be just fine.”

“I know that,” I say. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned being married to Grant, it’s that he can handle himself.”

Too well, I want to add but don’t. I sometimes feel my life would be much easier if my husband sucked at something for a change. He cooks, he cleans, he knows his way around the bedroom. He even remembers to call his mother every weekend. Independently, these things are great—fantastic, if we’re dwelling on the sex—but together?

It’s hard to compete with that kind of perfection is all I’m saying.

“Yeah, Emerson has never been one to rely on others. He’d take out a room of twenty men using nothing but a ballpoint pen before he’d consider calling for backup.”

I groan, fully able to picture that exact scenario. In my imagination, he does it without a shirt on, too.

“Please tell me he’s never had to take out a room of twenty men using nothing but a ballpoint pen,” I say. “Can’t you guys put a tracker on him or something?”

“I tried once. He found it within five minutes and threatened to extract my windpipe if I did it again.” Christopher follows up this startling piece of news with a darkening look in his eyes, which are the same deep brown as Grant’s. “He’s not that violent at home, is he?”

I’m momentarily taken aback. “Um…no? Not usually. But he does sometimes throw cheese puffs at the TV when the Giants are losing.”

I hope I sound convincing enough. Grant isn’t a violent man—not to me, anyway—but if my presence at the FBI building today proves anything, it’s that he is a tenacious one. Once he gets an idea in his head, he holds onto it like a—what else?—guard dog and his bone. Convincing him of one’s innocence isn’t so easy after that.

Although the two men share the same eye color, the similarities end there. Christopher takes a seat opposite me, nervously hitching his slacks before settling one long leg over the other. Like every other agent in this building, he’s clad in a dark suit and dark tie, but I can tell from the way the fabric carries a slight sheen that his suit isn’t the usual off-the-rack variety. Grant takes pride in his appearance but not so much that he’s willing to drop a fourth figure on the clothes he wears when he shoots people.

“So, Mrs. Emerson,” he says with a cough, “what do we have to thank for your presence here today?”

“Nothing, really,” I say. There isn’t time to come up with a more interesting lie, so I stick to the one I used with Cheryl. “I stopped by for a visit to see how my husband is doing. And I’m not Mrs. Emerson—I mean, I am married to Grant, but I didn’t change my last name. Most people call me Pen.”

There’s a slight pause before the dimple appears in Christopher’s cheek again. “Penelope the Pen. Mightier than the sword. To hold one is to be at war.” He taps the cleft in his chin. “Hmm. I know I’m missing a few.”

I’m forced into a laugh. “The war one might fit, but I don’t know about the rest.”

“I do. I’ve heard too many good things about you to believe otherwise.”

Impossible. I’m pretty sure Simon uses my picture as a dart board. “That’s funny, when I’ve never heard about you. How long have you been with the Bureau?”

Immediately, a frown crosses his face, taking all traces of his dimple along with it. When he speaks again, his voice has lost its booming charm. Now it’s merely loud. “Emerson has never mentioned me? Not even in passing?”

“Not that I can remember, but I’m sure it’s nothing personal. Grant doesn’t talk to me about work stuff.”

Never about work stuff. Instead, he gives me shoes and waits for one of them to drop.

“Speaking of, he’s been unusually preoccupied lately,” I say, adopting an innocent smile. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what that’s about, do you? The case he’s working on must be important to have him so wrapped up.”

“It is.” He blinks at me. “There are some pretty high stakes.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “Oh, really? How exciting. Does that mean you’re working on it, too?”

My sweetly feminine exhilaration is supposed to unwind him, but either my femininity needs improving or Christopher’s flexibility does. He casts me a queer look that borders on suspicious, and I tuck my feet under the chair in hopes he won’t notice my footwear. It’s not that I’m afraid of the FBI—you have to be guilty of something for that—but I can’t help recalling my husband’s dire warnings that I’m one small slipup away from a life behind bars. I mean, I assume he’s exaggerating most of the time, but even a broken clock is right twice a day. And if there is a case currently being mounted against me…

“You could say I’m working on it,” he says carefully.

“Is that right? In what capacity?”

He leans closer. “Are you sure your husband hasn’t said anything about me or this case?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Not even in passing? Not even by accident?”

All of a sudden, the things I admired about this man seconds ago take on dangerous implications. His size, his charm, the gun at his side…just what is he implying?

“You obviously don’t know my husband well, or you wouldn’t ask me that,” I say hotly. “Grant is the best and hardest-working agent in this place. He’d never do anything to jeopardize a case.”

I know that’s ironic coming from me, but it’s the truth. Grant is everything I’m not—noble and honorable and righteous and good. I get to my feet and make as if to leave the office with all my dignity intact.

“What are you doing?” Christopher also rises, and since he’s nearer the door, the movement transforms him into a human blockade. A very tall, very wide, very well-dressed human blockade. “I can’t let you go. You haven’t been given the all clear yet.”

“Thank you, but I can make do without it. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He doesn’t. He grabs me by the upper arms before I take more than a few steps, his grip tight and his expression tense. I cry out, more from surprise than pain, but the damage has already been done. Before we can register the crash of the door being thrown open, Grant appears.

He fills the doorframe easily, all broad shoulders and stormy outrage, every sign of my beloved husband scratched from the surface. He’s been replaced by a man who’s one hundred percent business…and one hundred percent displeased to find me caught trying to escape.

My heart clenches. Of all the terrible things I’ve done to my husband—and there have been some doozies—he’s never given me real cause for fear before.

And yet without waiting to hear my side of the story, he lunges into the room and heads straight for me.