4

THE CELEBRATION

(Present Day)

Jordan lets out a low whistle as she allows the necklace to slip through her fingers, feeling the incredible weight and luxury of ten of the most beautiful diamonds in the world. “And he really put it around your neck, just like that?”

“Yep.”

“Walked in the door, said, ‘honey, I’m home,’ and handed over the exact same piece of jewelry we were trying to steal a few hours earlier?”

“Yep.” I’m having a hard time meeting Jordan’s eye. Or Riker’s. They’re both sitting in my living room, goggling at the precious gems that have been left in my care while Grant is picking up groceries for dinner. I have no idea if he expects it—or me—to be here when he gets back.

“And then what?” Jordan is itching to try it on, I can tell. I know the feeling, tingling up from your toes and making your fingers curl into a pair of ineffectual claws. It’s not too different from a mind-blowing kiss, actually. “Did you wear it all night? I’d wear it until he pried it from my cold, dead hands.”

“Oh yeah.” I sigh, remembering Grant’s reverent touch, the way he traced the outline of the stones against my body with his tongue, not stopping until the impression of each one had been permanently sealed on my skin. I’d half expected to wake up and find a brand still there. “He wanted me to keep it on while we had sex.”

Jordan flings the necklace away as though it’s suddenly gained serpentine features. “Geez, Pen. Open with that kind of thing, would you?” Her head tilts as she glances at where it lands. “Did you do it?”

“Oh, I did it.”

She squeals. “Well?”

“It’s worth every penny of its two million dollars, and that’s all I’m saying on the subject.” I hobble over on my still-swollen ankle to collect the necklace and return it to the shoebox that has become its temporary holding case. Riker’s eyes are on me as I push aside the abstract flea market painting covering our safe, but I angle my body so he can’t see the code—or my expression, which I’m afraid is rather moony.

I know we were supposed to take a few days off from one another to collect our thoughts, but I begged them to trek up here the second Grant headed out for the afternoon. This is kind of an emergency, and I’m not sure how much longer I can maintain a careful front where he’s concerned. There are too many coincidences and too many kisses happening inside these four walls. I can usually handle one of those things at a time, but together?

Yeah. I’m useless. And until you’ve been tossed to the bed by a man like Grant and told you’re not getting up until you scream his name, I’ll kindly ask you to refrain from passing judgment.

I adjust the painting so it’s back in its customary position, waiting for the inevitable blast from Riker.

“Well, I guess it’ll be easy to steal this time,” he finally says, his voice even. I think for a second he’s going to react in a rare moment of levelheadedness, but then he adds, “We can stage a home invasion the next time the insatiable Mr. Romance brings out the necklace and demands his marital rights. When do you think that will be, Pen? Five minutes after he gets home? Ten? Can he wait a whole hour at a time?”

I ignore his acid tone, which, if handled improperly, will end up burning us all. From the moment I initiated that bet about seducing Grant, Riker has never been able to get on board. He’s always been a little grouchy—it’s part of his charm—but the past year has seen him spiraling toward the dark side at an alarming rate. In fact, the only time I’ve seen him even slightly happy was when he was planning the necklace heist.

For a while there, it had almost been like seeing the boy I once knew resurfacing for air. More left-side smiles than right-side scowls, a kind of latent energy crackling underneath his thorny surface. I could almost picture the two of us on the streets again, living by our wits and my ability to pick any kind of lock.

That feeling is gone now. Squashed by failure and…conjugal relations.

“He’s not as depraved as you’re making him out to be,” I say in defense of my husband. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. We’re not taking the necklace.”

Riker sits up in his chair—or, to put it more accurately, Grant’s chair. In the manner of aggressively male, law-abiding husbands everywhere, Grant comes home every day to a well-worn leather recliner that somehow smells like cigars even though neither one of us smokes.

“No way,” Riker says. “We’re not letting an opportunity like this pass. We could grab it right now, get it to Blackrock, and be out of the country by nightfall.”

I cross my arms. “We’re not taking it.”

“It does seem like an awfully good opportunity.” Jordan glances longingly toward the safe. “I can hear it calling to me.”

“Resist it. I’m not changing my mind.”

Jordan and Riker share a look, one that reminds me how far out of the inner circle I’ve grown as of late. I’m glad Oz isn’t present at our little meeting, or I might not be able to hold the team back from voting to finish the job right here and now.

