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Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This
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episode is titled Perfect Match, Part four Valentine's Dawn.
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Perfection is a lie. That's the secret of matchmaking. No
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one wants perfect. They want the right kind of broken,
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the kind that fits their own jagged edges. Stop profiling me.
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James murmurs against my neck as he zips up my gown,
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red silk backless, dangerous, perfect for a Valentine's massacre. Can't
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help it. I lean back against his chest, watching us
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in my penthouse mirror. Professional hazard, like stealing diamonds, his
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hands linger on my hips, or saving federal agents, like
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falling for the man hunting you. I turn in his arms.
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His tux is immaculate, concealing both weapon and wire, ready
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to put on a show for our audience. His mouth
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finds that spot below my ear that makes me shiver,
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or for the killers both. I check my lipstick, the
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same shade from London. Elena has the guest list, three
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potential victims, all matched for Valentine's dates, and one matchmaker.
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His hands tighten possessively. They're coming for you tonight. Let them.
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I press closer, feeling the gun under his jacket. That's
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the plan. Remember his kiss is answer enough, deep and
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demanding and full of everything. We're not saying. We might
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not survive this night, but at least we'll go down burning, Sophie,
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his voice rough against my skin. If this goes wrong,
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it won't. I silence him with another kiss. Trust me,
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that's what you said in London. I smile against his mouth,
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and look how well that turned out. The Carlyle's ballroom
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is a Valentine cliche, all red roses and champagne fountains
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and crystal hearts, catching candlelight, the perfect setting for romance
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or murder. Three targets. James murmurs as we descend the
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grand staircase, his hand possessive on my back. Amanda Pierce
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at your four o'clock blue daw matched with the hedge
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fund manager. I smile for the cameras, Thomas Reid by
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the bar, Great Tom Ford and the last Helen Maxwell.
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Well not here yet. I turn into his arms as
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the music starts, But.
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Her date is.
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His hands settle on my waist as we begin to dance.
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To anyone watching, we're the perfect couple. The matchmaker and
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her match lost in each other, if they only knew
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someone's watching, he says, against my ear, second floor balcony.
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I know. I press closer, letting him feel the knife
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strapped to my thigh. She's been there since we arrived,
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she Sarah Collins. I feel him tense against me, your partner,
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my rescue, the one who started all this. His hands
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tighten on my silk covered skin. Impossible. Sarah's in Geneva. No,
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I meet his eyes. Sarah's right here, and she's not
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just watching us, She's hunting us. The music shifts to
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something darker, slower, more intimate, like the truth. I'm about
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to tell him? What aren't you telling me? James's thumb
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traces circles on my lower back as we turn across
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the dance floor. About Paris, About Sarah. She wasn't just
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investigating the trafficking ring. I let my cheek rest against
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his lips at his ear, she was running it. His
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step falters, almost imperceptible. You're sure, very. My fingers curl
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into his lapel. Why do you think she needed to disappear?
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The evidence she collected wasn't to expose the operation. It
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was insurance protection from who? From you? I pull back
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enough to meet his eyes. She knew you were getting close,
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knew you'd figure it out eventually, so she arranged her
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own disappearance, used me to deliver false evidence, to distract
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you with with diamonds and seduction. His laugh is dark
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against my skin, with a beautiful thief who'd lead me
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on a chase across Europe. Exactly. I arch into his
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touch as his hand slides lower. Only something went wrong,
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what I fell for the wrong agent. My lips brush
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his jaw, and now she's here to correct that mistake.
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The music stops above us. A figure in black moves
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away from the balcony Sophie. His voice carries warning, the
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targets are moving right on schedule. I step back, straightening
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his tie, ready to catch a killer, Ready to finish
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what we started in London. My smile is sharp in
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the candle light. That depends, did you bring handcuffs? His
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eyes darken with promise and danger. Backstaircase. Two minutes, make
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it three. I brushed past him, letting our bodies slide together.
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I need to powder my nose, code for I need
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to check the tracker I placed on Amanda Pierce's bracelet
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when we air kissed. Hello, the lady's room is all
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marble and gilt mirrors. I check my lipstick, adjust my dress,
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play the part of a woman touched by romance rather
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than adrenaline until Sarah steps out of the last stall.
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Hello Sophie. She looks exactly the same as Paris elegant,
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lethal per effect? Or should I say goodbye? Sarah? I
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don't reach for my weapon, not yet, love the dress Valentino,
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still noticing the details, She moves closer, her heels, clicking
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on marble, still playing games. Tell me? Does James know
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what really happened in Paris? What you really stole? He
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knows enough? Does he? Her smile is razor sharp? Does
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he know you were supposed to kill me that night?
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That instead we made a deal, a deal you broke.
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I turned to face her fully when you started killing
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my clients. Had to get your attention somehow, She produces
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a small gun from her clutch. Had to remind you
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what happens to people who betray me like you betrayed James.
