Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This
episode is titled Perfect Match, Part three. Last Match.
Speaker 2: Intimacy reveals everything that's the first rule of matchmaking. Watch
how someone undresses rushed or methodical, how they take their
coffee sweet or bitter, how they lie by a mission
or commission. Right now, watching James unbutton his shirt in
my office, I'm learning all sorts of things. Couple's therapy
requires couples, he says, hanging his jacket precisely, always the professional,
even half dressed, and a therapist. I am a therapist.
I cross my legs, letting my skirt ride up. Our
unseen audience loves these little shows, among other things, licensed
in several areas. I pat the couch beside me. Shall
we begin? Tell me about trust issues? He sits close
enough that our thighs touch, and why successful women have
trouble maintaining relationships. Deflecting agent Bishop, my hand finds his knee.
This session is about you, about us. There is no us,
but his voice roughens as my hand slides higher. This
is an operation, is it? I turned to face him.
Is that what London was? What last night was? His kiss?
Is the answer, hard and hungry and nothing like the
show we're putting on for the cameras his hands find
skin under my silk blouse as mine work on his
remaining buttons. Tell me about your mother, I gasp as
his mouth finds my throat. Really now, research shows childhood relationships.
I lose my train of thought as his fingers find
lace impact adult attachment patterns. Stop profiling me. He pushes
me back on the couch, covering my body with his
Unless you want me to profile you back profile me.
I arch into his touch. Please share your professional insights,
daddy issues. His teeth graze my collar bone. Hence the
older clients the need to fix powerful men amateur analysis.
But my nails dig into his shoulders as his hand
slides under my skirt. What else control freak? His fingers
find the edge of my stockings. Everything in your life
precisely arranged? Accept, accept, except when you let go. He
pins my wrists above my head with one hand, Like now,
very good. I wrap my legs around his waist. Now
tell me about your savior complex, your need to rescue
pretty criminals. His laugh vibrates against my skin. Is that
what this is a rescue. No, I use my thighs
to flip our position, straddling him on the couch. This
is a consultation about I roll my hips, making him
groan about why the great agent Bishop can't stop thinking
about the one that got away? Can't I his hands
find my zipper. Maybe I just like the chase. Chase
implies pursuit. I let my dress fall. Yet here you
are lying back, letting me. A knock at the door
freezes us both. Sophie. Elena's voice carries urgency. We have
a problem, a big one. James and I exchange looks.
The session isn't just interrupted, it's about to change completely.
Two minutes, I call out, already moving, James's shirt lands
on my desk as I retrieve my dress. One minute,
Elena counters they found another body. James catches my wrist
as I pass pulls me in for one more searing kiss.
To be continued. Promises, promises, But I'm already back in
professional mode. Dress zipped, hair smoothed. Only my swollen lips
betray what almost happened. Elena doesn't blink at our dishevelment
when she enters. She's seen worse this week Rebecca Windsor
found in her Central Park penthouse thirty minutes ago. My
blood runs cold. Rebecca was here yesterday for a match meeting.
I know. Elena hands me her tablet, but that's not
the worst part. The crime scene photos show Rebecca pose
like Victoria, too perfect, too arranged. But this time there's
a new detail. A jewelry box on her nightstand open
to reveal a diamond choker. Is that James moves behind me,
his chest pressed against my back. The Dorchester diamonds. I
zoom in on the distinctive setting, the ones that disappeared
the night we the night you stole them. He finishes
his hands settle on my hips, possessive rather than threatening,
along with the Rembrandt. Allegedly, I lean back into him.
Professional distance forgotten in the face of this new threat.
But those diamonds were secured in a Swiss vault, one
that hasn't been opened since since last week. Elena pulls
up another screen. Someone accessed it using your biometrics. James
tenses against me. Impossible, not impossible. I turn in his arms.
Just expensive, and it explains how they got into my office,
my hotel room. They have your DNA. His eyes darken
with understanding from London. From the shower. I remember leaving
evidence deliberately, a hair, a fingerprint, proof i'd been there.
