Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This
episode is titled Perfect Match, Part one. Chemistry test.
Speaker 2: Desire leaves patterns like fingerprints on skin. In my line
of work, reading those patterns is everything. The way someone
holds their wineglass, how their breath catches when they talk
about past loves, the subtle shift in their pupils when
they see something or someone they want right now. James
Bishop's patterns are screaming contradiction. Tell me about your last relationship,
I say, noting how his fingers tap twice against the
leather arm of his chain at tell one I've seen before,
though he doesn't know that, not yet. Nothing interesting to tell.
His smile is perfect, professional, practiced, standard Manhattan divorce. She
got the penthouse, I got the dog. I cross my legs,
letting my skirt ride up just enough to qualify as accidental.
His eyes follow the movement, not obviously, but I'm paid
to notice the unnoticeable. Five years ago in London, he
had the same controlled way of watching me. Of course,
then I was blonde and he was hunting an international
con artist, not seeking a Valentine state. Nothing standard about you,
mister Bishop. I stand. Move to the bar. Cart that's
older than both of us combined, successful finance, ivy League,
excellent physical condition. I pour two fingers of scotch. You
could have any woman in Manhattan. Why come to me
because miss Kane. He accepts the glass, letting his fingers
brush mine. You're the best at what you do. If
he only knew the best comes with conditions. I sit
on the edge of my desk rather than returning to
my chair, powerplay. Let him look up at me. My
process is intimate, invasive. Not everyone can handle that level
of exposure. Try me. He takes a sip of scotch
and the memory hits like aged whiskey. Five years ago, London,
the Dorchester's bar was all dark wood and darker secrets.
I was playing an American socialite hunting bigger game. Then
he walked in raw power in a bespoke suit. This
seat taken, he gestured to the chair beside me at
the bar depends. I'd let my fake smile turn real.
Are you going to ask what a nice girl like
me is doing in a place like this? No? His
laugh was genuine, dangerous. You're not a nice girl. Not
a nice girl. I traced the rim of my martini glass.
What makes you say that nice girls don't wear lapela
under chanel. His eyes had met mine in the bar mirror.
Don't drink vodka straight, don't watch every exit like they're
planning an escape. Maybe I just like to be prepared
for what. His hand had found my knee under the bar,
His touch professional, clinical, like he was cataloging evidence. I
let my legs part slightly, evidence of what agent bishop
for opportunity, I'd whispered, leaning close enough that my breath
warmed his ear, like the one you're about to offer me.
What followed was a dance of power and pretense. Each
touch a question, each kiss an interrogation. I let him
think he was leading, let him guide me to his suite,
Let him press me against the door the moment it closed.
Still think you're prepared. His mouth had found my throat,
his hands sliding under designer silk depends. I'd arched into
his touch. Is this part of your investigation? Agent? He'd stiffened,
but I'd already moved, spinning us, pressing him against the
door instead. Didn't think I knew I do my homework too,
And what else do you know? His hands hadn't stopped moving,
even as his eyes turned dangerous. I know you're looking
for a thief, I'd kissed him, tasting Scotch and secrets.
I know you're getting warmer. Another kiss, deeper. I know
you won't catch them tonight. No, his laugh had rumbled
through both our bodies, feeling confident, Feeling I'd let him
spin us again, let him lift me, wrap my legs
around his waist, like being caught might be worth it.
What followed was pure heat, clothes torn in our rush
to learn each other's lies, his mouth mapping every inch
of me, like he could taste my real identity on
my skin, my nails, leaving evidence of their own marks
he'd find in the morning, long after I was gone.
He'd taken me against the door, first, then on the
sweet's antique desk, finally in the massive bed where pretense
fell away and there was nothing left but raw need
and darker truths. Tell me your name, he'd demanded, his
fingers finding exactly the right spot to make me arch
off the sheets. Your real name, make me, I'd challenged,
using my thighs to flip our position agent. His response
had been immediate, primal. In one fluid motion. He'd pin
me beneath him, his hands capturing my wrists above my head.
Your name. His voice was rough as he moved against me,
Or I stop, liar, I'd rolled my hips, making him groan.
You couldn't stop now if you wanted to try me.
But his control was slipping. I could feel it in
the tremor of his muscles, in the desperate edge to
his kiss. Emma, I'd gasped as he pushed me closer
to the edge. Emma roades a lie, of course, but
the pleasure that followed was real, raw, devastating. He'd made
me come apart three times before finally letting himself fall. Later,
Tangled in sheets that smelled of sex and secrets, he'd
traced patterns on my back. You're still lying about what.
I'd pressed a kiss to his chest, tasting salt and satisfaction.
Everything his hands had grown possessive, dangerous. But I'll find
out the truth, will you, I'd straddled him again, feeling
him respond instantly. And what will you do then, Agent Bishop?
This he'd flipped us, pinned me again until you tell
me everything. Dawn had found us, still tangled together, his
breath warm against my neck, his guard finally down. That's
when I'd slipped away, leaving nothing but the lingering scent
of my perfume and a note. Some truths are better
left as mysteries. Thanks for the investigation. Present day, Manhattan,
your process, James says, Now, still standing too close in
my office, how does it usually begin? I meet his eyes,
searching for recognition. Does he remember the feel of my skin,
the taste of my lies, the way I disappeared with
the sunrise? With chemistry, I say, letting my hip brush
against his as I move past. The initial attraction is critical,
even fatal, fatal. His hand catches my wrist, an echo
of that night in London. Interesting choice of words, is it.
