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