Feb. 9, 2025

The Perfect Match (Part 2 of 4) - "Fatal Attraction" - A Valentine's Special

The Perfect Match (Part 2 of 4) - "Fatal Attraction" - A Valentine's Special

During the investigation of Victoria Blackwood's murder, Sophie and James must maintain professional facades while their private encounters grow more heated. When Victoria's connection to a larger conspiracy emerges, Sophie realizes her matchmaking...

During the investigation of Victoria Blackwood's murder, Sophie and James must maintain professional facades while their private encounters grow more heated. When Victoria's connection to a larger conspiracy emerges, Sophie realizes her matchmaking service is being used to mark targets. A series of passionate encounters in Sophie's office, caught on hidden cameras, leads to revelations about London and a dangerous game of exposure and desire. The episode ends with evidence that someone very close to them is orchestrating their every move.

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WEBVTT

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Caloroga Shark Media. Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly.

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This episode is titled Perfect Match, Part two, Fatal Attraction.

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Victoria Blackwood's penthouse still smells like her signature perfume Clive

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Christian number one at two thousand dollars an ounce. It's

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the kind of detail I note in my client files,

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along with her preference for younger men, vintage champagne and

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rough sex. Now she's sprawled across her Italian silk sheets,

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looking perfectly arranged, two perfect staged. James murmurs, his body

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close behind mine, close enough that only I can hear him,

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close enough. I feel the heat radiating through his suit,

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like she's been posed for what audience? I resist the

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urge to lean back against him. Elena and two detectives

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are watching for you. He gestures to the Valentine's card

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propped on the nightstand, Your company logo, your signature, match guarantee.

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I move to examine the card, letting my hip brush

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his accidentally as I pass. The contact sends electricity through us,

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both a reminder of this morning's activities on my desk.

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This isn't one of mine. I pick up the card

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with a gloved hand, the card stock is wrong, and

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I never use red ink. Of course you notice the

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card stock. His laugh is low, private, like you notice

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the thread count in my sheets in London one thousand

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Egyptian cotton. I meet his eyes. A girl remembers the

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important things. Elena clears her throat pointedly. If you two

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are done with whatever this is, I found something interesting

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on her laptop. Give us a minute, I tell Elena,

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keeping my voice professional to the detectives, would you mind

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checking the service entrance. My files show Miss Blackwood had

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a regular delivery every Tuesday morning. Once we're alone, James's

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hand finds my lower back. What aren't you saying in

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front of them? Victoria wasn't just a client. I moved

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to her walking closet, knowing he'll follow. She was asking

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questions about other matches, other deaths, and you didn't think

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to tell me this earlier. His fingers dig into my hip,

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say during our discussion in your office, we were otherwise occupied.

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I turned to face him in the enclosed space, surrounded

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by designer clothes and secrets. Besides, you weren't exactly forthcoming

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about the FBI investigation. Fair point. His eyes drop to

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my mouth. Any other secrets you'd like to share several.

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I let my hand rest on his chest, feeling his

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heart race, But not here, not now tonight. Then it's

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not a question my hotel. Your hotel is watched. I

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step closer, letting him feel the heat between us. Marina Heights,

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Room sixteen twelve, eight o'clock, your back up location. His

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smile is knowing for special clients, for special situations. I

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brushed past him, letting my body slide against him in

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the narrow space. Bring the case files and that bottle

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of scotch you've been saving. How did you he stops himself.

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Never mind, I don't want to know how you know

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what's in my hotel room, smart man. I pause at

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the closet door. Oh, and James wear the gray suit,

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the one you wore in London. If you two are

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done with your foreplay, she says dryly, you need to

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see this. Elena turns her laptop toward me. Three weeks

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before each death, the victims all transferred identical amounts to

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an offshore account, exactly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars blackmail.