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James was a means to an end. The un doesn't waiver,
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just like you were, Just like he still is. Is
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that why you've been watching us. I take a step closer, jealous.
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Her laugh is cold. Please. I orchestrated every moment, the
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camera in your office, the bugs, the evidence trail, every touch,
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every kiss, every passionate encounter, all designed to bring you
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both here tonight for what For the final match? She
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gestures with the gun. Now move, We have an appointment
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on the roof. The roof. I let her guide me
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toward the service elevator. Not very original, Sarah, but effective.
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She presses the button with a gloved hand. Perfect view
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of the ballroom, perfect vantage point to watch three of
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your clients die while James tries to save them and me.
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You the elevator doors slide open, You get to watch,
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then join them inside. She keeps the gun pressed to
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my ribs, close enough that I can smell her perfume.
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Still Clive Christian number one. Some habits never change. He'll
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figure it out, I say, as we ascend. He's not
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the same agent you knew. No, her smile is knowing.
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Thanks to you, he's compromised, emotional, vulnerable. Thanks to me,
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he's awake. I meet her eyes in the mirrored wall,
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to all of it, the trafficking, the murders, Your perfect
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little operation perfect until you the gun digs deeper until
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you actually fell for him. Rookie mistake, Sophie, My only mistake,
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I shift slightly, letting my dress ride up. Was not
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killing you in Paris. Oh, the elevator stops. Your mistake
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was thinking I came alone. The doors open to reveal
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four men with guns and behind them, illuminated by the
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city lights. Elena, my blood runs cold. Sorry, Sophie, my friend,
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my partner steps forward. But Sarah's operation pays better than matchmaking.
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You are the leak. Everything clicks, the office cameras, the
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security breaches, and the perfect inside sauce. Sarah pushes me
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onto the roof. Now, let's call your boyfriend. Tell him
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where to find us. I reach for my phone, but
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I'm smiling. What's funny, Sarah demands. You really should have
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searched me better. I nod toward the ballroom below. He's
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already here. The first shot takes out Elena's right hand man.
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The second catches one of Sarah's guards in the throat.
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The third the third misses as Sarah yanks me in
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front of her, using me as a shield. Always the hero,
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she calls out to the shadows where James is positioned,
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still trying to save everyone, not everyone. His voice carries
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across the roof, just her. Sweet Sarah's gun presses against
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my temple. Tell him what you really are, Sophie. Tell
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him about the USB drive you took in Paris, the
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one with all my client lists, all my contacts, the
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one I gave to Interpol. I feel her grip Titan,
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or the fake one I left in Geneva, the real one.
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Her mouth is at my ear now, the one you're
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using to run your own operation. James steps into the light,
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his gun trained on Sarah. That's not why she took it, no,
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Sarah laughs. Then why because I drive my elbow back
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into her solar plexus. It had your kill list on it,
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including his name. Everything happens at once. Sarah staggers, I
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drop and roll. James fires, but Elena is faster. Her
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bullet catches James in the shoulder, spinning him around. Sarah recovers,
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aiming at me.
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Enough.
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She's breathing hard, fury distorting her perfect features. I gave
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you everything trained. You taught you how to read people,
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how to match them, how to use them. You taught
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me how to kill. I rise slowly, keeping her attention
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how to make it look perfect? And now her finger
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tightens on the trigger. Now I'll show you what I learned.
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The knife from my thigh holster flies true, catching her
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in the throat. At the same moment, James's second shot
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takes Elna between the eyes. Perfect match. James reaches me first,
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his good arm pulling me close. You okay me. I
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press my hand to his wound. You're the one bleeding
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all over our many worth it. His mouth finds mine,
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desperate and deep around us. His backup team secures the
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roof Sarah's body. Elna's betrayal the clients, I ask against
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his lips. Safe. We got to them before Sarah's people
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could move. His hand cups my face. It's over, is it?
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I pull back enough to meet his eyes. There'll be questions, investigations.
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Your superiors will want to know about London, about Paris,
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about us. Let them ask. He kisses me again softer.
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Now I've got some questions of my own, like what
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like why you really saved me in Paris? His thumb
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traces my bottom lip, Why you left the evidence in London?
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Why you.
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Why I fell in love with the man hunting me.
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The words hang between us, more dangerous than any bullet.
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His eyes darken as he processes what I've said, Sophie,
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don't I press my fingers to his lips. Not yet.
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First hospital, then debriefing, then then I smile against his mouth.
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Then I'll show you what else I learned in Paris.
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Promise cross my heart. I let my hand slide down
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his chest, and if you're very good, I might even
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let you use those handcuffs. His laugh rumbles through both
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our bodies. Happy Valentine's Day, Matchmaker Below us, the gala continues.
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Sirens wail in the distance, Dawn approaches, painting Manhattan in
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shades of possibility. James, Hmmm, next time you hunt me,
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I kiss him, tasting blood and victory and future. Try
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to keep up.
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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 AI
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Calaroga Shark Media