Riker and Jordan are too much a part of my life to be a secret from Grant—in fact, Jordan was a bridesmaid at our wedding—so although it might be odd for them to come over with a bouquet of flowers and a happy anniversary balloon, it’s not unheard of. Oz, however, is a secret we intend to keep for as long as possible. There are times when we need to be able to come and go under Grant’s watchful eye, and it’s better for all of us if no one can positively identify Oz in the aftermath. I think he might be the gardener with the turned-up collar and ball cap trimming the next-door neighbor’s hedges right now, but I couldn’t say for sure. That gardener seems a little too tall.

“So help us, Pen,” Riker says. “If you’re developing feelings for this man…”

“This has nothing to do with my feelings, thank you very much.”

“Really? You could have fooled me. We want to steal the necklace you have personal ties to, from a man you live with, in hopes of getting some of the closure you never got as a kid. Tell me again how your feelings aren’t weighing in on your ability to make sound decisions?”

My marriage is and always has been the one topic of conversation I’m not willing to compromise on. It has to be. Once we fall down the rabbit hole to that murky place where logic and emotion intersect, we aren’t likely to find our way out again.

“I’m not a complete idiot. I know what I’m doing.” That’s not even a little bit true, but I forge on. “C’mon, Riker. Think for once. It has to do with that ever-elusive common sense you’re always going on about.”

“Right.”

“Which is something I have an abundance of, even if some people don’t think so.”

“Sure.”

I throw up my hands. “Would you step back and look at this clearly? If we disappear the same day as that necklace, there won’t be a doubt in anyone’s mind that we’re the culprits—and you can bet your ass Grant won’t rest until he tracks us down. He’d scour the earth on hands and knees before he’d be made a laughingstock like that. Do you want to go into hiding for the rest of your life? Is that your goal?”

“Of course not,” he says sullenly.

“You know the saying. ‘It’s not just about getting the goods. It’s about getting away with the goods.’” I’m hit with a pang of nostalgia as I repeat the words my father so often said, the family mantra drilled into me from birth. Getting away with it had been something of his specialty. In his lifetime, he reportedly amassed more than a hundred million dollars’ worth of diamonds, gold, jewels, and plain old cash.

So, yeah. I’m kind of an heiress. Or rather, I would be, if anyone had any idea where that treasure is. Unfortunately, there’s been no sign of it since he went missing. My dad was always careful about keeping his money where no thief could find it—which, as it turns out, includes me.

“I appreciate all your hard work on this so far, I really do, but we have to tread lightly moving forward.” Even though I’m pretty sure I’ve already won the argument, I feel compelled to add, “If we wanted to get in the smash-and-grab circuit, we could have done it years ago and saved ourselves a heck of a lot of trouble.”

Riker casts a pointed look around the living room I share with Grant—at the woven blanket tossed over the couch and the bookshelves overflowing with antique knickknacks, at the smiling photo of the two of us in scuba gear from our trip to Costa Rica last winter. “I don’t know. Maybe we underestimated the benefits of the smash-and-grab circuit. There’s something to be said for being able to make a quick getaway.”

I shake my head, as much to avoid making eye contact with him as to disagree. There are a lot of things wrong with this situation—the genuine happiness reflected in my eyes in that Costa Rican picture among them—but it’s not like there’s anything we can do about it now. My bed has been made, rumpled, and heartily used.

“We have to watch our steps from here on out.” I drop the facade with a sigh. “I know it’s hard for the two of you to believe, but this isn’t me acting rashly. This is me trying to do the careful thing for once.”

Riker’s facade also slips away, leaving the pair of us vulnerable and exposed. It’s been a long time since we were together in a sexual way—seven years, in fact—but that doesn’t make this any easier.

“You said this wasn’t a long-term plan, Pen. You said it wasn’t forever.”

“It’s not forever,” I say, my tone gentling. “Everything is still set to go. We’ll take the necklace, get it to Blackrock, and split the proceeds. I just need a little more time to figure out what kind of game Grant is playing first, that’s all. I don’t like the way the pieces are set.”

I can tell Riker wants to say more—complain about the delays and extra costs, about how unprofessional it makes him appear to ask for more time—but he refrains, his mouth set in a firm line. Gratitude and guilt surge through me, and it’s hard to tell which emotion is stronger.