I don't pull away. In my experience, the most dangerous
matches are the ones that burn too hot, too fast.
His sun finds my pulse point like London. My heart stops, restarts.
I've never been to London. His smile as sharp as
a blade. No, my mistake must be thinking of someone else,
someone who left me with nothing but expensive perfume and
a stolen painting. The air changes between us, charges with
five years of unfinished business. His hand is still on
my wrist, his thumb still stroking my racing pulse. Interesting theory.
I step closer instead of pulling away. Tell me more
about this woman, the one who got away clever. His
other hand finds my hip, a mirror of how he'd
held me that last night in London. Beautiful dangerous left
me handcuffed to the bed while she stole a priceless masterpiece,
handcuffed my arch and eyebrow. You left that part out
of the story, did I. His mouth brushes my ear
like you left out how you knew my real name?
Just now, miss Kane. Professional research. I turn my head slightly,
letting my lips graze his jaw. I research all my
clients thoroughly, intimately. How intimate his grip tightens possessively depends
on the client. I press closer a calculated risk on
their needs, their desires, their secrets. And what secrets have
you found about me? I smile against his skin. That
you're not here for a Valentine's date. That the FBI
has been investigating a string of suspicious deaths among Manhattan's elite,
That every victim used a matchmaking service, very thorough research.
His hand slides up my back, finding bare skin above
my silk blouse. What else that you've never stopped hunting?
The woman from London. I let my free hand trace
his tie, the one who left you wanting. And now
now I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
Now you're here in my office with your hands on
me and a gun under that beautiful jacket. Question is,
agent Bishop, what are you going to do about it?
His kiss is the answer, hard, demanding, full of five
years of chase and want and unfinished business. I let
him back, me against my desk, let him think he's
in control. His hands tangle in my hair as mine
find his tie, and for a moment we're back in
that London hotel, playing a different kind of game. Then
my office phone buzzes three times, emergency code. Don't answer it,
he growls against my throat. Have to, but I arch
into his touch anyway. It's about Victoria Blackwood, He stills,
What about her? She's dead? I put him back, gently,
straightening my blouse, found in her penthouse an hour ago,
the day after I matched her with her perfect partner.
His eyes narrow, you're saying, I'm saying. I perch on
my desk, letting my skirt ride up that maybe we
should discuss a different kind of partnership, a partnership. He
moves to stand between my legs, professional distance forgotten, like London,
better than London. My fingers find his belt, testing boundaries.
This time I'm not running. No. His hands slide under
my skirt, finding lace. Prove it. Victoria Blackwood was the third.
I let my head fall back as his mouth finds
my throat. Three wealthy women, three perfect matches, three suspicious deaths,
and you arranged all the matches. His teeth graze my
pul point, just doing my job. I wrap my legs
around his waist, pulling him closer. Unless you think I'm involved,
I think His hand slides higher, making me gasp. You're
involved in everything. The question is how want to find out?
I reach between us, feeling him hard against design a wool.
Could be mutually beneficial, could be a trap. But his
fingers find bare skin, knowing exactly where to touch, like
he's been mapping this moment for five years. Everything's a trap.
I arch into his hand. That's what makes it fun.
He kisses me, then, deep, demanding, full of dark promises.
I taste scotch and danger.
Speaker 3: On his tongue.
Speaker 2: As he pushes me back on the desk, papers scatter.
My very expensive paper weight crashes to the floor. Tell
me about the matches, he demands between kisses, make me.
What follows is pure power play, his hands extracting information
one moan at a time, my body yielding secrets with
every touch he takes me on my desk, then again
against my office windows. Each thrust a question, each kiss
an answer. Later, as we catch our breath, my phone
buzzers again. Elena. I check the message, still feeling him
inside me. She's found something, a pattern in the victim's
financial records, show me. He starts to straighten his clothes.
Not yet. I pull him back by his tie. First
ground rules. We work together, equal partners, no arrests, no
handcuffs until until we find who's really killing these women.
I kiss him, tasting possibilities, we figure out why they're
using my service to choose victims, until until I decide
if you're telling the truth. His smile is sharp against
my mouth. Please, I laugh, pushing him away to fix
my skirt. We both know I'm not, but I'm the
best chance you have at catching a killer. And after
I move to my private bathroom to freshen up, Letting
him watch me in the mirror after depends on how
good you are at your job, Agent Bishop, and how
good I am at mine. Making matches no. I reapply
my lipstick, the same shade I wore in London, making
you want me more than you want to catch me.
His laugh is dark with promise. Game on, Miss Kane.
I check my reflection one last time. My hair is wild,
my neck marked with evidence of our negotiation. Perfect time
to go. I grab my coat. Eleanor's waiting at the scene,
ready to hunt a real killer with you. He opens
my office door, hand possessive on my lower back. Always
as we leave, I catch him checking his pockets, making
sure nothing's missing. Old habits die hard, But this time
I'm not running. This time the game is just beginning.
Speaker 3: Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of
Speaker 2: Ai Calaroga Shark Media