Speaker 1: Caloroga Shark Media. Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly.
Speaker 2: This episode is titled Perfect Match, Part two, Fatal Attraction.
Speaker 1: Victoria Blackwood's penthouse still smells like her signature perfume Clive
Christian number one at two thousand dollars an ounce. It's
the kind of detail I note in my client files,
along with her preference for younger men, vintage champagne and
rough sex. Now she's sprawled across her Italian silk sheets,
looking perfectly arranged, two perfect staged. James murmurs, his body
close behind mine, close enough that only I can hear him,
close enough. I feel the heat radiating through his suit,
like she's been posed for what audience? I resist the
urge to lean back against him. Elena and two detectives
are watching for you. He gestures to the Valentine's card
propped on the nightstand, Your company logo, your signature, match guarantee.
I move to examine the card, letting my hip brush
his accidentally as I pass. The contact sends electricity through us,
both a reminder of this morning's activities on my desk.
This isn't one of mine. I pick up the card
with a gloved hand, the card stock is wrong, and
I never use red ink. Of course you notice the
card stock. His laugh is low, private, like you notice
the thread count in my sheets in London one thousand
Egyptian cotton. I meet his eyes. A girl remembers the
important things. Elena clears her throat pointedly. If you two
are done with whatever this is, I found something interesting
on her laptop. Give us a minute, I tell Elena,
keeping my voice professional to the detectives, would you mind
checking the service entrance. My files show Miss Blackwood had
a regular delivery every Tuesday morning. Once we're alone, James's
hand finds my lower back. What aren't you saying in
front of them? Victoria wasn't just a client. I moved
to her walking closet, knowing he'll follow. She was asking
questions about other matches, other deaths, and you didn't think
to tell me this earlier. His fingers dig into my hip,
say during our discussion in your office, we were otherwise occupied.
I turned to face him in the enclosed space, surrounded
by designer clothes and secrets. Besides, you weren't exactly forthcoming
about the FBI investigation. Fair point. His eyes drop to
my mouth. Any other secrets you'd like to share several.
I let my hand rest on his chest, feeling his
heart race, But not here, not now tonight. Then it's
not a question my hotel. Your hotel is watched. I
step closer, letting him feel the heat between us. Marina Heights,
Room sixteen twelve, eight o'clock, your back up location. His
smile is knowing for special clients, for special situations. I
brushed past him, letting my body slide against him in
the narrow space. Bring the case files and that bottle
of scotch you've been saving. How did you he stops himself.
Never mind, I don't want to know how you know
what's in my hotel room, smart man. I pause at
the closet door. Oh, and James wear the gray suit,
the one you wore in London. If you two are
done with your foreplay, she says dryly, you need to
see this. Elena turns her laptop toward me. Three weeks
before each death, the victims all transferred identical amounts to
an offshore account, exactly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars blackmail.
James moves closer, his chest, brushing my back as he
looks over my shoulder. No, I say, recognizing the pattern. Insurance,
My highest tier of matchmaking includes a guarantee quarter million
dollar a refund if the match fails or if the
client dies. His breath warms my neck. That's not in
the contract. Show me in the car back to my office.
I can feel him watching me, studying me the same
way he did in London before everything went sideways. Stop
profiling me, I say, without looking up from my phone.
Stop giving me reasons to Elena makes a gagging sound
from the front seat. Should I put up the privacy screen? Yes,
we say together. As the screen rises, James's hand finds
my thigh. The contracts, all of them, all business today, Agent,
I turn to face him. No pleasure that depends his fingers.
Trace patterns on my silk stockings on how honest you're
planning to be? I'm always honest. I slide closer the
important things, like what you're wearing under this skirt, Like
the fact that someone's using my service to mark targets.
I catch his wrist before his hand can slide higher.
And they knew about London. That stops him. The card.
Look at the PostScript, I pull it from my bag,
watching his face as he reads. Roses are red, violets
are blue. Ask your matchmaker about London and what else
she knew. His hand tightens on my thigh. You're being framed, obviously.
I let my fingers trail up his arm. Question is
are you going to help me or arrest me? Depends
what I find in those contracts. His mouth brushes my
ear and what else you're willing to share? The car
stops at my building. Elena's voice comes through the intercom.
We're here. Try to look professional when you get out.
Cameras everywhere. James straightens my skirt with practiced hands. Tonight,
eight o'clock. Don't be late. I reapply my lipstick, the
same shade from London, and James, yes, bring handcuffs. In
my office. Contract files spread across my desk like evidence
of sins. Every perfect match, every guarantee, every deadly connection
laid bare. Three victims, Elena says, pulling up their profiles.