See, Riker’s not a bad person, no matter how much he pretends to be. In fact, if I had to pick which one of us was more selfish, more stubborn, more demanding, I’d pull ahead as the clear winner. Sure, he has a bit of a gambling addiction that requires a regular cash influx, but I’m the one who keeps pushing us to steal more and steal larger. I’m the one who digs in her heels and refuses to listen to others. I’m the one who married a man she didn’t love in hopes of finding answers.

“This stupid necklace is one of the only things I have left of my dad.” My voice cracks. “I know it’s silly to put so much stock in finishing a job he started half a lifetime ago, but I need to find out what it is about this necklace that made him risk everything for it. I need to feel like there’s a reason he left me all alone.”

There it is. The sad truth. I’m just another desperate, lonely little girl struggling with her daddy issues. The only thing that makes me remotely unique is that my father’s long-lost legacy—all estimated one hundred million dollars of it—means other parties are just as interested in discovering the truth about his disappearance.

The FBI, for example. Just look at the lengths they’ve gone to. I’m pretty sure Grant’s part in our marriage is what’s known as deep undercover.

“Time, guys. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“Then we leave the necklace there for now,” Jordan says firmly. She wants to hug me, I can tell, but she knows how bad I am at handling physical affection when I’m teetering on the edge like this. “This is Pen’s life and Pen’s house. She decides when we make the next move.”

I flash her a thankful, albeit watery, smile. “It’s not just my emotions doing the thinking here, I swear. It’s all too convenient. I can’t help thinking this is an elaborate plot Grant is setting up to test me.”

Jordan nods in agreement, but Riker stays uncharacteristically quiet, his thoughts turned inward for once. I open my mouth to ask what’s wrong, but the sound of a key in the front door signals Grant’s return and stops me short.

We share a quick glance of understanding before turning off all thoughts of thievery. To look at us, you’d think we were nothing more than lifelong besties enjoying a chat and some midafternoon lemonade. Seriously. We’ve done this for so long—pretending to be upstanding citizens—it’s almost like a curtain rising. We’re the actors, and we’re all on cue.

Grant pushes open the door, unsurprised to find the three of us sitting there determinedly not staring at the canvas block of red and orange on the wall. His arms are full of leafy greens since he plans on cooking our anniversary dinner tonight, which is sweet of him and only fifty percent likely to contain poison.

“I thought I heard voices in here,” he says as soon as he spots Jordan and Riker. “You guys didn’t have to stop by. Oh, and you brought flowers. How nice.”

If you’re wondering what role Grant plays in this little stage drama of ours, it’s not that of an innocent audience member. Oh no. He’s the star of this particular show. There’s not a glimmer of suspicion in his dark-brown eyes, no sign of disingenuousness in the pearly white of his smile. You’d think nothing would make him happier than to share his anniversary weekend with his wife’s felonious friends.

“Hey, Grant. We meant to be long gone before you got back.” Jordan rises to her feet in an elegant sweeping motion and heads toward the door, eager to get out of the crossfire. Of all of us, she’s the most uncomfortable with the deception we’ve put Grant through. She doesn’t mind blowing up the occasional parked car, but she hates hurting other people’s feelings. “Four’s a definite crowd on a day like this.”

“Don’t be silly—you two should stay.” Grant leans forward to drop a kiss on my neck, his lips hitting the exact spot where my pulse pounds. I know for sure now what part of a woman’s neck he favors, and I shiver despite the fact that it’s seventy degrees in here. “I have more than enough food for everyone. We can make it an anniversary party.” He moves to put the groceries away.

Riker doesn’t bother hiding his scowl. He’s never been a big fan of public displays of affection—not even when he was the one doing the neck-kissing—and he takes it as a personal affront that Grant doesn’t share his qualms. “I think I can tell when I’ve overstayed my welcome. We’ll get out of your way.”

Grant pauses. His wide, unblinking stare settles on Riker. “Uh-oh.”

Riker steps back, his hands up. “No. Just…no.”

“It sounds to me like someone is having a bad day.”

“I’m fine, Grant. Really. It’s nothing.”

Grant isn’t dismayed by Riker’s tone or the way he looks right now, like Satan finding out his entire flock has been forgiven and let in upstairs. You could say he’s come to expect this reaction—Riker’s scowl and the antipathy it carries is male aggression in its purest form. Grant’s also found a surefire way to combat it.