I wanted you to be able to confirm who you'd
slept with, and now someone's using it to frame you.
His grip tightens. The diamonds, the murders, the matchmaking, It's
all connected. Elena interrupts our moment, and it gets worse.
Becka's last match request was for a Valentine's Day dinner
with you, James with me. James's hands slide from my hips,
professional masks slipping back into place. When request came in yesterday,
I moved to my desk, pulling up Rebecca's file after hours.
I hadn't processed it yet. Show me the request form
is standard, but the notes section makes my skin crawl.
Seeking FBI agent James Bishop preference classic romance location, the
Dorchester Hotel, London. They're not just watching us. I look
up at James. They're orchestrating us, leading us back to
where it started. He runs a hand through his hair,
already disheveled from our earlier activities. The question is why money?
Elena pulls up more records each victim transferred funds to
the same offshore account before they died. But it's not
just the match guarantee. They're moving millions the trafficking operation,
James says, coming to look over my shoulder at the screen.
His proximity sends heat down my spine despite the gravity
of the situation. No, I shake my head. This is personal.
The diamonds, London, the specific poses. Someone's recreating my greatest hits,
my perfect matches, perfect crimes, you mean. But his hand
finds the small of my back, grounding me. Same thing
in my line of work. I lean into his touch.
Every match is a perfect crime, two people perfectly suited
coming together at exactly the right moment to steal exactly
the right things. His mouth brushes my ear, among other activities.
I turn to face him. The problem is someone knows
my methods too well, knows how I think, how I work,
how you seduce His eyes darken like you seduced me
in London. Please I press closer, professional boundaries crumbling again,
you weren't exactly resistant. Neither were you. His hand slides
into my hair. Still aren't Ellena clears her throat as
fascinating as your foreplay is, we have another problem. The
Valentine's de gala at the Carlisle. Rebecca was on the
guest list, so are three more of your active clients.
Perfect hunting ground. James doesn't let me go. Public enough
for cover, private enough for murder, perfect match opportunity. I
correct him. Everyone there will be looking for love, looking
to be matched, looking to die. If we don't stop it.
His grip tightens. We need to be there, We need
to be matched there. I smile against his mouth, publicly
officially give our audience what they want, a Valentine's date.
His laugh is dark, bit on the nose. Don't you
think sometimes the best cover is no cover at all.
I kiss him quick and fierce. Besides, you still owe
me a proper date after London, If I remember correctly,
his teeth grazed my bottom lip. Our date in London
was very proper until it wasn't children please. Elena starts
gathering her tablets, save something for the cameras, speaking of
which she points to the painting concealing our latest discovered device.
Want to give them a good show before we go.
James's smile turns dangerous always once Elena leaves. James stalks
toward me like a predator for the camera's benefit, of course,
mostly where were we? His hands find my zipper again.
Something about trust issues, commitment issues. I let my dress
fall for the second time. Your inability to maintain lasting relationships,
says the woman who left me handcuffed in London. He
backs me against my desk. Tell me, doctor, what does
that say about your attachment style? That I have excellent
survival instincts. I start on his shirt buttons and questionable
judgment when it comes to federal agents. Your judgment seems
perfectly sound to me. His mouth finds my throat as
his hands slide under black place, especially your choice in lingerie,
professional necessity. I arch into his touch. Never know when
you'll need to seduce a mark? Is that what I am?
His fingers find exactly the right spot to make me gasp?
A mark? You tell me? I work his belt free?
Am I a suspect or a partner? Right now? He
lifts me onto the desk.
Speaker 1: Right now?
Speaker 2: You're whatever I need you to be. What follows is
pure performance art, a show for our unseen audience that
quickly becomes something else, entirely something real, raw, dangerous. He
takes me on my desk, then against my office windows.
Each touch a question, each kiss an answer, each moment
of pleasure a truth we can't take back. Later, catching
our breath, I check my phone. A new message. Excellent rehearsal.
Can't wait for the Valentine's performance. They're getting bolder, James says,
reading over my shoulder. Good. I start gathering my clothes.
Let them the closer they get, the closer we get.