All women, all wealthy, all matched with men who seem
to have vanished, not vanished. I hand James a folder
relocated every match requested international moves. Within weeks of meeting London, Paris,
Dubai running. He looks up from the file, catching me
watching him or being run I perch on my desk
near him, closer than strictly necessary. Someone's using my matches
to move pieces across a bigger board. Someone who knows
how you think. His hand brushes my knee as he
reaches for another file. How you match people? Someone who
knows what people want. I don't move away from his touch,
their deepest desires, their darkest needs. Elena clears her throat.
I'll go run background on the international transfers. Try not
to destroy any more office supplies while I'm gone. The
door clicks shut behind her. In the sudden quiet, I
can hear James's breathing. Change. Show me, he says, voice low,
Show me how you match them? I stand, moving to
my client interview area. Sit Why, Because this is where
I learn their secrets. I gesture to the leather chair
where I figure out what they really want, not what
they say they want. He sits watching me with those
profilers eyes. And what do I want? Miss Kane? Beyond
catching a killer? I move behind him, letting my hands
rest on his shoulders. Beyond proving I'm involved somehow, Beyond
that My fingers find the tension in his neck, working slowly.
You want control the illusion of it, at least, that's
why you let me run in London. Why you're letting
me run now? His head falls back, eyes closing, And
what do you want right now? I lean down, my
lips brushing his ear. I want to know why you
really came to my office yesterday, Why you let me
recognize you. Why His hand catches my wrist, pulls me
around to face him. In one smooth motion, I'm straddling
his lap, his other hand tangling in my hair. Maybe
his mouth finds my throat. I got tired of chasing shadows.
Maybe I rock against him, feeling him respond instantly. I
got tired of running. His kiss is pure heat London
and New York and five years of want colliding. My
skirt rides up as his hands find bare skin above stockings.
Here in the same chair where I interview clients about
their perfect matches, I'm about to let an FBI agent.
My phone buzzes, not Eleanor's code, something else. I pull back, lipsticksmeared,
breathing hard. Aimes ignore it. No, I show him the screen,
A photo of us taken moments ago through my office window.
Below it a message perfect match indeed, But can he
save you? This time? James is on his feet, instantly
gun appearing from under his jacket. Which building has that
site line? Several? I smooth my skirt, mind racing the
carlysle across the street, the new Morgan building, the Sophie.
His voice stops me. First time he's used my first name.
Look at the angle. This wasn't taken from outside. I
slides down my spine as I study the photo again.
He's right the angle, the claric, the painting. I turned
toward the massive abstract on my office wall. It's been
in my office for three years. I picked it myself.
I James is already moving, reaching up to remove it. Behind.
Embedded in my wall is a camera, small, sophisticated, recently installed.
Someone's been in my office. The implications hit like cold water.
Someone got past my security, past Elena's systems, passed past everything.
He pulls me close. Professional distance forgotten in the face
of real danger. How many people have access to this room?
Just me and Elena, even cleaning crews. Can't I stop
the renovations? Last month we had contractors in to repair
a water leak, names in my private files. I moved
to my computer, but his hand on my arm stops me.
Not here, his eyes meet mine. Not now pack what
you need. We're leaving, running, agent Bishop, I arch an
eyebrow even as I gather files, not very FBI of you.
His laugh is dark as he helps me into my coat,
not running strategic retreat. Besides, his hand slides under my hair,
finding the zipper of my dress. We have a date
at eight, remember, mixing business with pleasure. I lean back
against him, letting him unzip me just enough to make
his breath catch with you. His teeth graze my ear.
Everything's mixed. Now go change something professional enough for the
security cameras, but easy to remove later. Presumptuous, practical. He
steps back, letting me feel the loss of his heat.
And Sophie, yes, where the lapeerl are set? The black
one like London. Twenty minutes later, we exit my office
looking perfectly proper, but his hand on my back burns
through silk, and my skin hums with promise and danger
Behind us, the camera watches, silent, patient, waiting, let it watch.
The game is changing, but this time we're playing it. Together.
The rest of the afternoon is torture, exquisite, deliberate torture.
We separate to maintain appearances. He to his FBI office,
me to client meetings. But his texts arrived like clockwork,
each one more dangerous than the last. Found your London file.
Nice mugshot, I smile, typing back. That's not my only
photo in there. Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. The
shower ones were particularly compelling. You took those yourself, If
I remember correctly, I remember everything about that night. Heat
pools low in my belly, so do I. At six,
Elena brings me the contract to records companies Clean two,
Clean Shell Corporation, Ghost Corporation. Didn't exist before last month,
doesn't exist now. She eyes me over her tablet, like
someone created it just to get inside access, to plant
the camera, to plant something. She hands me as small
evidence bag. Found this behind your wet bar, high end
listening device. Been there about a month. My phone buzzes again.