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James moves closer, his chest, brushing my back as he

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looks over my shoulder. No, I say, recognizing the pattern. Insurance,

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My highest tier of matchmaking includes a guarantee quarter million

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dollar a refund if the match fails or if the

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client dies. His breath warms my neck. That's not in

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the contract. Show me in the car back to my office.

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I can feel him watching me, studying me the same

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way he did in London before everything went sideways. Stop

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profiling me, I say, without looking up from my phone.

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Stop giving me reasons to Elena makes a gagging sound

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from the front seat. Should I put up the privacy screen? Yes,

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we say together. As the screen rises, James's hand finds

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my thigh. The contracts, all of them, all business today, Agent,

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I turn to face him. No pleasure that depends his fingers.

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Trace patterns on my silk stockings on how honest you're

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planning to be? I'm always honest. I slide closer the

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important things, like what you're wearing under this skirt, Like

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the fact that someone's using my service to mark targets.

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I catch his wrist before his hand can slide higher.

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And they knew about London. That stops him. The card.

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Look at the PostScript, I pull it from my bag,

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watching his face as he reads. Roses are red, violets

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are blue. Ask your matchmaker about London and what else

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she knew. His hand tightens on my thigh. You're being framed, obviously.

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I let my fingers trail up his arm. Question is

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are you going to help me or arrest me? Depends

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what I find in those contracts. His mouth brushes my

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ear and what else you're willing to share? The car

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stops at my building. Elena's voice comes through the intercom.

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We're here. Try to look professional when you get out.

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Cameras everywhere. James straightens my skirt with practiced hands. Tonight,

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eight o'clock. Don't be late. I reapply my lipstick, the

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same shade from London, and James, yes, bring handcuffs. In

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my office. Contract files spread across my desk like evidence

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of sins. Every perfect match, every guarantee, every deadly connection

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laid bare. Three victims, Elena says, pulling up their profiles.

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All women, all wealthy, all matched with men who seem

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to have vanished, not vanished. I hand James a folder

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relocated every match requested international moves. Within weeks of meeting London, Paris,

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Dubai running. He looks up from the file, catching me

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watching him or being run I perch on my desk

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near him, closer than strictly necessary. Someone's using my matches

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to move pieces across a bigger board. Someone who knows

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how you think. His hand brushes my knee as he

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reaches for another file. How you match people? Someone who

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knows what people want. I don't move away from his touch,

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their deepest desires, their darkest needs. Elena clears her throat.

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I'll go run background on the international transfers. Try not

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to destroy any more office supplies while I'm gone. The

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door clicks shut behind her. In the sudden quiet, I

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can hear James's breathing. Change. Show me, he says, voice low,

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Show me how you match them? I stand, moving to

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my client interview area. Sit Why, Because this is where

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I learn their secrets. I gesture to the leather chair

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where I figure out what they really want, not what

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they say they want. He sits watching me with those

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profilers eyes. And what do I want? Miss Kane? Beyond

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catching a killer? I move behind him, letting my hands

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rest on his shoulders. Beyond proving I'm involved somehow, Beyond

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that My fingers find the tension in his neck, working slowly.

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You want control the illusion of it, at least, that's

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why you let me run in London. Why you're letting

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me run now? His head falls back, eyes closing, And

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what do you want right now? I lean down, my

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lips brushing his ear. I want to know why you

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really came to my office yesterday, Why you let me

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recognize you. Why His hand catches my wrist, pulls me

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around to face him. In one smooth motion, I'm straddling

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his lap, his other hand tangling in my hair. Maybe

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his mouth finds my throat. I got tired of chasing shadows.

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Maybe I rock against him, feeling him respond instantly. I

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got tired of running. His kiss is pure heat London

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and New York and five years of want colliding. My

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skirt rides up as his hands find bare skin above stockings.

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Here in the same chair where I interview clients about

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their perfect matches, I'm about to let an FBI agent.

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My phone buzzes, not Eleanor's code, something else. I pull back, lipsticksmeared,

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breathing hard. Aimes ignore it. No, I show him the screen,

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A photo of us taken moments ago through my office window.