He catches my hand. You know this is a trap.
Of course it is. I kiss him, tasting possibility and danger.
That's what makes it fun fun. His laugh is dark
against my mouth. Is that what we're calling this? What
would you call it? His answer is interrupted by another text.
This one makes us both freeze. Roses are red, violets
are blue. The Dorchester diamonds look lovely on you. But
will they still shine when your blood turns cold, when
your perfect match learns what you haven't told. Attached is
a photo me in the Dorchester shower with James. But
there's something else in the frame, something we didn't notice
that night. The mirror. James takes my phone zooms in
on the reflection behind us in the steamy glass, barely visible.
A figure watches from the bathroom doorway. The angle is perfect,
capturing both the passion of the moment and the safe.
My blood runs cold. They saw me crack the safe
while you were sleeping, not quite sleeping. His hand finds
my lower back, not after what you gave me in
that champagne light sedative. I lean into his touch. Courtesy
of the CIA's own cookbook. I found your credentials while
you were in the shower. Of course you did. His
fingers trace patterns on my skin, just like I found
your lock picks in your garter belt. You knew. I
knew everything. He turns me to face him, except why
you left the trace evidence, the hair, the fingerprints, insurance.
I meet his eyes in case you caught me later,
proof that whatever else I was, whatever else I did
that night, was real. His mouth finds mine, gentle this time,
like this is real?
Speaker 3: Is it?
Speaker 2: I pull back slightly? Or are we still performing? He
gestures to the hidden camera. They can't see us now
wrong angle. Then tell me the truth. I press closer.
Why did you really let me go in London? His
silence speaks volumes. Finally, because you weren't just stealing diamonds.
That night you were collecting evidence on the trafficking ring,
on the corrupt agents involved, on on you. I traced
the scar on his chest. Is that why you were
really there? Undercover? Deep cover? His hands slide into my
hair until I met you, until I watched you systematically
dismantle their operation while making me fall. He stops. My
heart stutters while making you what. Instead of answering, he
kisses me deep, desperate, full of things we can't say
with cameras watching and killers waiting. My phone buzz is
again another message, sweet scene, But does he know about Paris?
About what really happened to Agent Sarah Collins? This time
James goes completely still, Sophie. His voice is dangerous. What
did you do in Paris? Sarah Collins? I stepped back,
feeling the desk behind me. Your partner in Paris, the
one who disappeared investigating the trafficking ring. My partner. His
eyes are unreadable now, the one who got too close,
who found evidence linking certain matchmaking services to missing women.
She didn't disappear. I hold his gaze. She's alive in Geneva.
What I got her out? The truth spills like expensive wine, rich, dark, dangerous.
When they discovered she was FBI, when they sent a
cleaner to handle her. You, His hands gripped the desk
on either side of me, caging me in. You were
in Paris that night. I was the cleaner. I press
my palms against his chest, feeling his heart race until
I saw her evidence, until I realized she was right
about everything. So you helped her. His voice Roughens then
came to London to to find you, to get close
enough to pass you her evidence. I curl my fingers
into his shirt. The diamonds were just a bonus, And
now his mouth hovers over mine. Is this just another
way to get close to work, another angle? No, I
slide my hands up to his face. This is something else,
something real, something. The office lights cut out, suddenly, plunging
us into darkness. Emergency systems kick in, bathing everything in red.
Sophie Elena's voice comes through the intercom. We've got company
armed coming up the elevator. James moves instantly, reaching for
his weapon. How many four? No five? The sound of
rapid typing. They've cut external communications, disabled security protocols, not
all of them. I press the hidden panel under my desk,
A section of wall slides open, ready for another escape route.
His laugh is dark as he follows me into the passage,
running again strategic retreat. I pull him into a fierce kiss. Besides,
we've got a Valentine's gale a to plan behind us.
The office door bursts open ahead. The passage leads to
questions we still haven't answered. But his hand finds mine
in the darkness, and for now that's enough. The game
is changing, deepening, and this time we're both playing for keeps.
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 AI
Speaker 2: Calaroga Shark Media