He lifts his arms toward Riker in a now-familiar gesture of gently mocking compassion. “Do you need to cry a little?”

“What I need is to go home. I have really important things to do today.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t do a heart hug first?”

“We should never do any kind of hug. Ever.”

His arms still up, Grant makes his move. “Bring it in, buddy. Bring it in.”

Jordan and I share a grin as Grant makes good on his threat, wrapping his enormous bear arms around Riker’s more compact form and holding him there. Forcibly.

“Shh,” Grant says soothingly, his voice low—the better to get under Riker’s skin, I’m sure. “See how your pulse is lowering already? We’ll just stay here, locked and loaded, for as long as you need it.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s not supposed to be funny. You should be more in touch with your emotions. It’s not healthy to keep it all in.” His voice is perfectly dry.

“Let me go, Emerson.”

“Nope. Not until your heart starts to feel it.”

“I mean it. Let go.” But there’s nothing Riker can do except feel it, an agony he tries to impart to me over Grant’s wide shoulders. Not even I can help him at this point. Riker isn’t strong enough to physically break Grant’s hold, and any low-handed tactics like kneeing him in the groin would be immediately counteracted by Grant’s years of field training.

I’m sure heart hugs weren’t part of that training, but there’s no doubt it’s one of the most effective tools that man has in his arsenal. Grant could easily take Riker to the ground with one punch. He could tell him off and ask him never to come back. He could pull his gun and haul him off to his FBI buddies on any flimsy pretext he wanted.

But he doesn’t. Instead…this. It throws Riker off like you wouldn’t believe—causes him to fluster and bluster and make mistakes, which, let’s face it, is probably Grant’s objective. He’s trying to dismantle us both with a pair of strong arms and strategically timed declarations of affection.

I let him try, my body relaxing in his presence in ways Riker’s never will. Going with the flow has never been one of Riker’s skills, but I’ve learned to enjoy the turbulence of this particular ride. We lost out on the necklace score, yes, but that doesn’t mean the game is over. Until we have a chance to figure out what comes next, all we can do is keep playing along.

“My heart is good now,” Riker says stiffly. “It’s all puppies and rainbows over here. I promise.”

Grant claps him on the back and releases him. “Want to talk about it?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sure Penelope won’t mind. You’re part of our family—and that’s what today’s all about, right? Family? We’ll eat. Play charades. Toast each other’s good health.”

I can see Riker wavering, the two sides of his mouth working up and down. Even though Riker hates Grant—can barely contain his irritation at the sports talk they always end up sharing over cheap beer and cheesy snack foods—he hates the idea of leaving me here to deal with things even more.

I think that’s been the hardest part of all this for him: letting me have control and trusting me to handle my husband in my own way. It was just the two of us for so long, and always with him in the lead, so he has no framework for not having someone to boss around. He’s always decided what we steal and why. He’s arranged the back-alley deals without giving me any kind of say. To call him a dictator might be pushing things a bit, but there are definite autocratic undertones to his personality.

“It’ll be fun,” Grant adds. “I’m making scallops.”

Riker starts. “I’m deathly allergic to shellfish.”

He’s not kidding. He can’t even be in the same room as a lobster without breaking out in hives. He hates the ocean for fear its mollusk bounty will taint the air he breathes, but Grant doesn’t know that.

At least, I don’t think he does.

“My mistake.” Grant turns his easy smile Jordan’s way. “What about you?”

“Not allergic, but definitely not staying. You two kids have fun. I’m sure you have lots of excitement planned without us.”

My gaze—a traitorous, wanton thing I can’t seem to control—turns Grant’s way, and a flare of longing coils up from my belly as his smile shifts from friendly to intense. I don’t know what he has planned, but I’m not so sure I can handle another night like the last one.

“I guess it’ll just be the two of us.” His voice is rumbly with meaning, and it’s all I can do to nod in reply. Two is a very cozy number.

Riker starts making furtive movements toward the front door, and I know he wants me to accompany him so he can give me some last-minute instructions regarding the necklace. But I’m not going to steal it right now, no matter what he demands, so I pointedly ignore the hints.

“Pen, I wonder if you could help me—” he begins, but the sound of Grant’s phone ringing fills the room. It’s a ringtone I know well—that call to action in the middle of his weekend off, the sound of interrupted dinners and date nights cut short.

Grant’s face flashes with what appears to be genuine disappointment before he lifts the phone in apology. “I need to take this.”