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Below it a message perfect match indeed, But can he

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save you? This time? James is on his feet, instantly

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gun appearing from under his jacket. Which building has that

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site line? Several? I smooth my skirt, mind racing the

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carlysle across the street, the new Morgan building, the Sophie.

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His voice stops me. First time he's used my first name.

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Look at the angle. This wasn't taken from outside. I

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slides down my spine as I study the photo again.

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He's right the angle, the claric, the painting. I turned

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toward the massive abstract on my office wall. It's been

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in my office for three years. I picked it myself.

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I James is already moving, reaching up to remove it. Behind.

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Embedded in my wall is a camera, small, sophisticated, recently installed.

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Someone's been in my office. The implications hit like cold water.

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Someone got past my security, past Elena's systems, passed past everything.

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He pulls me close. Professional distance forgotten in the face

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of real danger. How many people have access to this room?

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Just me and Elena, even cleaning crews. Can't I stop

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the renovations? Last month we had contractors in to repair

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a water leak, names in my private files. I moved

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to my computer, but his hand on my arm stops me.

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Not here, his eyes meet mine. Not now pack what

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you need. We're leaving, running, agent Bishop, I arch an

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eyebrow even as I gather files, not very FBI of you.

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His laugh is dark as he helps me into my coat,

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not running strategic retreat. Besides, his hand slides under my hair,

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finding the zipper of my dress. We have a date

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at eight, remember, mixing business with pleasure. I lean back

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against him, letting him unzip me just enough to make

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his breath catch with you. His teeth graze my ear.

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Everything's mixed. Now go change something professional enough for the

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security cameras, but easy to remove later. Presumptuous, practical. He

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steps back, letting me feel the loss of his heat.

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And Sophie, yes, where the lapeerl are set? The black

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one like London. Twenty minutes later, we exit my office

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looking perfectly proper, but his hand on my back burns

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through silk, and my skin hums with promise and danger

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Behind us, the camera watches, silent, patient, waiting, let it watch.

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The game is changing, but this time we're playing it. Together.

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The rest of the afternoon is torture, exquisite, deliberate torture.

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We separate to maintain appearances. He to his FBI office,

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me to client meetings. But his texts arrived like clockwork,

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each one more dangerous than the last. Found your London file.

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Nice mugshot, I smile, typing back. That's not my only

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photo in there. Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. The

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shower ones were particularly compelling. You took those yourself, If

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I remember correctly, I remember everything about that night. Heat

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pools low in my belly, so do I. At six,

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Elena brings me the contract to records companies Clean two,

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Clean Shell Corporation, Ghost Corporation. Didn't exist before last month,

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doesn't exist now. She eyes me over her tablet, like

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someone created it just to get inside access, to plant

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the camera, to plant something. She hands me as small

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evidence bag. Found this behind your wet bar, high end

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listening device. Been there about a month. My phone buzzes again.

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James seven point thirty car will pick you up. Wear

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the red luebutans go, Elena says, taking the files. I'll

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scrub the office full sweep. You don't approve of you

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sleeping with the FBI agent trying to catch you. She shrugs,

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as your security expert, no, as your friend. A smile

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tugs at her lips. Just try not to break any

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more furniture. At seven twenty five, I'm in my private elevator,

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wearing exactly what he requested, the black lapeerla set under

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a rap dress that's both modest and easy to remove,

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red luebutans hair down. The car is waiting, sleek and

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black with tinted windows. I slide into the back seat

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and find I'm not alone. You're early. I cross my legs,

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letting my dress ride up. Couldn't wait. James's eyes follow

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the movement. Besides, we need to talk, talk. I let

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amusement color my voice. Is that what we're calling it now?

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His hand finds my knee, slides higher. Someone's trying to

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frame you for murder. Someone's trying to do a lot

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more than that. I shift, giving him better access. The camera,

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the bugs, the threatening messages, they're watching us. His fingers

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trace the edge of my stockings right now, probably let them.