James seven point thirty car will pick you up. Wear
the red luebutans go, Elena says, taking the files. I'll
scrub the office full sweep. You don't approve of you
sleeping with the FBI agent trying to catch you. She shrugs,
as your security expert, no, as your friend. A smile
tugs at her lips. Just try not to break any
more furniture. At seven twenty five, I'm in my private elevator,
wearing exactly what he requested, the black lapeerla set under
a rap dress that's both modest and easy to remove,
red luebutans hair down. The car is waiting, sleek and
black with tinted windows. I slide into the back seat
and find I'm not alone. You're early. I cross my legs,
letting my dress ride up. Couldn't wait. James's eyes follow
the movement. Besides, we need to talk, talk. I let
amusement color my voice. Is that what we're calling it now?
His hand finds my knee, slides higher. Someone's trying to
frame you for murder. Someone's trying to do a lot
more than that. I shift, giving him better access. The camera,
the bugs, the threatening messages, they're watching us. His fingers
trace the edge of my stockings right now, probably let them.
I move his hand higher, give them something worth watching.
His kisses answer enough, hot and hungry and full of
promises about what's to come. But as his mouth claims mine,
his fingers press something into my palm. A note later,
in the relative safety of rooms sixteen twelve. I'll read
it back up's in place, play along, make it look good. Oh,
it'll look better than good. This game just got interesting.
Marina Heights lives up to its name, sixty stories of
glass and steel, stretching toward the Manhattan sky. The Penthouse
level contains just two sweets. Sixteen twelve is mine, though
it's registered under a different name. James keeps his hand
on my lower back as we ride up the elevator's
mirrored walls, reflecting us from every angle, professional proper. Nothing
to see here except his fingers are drawing slow circles
on my spine through silk. Stop that, I murmur, what
his smile is wicked in the reflection this. His hand
slides lower. You're supposed to be investigating me, I am.
He turns me to face him very thoroughly. The elevator stops.
His mouth finds mine just as the doors open, and
we stumble into the Penthouse hallway. Like the lovers we're
pretending to be. Like the lovers we might actually be inside.
Sixteen twelve reality shifts. The room is exactly as I
left it this morning, bed made, bar stocked, cameras disabled.
But something feels wrong, James says, reading my mind, his
gun appears someone's been here. I move to the bar,
extracting my own weapon from its hiding spot. Recently, the
ice in the bucket hasn't fully melted. They wanted us
to know. He checks the bedroom while I cover the
main room. Left us a message on the bed. Arranged
with artistic precision, are three items, a red rose, a
Matchmaker client file, and a single black and white photo London,
the Dorchester James and I entering his suite that night,
his hand on my hip, my head thrown back in laughter.
They've been watching longer than we thought. I pick up
the file. This is Victoria Blackwood's complete profile, including details
that were never in my system. They know her secrets.
James moves behind me, close enough that I feel his
heat like they know ours. We could stop. I turned
to face him, walk away. Let the FBI handle it.
Could you His hand cups my face. Walk away from
this that this isn't just the case. It's this, the
heat between us, the danger, the game we've been playing
since London. No, I press closer? Could you? His kiss
is the answer, deep and demanding and full of dark promise.
We make it to the bed, scattering evidence as clothes
fall away. His hands map my skin like he's searching
for clues, my body arching into every touch. Tell me,
he demands, between kisses, tell me what you know, make me.
What follows is pure interrogation, his mouth extracting confession after confession,
my fingers leaving evidence of their own. He takes me
hard and fast, then slow and thorough, until there's nothing
left but truth and need and the sweet ache of surrender. Later,
tangled in sheets that smell like sex and secrets. I
show him what I found in Victoria's file. She was
investigating something. I trace the scar on his chest, something
bigger than matched couples dying? What human trafficking? I sit up,
letting the sheet fall high end, using matchmaking services as cover.
His hand stills on my hip, your service and others.
I reach for the file, look at the pattern. Every
victim was asking questions, getting close to something, getting close
to you. I meet his eyes in the dim light. Yes,
and now now I straddle him feeling him respond instantly.
Now we give them what they want. A matchmaker who
knows too much, an FBI agent compromised by desire, the
perfect trap. His hands slide up my thighs, using us
as bait. Us I rock against him getting personal Agent Bishop.
His smile is dangerous in the darkness, Sweetheart, this got
personal in London. As he pulls me down for another kiss,
my phone buzzes a new message. Lovely show, but can
you maintain it until Valentine's Day? Let's find out. Attached
is a photo US moments ago in bed, taken from
inside the room. Game on.
Speaker 2: Romance Weekly is a production of Laroga Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of Ai
Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media