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