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I move his hand higher, give them something worth watching.

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His kisses answer enough, hot and hungry and full of

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promises about what's to come. But as his mouth claims mine,

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his fingers press something into my palm. A note later,

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in the relative safety of rooms sixteen twelve. I'll read

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it back up's in place, play along, make it look good. Oh,

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it'll look better than good. This game just got interesting.

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Marina Heights lives up to its name, sixty stories of

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glass and steel, stretching toward the Manhattan sky. The Penthouse

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level contains just two sweets. Sixteen twelve is mine, though

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it's registered under a different name. James keeps his hand

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on my lower back as we ride up the elevator's

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mirrored walls, reflecting us from every angle, professional proper. Nothing

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to see here except his fingers are drawing slow circles

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on my spine through silk. Stop that, I murmur, what

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his smile is wicked in the reflection this. His hand

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slides lower. You're supposed to be investigating me, I am.

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He turns me to face him very thoroughly. The elevator stops.

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His mouth finds mine just as the doors open, and

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we stumble into the Penthouse hallway. Like the lovers we're

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pretending to be. Like the lovers we might actually be inside.

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Sixteen twelve reality shifts. The room is exactly as I

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left it this morning, bed made, bar stocked, cameras disabled.

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But something feels wrong, James says, reading my mind, his

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gun appears someone's been here. I move to the bar,

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extracting my own weapon from its hiding spot. Recently, the

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ice in the bucket hasn't fully melted. They wanted us

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to know. He checks the bedroom while I cover the

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main room. Left us a message on the bed. Arranged

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with artistic precision, are three items, a red rose, a

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Matchmaker client file, and a single black and white photo London,

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the Dorchester James and I entering his suite that night,

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his hand on my hip, my head thrown back in laughter.

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They've been watching longer than we thought. I pick up

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the file. This is Victoria Blackwood's complete profile, including details

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that were never in my system. They know her secrets.

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James moves behind me, close enough that I feel his

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heat like they know ours. We could stop. I turned

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to face him, walk away. Let the FBI handle it.

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Could you His hand cups my face. Walk away from

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this that this isn't just the case. It's this, the

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heat between us, the danger, the game we've been playing

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since London. No, I press closer? Could you? His kiss

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is the answer, deep and demanding and full of dark promise.

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We make it to the bed, scattering evidence as clothes

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fall away. His hands map my skin like he's searching

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for clues, my body arching into every touch. Tell me,

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he demands, between kisses, tell me what you know, make me.

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What follows is pure interrogation, his mouth extracting confession after confession,

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my fingers leaving evidence of their own. He takes me

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hard and fast, then slow and thorough, until there's nothing

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left but truth and need and the sweet ache of surrender. Later,

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tangled in sheets that smell like sex and secrets. I

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show him what I found in Victoria's file. She was

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investigating something. I trace the scar on his chest, something

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bigger than matched couples dying? What human trafficking? I sit up,

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letting the sheet fall high end, using matchmaking services as cover.

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His hand stills on my hip, your service and others.

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I reach for the file, look at the pattern. Every

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victim was asking questions, getting close to something, getting close

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to you. I meet his eyes in the dim light. Yes,

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and now now I straddle him feeling him respond instantly.

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Now we give them what they want. A matchmaker who

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knows too much, an FBI agent compromised by desire, the

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perfect trap. His hands slide up my thighs, using us

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as bait. Us I rock against him getting personal Agent Bishop.

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His smile is dangerous in the darkness, Sweetheart, this got

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personal in London. As he pulls me down for another kiss,

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my phone buzzes a new message. Lovely show, but can

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you maintain it until Valentine's Day? Let's find out. Attached

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is a photo US moments ago in bed, taken from

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inside the room. Game on.

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Romance Weekly is a production of Laroga 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 Ai

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Calaroga Shark Media