“Oh, I know the drill,” I say airily, waving him off as he heads toward the kitchen. Sometimes, I make an attempt to listen in when he gets calls—for intelligence-gathering purposes, of course—but this time, I let him go off without resorting to my usual skulking. “Sorry, guys,” I say. “The duties of an illustrious crime fighter never end.”

“Do you think it’s about the necklace?” Jordan asks as soon as Grant is out of earshot. “They could be making plans for transport.”

“It doesn’t matter. You heard the lady. She’s canceling the job. Her husband wouldn’t like it.” The way Riker says husband practically drips with disdain.

“I’m not canceling anything. I’m adapting. It’s different. I can’t promise I’ll find anything else out tonight, but I’ll try my best.”

“Maybe you should do that special thing with your tongue,” Riker suggests. “That always did the trick for me.”

“Out.” There’s no mistaking my command this time.

“I was just trying to help.”

“No, Riker—you’re trying to make me feel guilty. It’s not necessary, okay? I promise I feel plenty of guilt about this already.”

“There is one easy way to make it all disappear…” Riker begins, but I stop him with a stare. His way includes either a divorce or a body bag—both of which he contemplates with equal amounts of enthusiasm.

“That’s not funny,” I say, but he’s partially right. Ignoring this problem won’t make it go away. The sooner we figure out what Grant’s up to, the sooner we can come up with a concrete plan to move that necklace. “Okay, fine. How’s this for compromise? I’ll keep an eye on him as much as I can at home, but I can’t follow him everywhere without drawing suspicion. If you’re careful, you guys should be able to tail him the rest of the time and gather information about what he’s doing and why. Jordan, can you get Oz on it?”

Riker shakes his head before she can agree. “There’s no need. I’ll do it.”

“But Oz can—”

“I said I’ll do it, and I will.” He clamps his jaw. “Believe me. Nothing will make me happier than finding dirt on that bastard.”

It’s not dirt I want so much as evidence, but Grant’s already been gone longer than I expected, so there isn’t time to discuss it further. With a sigh of begrudging assent, I close the door behind them, pushing my back to it with relief. I always dislike it when Riker and Grant are in the same room together. The undercurrent of tension that charges the air almost chokes me. I know Riker isn’t interested in me like that—not in a romantic way, not in a soft way—but he has strong protective instincts. Add Grant’s predatory nature into the mix, and you can see the problem. One of these days, those two are going to lock horns and kill each other.

Hopefully, giving Riker this task will keep him busy long enough to forestall the inevitable.

“Damn. They’re gone.” Grant enters the living room, a frown etched on his face as he surveys our surroundings. The room is quiet with the buzz of conversation suddenly halted, and there’s not even the gardener outside the window to alleviate the burden of tranquility. “I was hoping they might still be here.”

“Nope. It’s just us.”

“Just us…” He frowns again.

It’s strange for Grant to be so unguarded—he usually takes painstaking care to wear his cheerful husband facade around me at all times—so I force a smile to make up for it. “They can’t be far. I can always call them back.”

“Only if you want the company. I’m so sorry, my love. I have to go in to work tonight.”

Although I should be thankful to have this moment of reprieve handed to me, the first emotion to wash through me is one of unmitigated disappointment. Grant sees it and reaches for me, but he stops halfway, his arm dropping heavy at his side.

That arm falling feels like a guillotine. My heart lurches. “What happened? Is it something bad?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.” His frown, mysterious and alarming, remains in place. “I can’t tell yet. Can we try this again later tonight?”

“Of course. Go to work. Have a good time. I’ll just order a pizza and suck all the helium out of these balloons. I should be entertained for hours.” It’s a lie, but one thing Grant has always been upfront with me about: when the work bell sounds, he’ll drop everything to heed it. A Saturday afternoon call like this means he’s probably going to be gone for the rest of the weekend, leaving me alone with that necklace and a growing sense of unease.

He manages a small smile, but it’s obvious his thoughts are already far away. On duty, on obligation, on the career that will always be a barrier between us.

My unease only increases as he grabs his keys and heads out the door without anything more than a last look in my direction. It’s not even a loving look—tinged with distraction, it’s clear I’m the last thing on his mind right now.

Well, crap. This can’t be good. My husband might be putting arsenic in my oatmeal and plotting my eventual downfall, but he always, always remembers to kiss me good-bye.