Kitabı oku: «Everybody Loves Evie»

Dear Diary,

What was I thinking? Creating a character with a background in entertainment similar to mine. I should have known that friends and family and people who’ve worked with me within the entertainment industry would read All About Evie. I should have been prepared for the comparisons. “Obviously Evie is your alter ego,” said my husband. “Do you really feel like that?” said my sister. “I see so much of you in Evie,” said friends. And … “I had an audition that went down almost exactly like that. Was that about me?”

There are three answers to all of those questions. Yes. Sort of. And no.

Didn’t they read my Dear Reader letter?

I admit, some of Evie’s adventures and tribulations are loosely based on my own experiences within the entertainment industry. However, she and all of the featured characters are purely fictional.

I’m thinking I should make that my official disclaimer. I’m thinking I should send a mass e-mail to friends and family in preparation for Evie’s second adventure, because—what was I thinking?—in this book Evie, Arch and Milo visit Evie’s native state (which happens to be my native state) to bail her mom out of a scam. I’m thinking I should call my mom. “What you’re about to read is purely fictional! I didn’t really do ‘that’ or ‘that’ and I’m not going to do ‘that,’ although maybe I did fantasise about ‘that’ one thing.”

Luckily, my friends and family have a sense of humour and actually adored Evie. As did multitudes of readers I have never met. Speaking of readers, I need to write a new Dear Reader letter for Everybody Loves Evie. I’m thinking of something along these lines …

To the readers who wrote and asked if I really have those costumes hanging in my closet … Yes. To the readers who wrote saying I’d have to fight them for Arch Duvall … you’ll have to duke it out with Evie, because she’s got a real thing for that bad-boy con artist. To those who wrote wondering about Evie and Arch’s future, Arch and Milo’s past, Milo’s interest in Evie and Evie’s new career with Chameleon—this one’s for you. To those of you entering Evie’s world for the first time, here’s disclaimer No.2: Although I extensively researched con artists and scams, Chameleon and AIA are figments of my overactive imagination. Welcome to my world.

What do you think, Diary? What … oh, rats. My pen’s running dry. Unlike my imagination. Heh. I’ll be back.

Beth

Everybody Loves Evie

Beth Ciotta

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my husband, Steve.

Your support and creative input stoked my

imagination and warmed my heart. I’m still flying.

All my love, always.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To Cynthia Valero with affection and admiration. You went above and beyond, my friend. Here’s to fanciful and satisfying storytelling.

To my editor, Keyren Gerlach (a dynamo and fellow animal lover)—thank you for embracing my characters and helping me to make their story shine! To everyone at my publisher—my eternal gratitude for your tireless and wondrous efforts. To my agent, Amy Moore-Benson—your expertise and enthusiasm is priceless. How fortunate I am to be on this motivated and creative team.

Sincere appreciation to all of the readers, booksellers and librarians who recommend my stories to friends and patrons. Thank you for spreading the joy!

Special thanks to those who cheer me on and keep me going … Pom-pom shakers and friends extraordinaire Heather Graham, Mary Stella and Julia Templeton. The world’s sweetest stalker-fan, Laurie, and her effervescent sister, Elsie. The always smiling JoAnn Schailey. My friends and co-workers at the Brigantine Branch of the Atlantic County Library—Sue, Alicia, Lesa, Denise, Beth, Doris, Jean Marie and Taylor. And to my wondrous family and diverse circle of friends. I am blessed!

CHAPTER ONE

London, England Trafalgar Square

CRIME DOESN’T PAY. Unless you’re a professional grifter who’s never been caught. Then, yeah, boy, ka-ching! Especially if you’re playing the long cons. Time-intensive scams such as bank-examiner schemes, pigeon drops and investment swindles garner thousands, sometimes millions of dollars. Short cons, hit-and-run hustles, can be nearly as lucrative, depending on the grifter’s charm and the mark’s greed. Not that I understand the mechanics of all of these swindles. But, thanks to the man I’m sleeping with, I’m learning.

My name is Evie Parish and I’m a professional performer. At least that’s how I used to make my living, singing, dancing and acting on the stages of the not-so-glitzy Atlantic City casinos. Unfortunately the entertainment industry has a bugaboo about mature women. My career, like my fifteen-year marriage, recently hit the skids. Not that I’m bitter. Okay, that’s a lie. But I’m learning to let go. Over forty does not equal over the hill. In fact, I’ve never felt more alive. Creative sex and a challenging new career do wonders for the spirit. Just now, my thoughts were on the latter.

Both guilt and exhilaration rushed through me as I pocketed twenty British pounds and exited a touristy pub. My eyes registered the boxy black cabs and red double-decker buses navigating Trafalgar Square’s congested streets, but instead of revved engines and squealing brakes, all I heard was the funky, eclectic soundtrack from the Ocean’s Eleven remake. The caper music, though solely in my head, fueled my getaway and fantasy mind-set. I’d had to channel a female version of Brad Pitt’s “Rusty” in order to pull off that shenanigan. I had a conscience. Rusty, the crooked card magician, did not.

Walk, don’t run, I told myself. Blend. Be a chameleon. A no-brainer for an actress who’s been everything from a premenstrual pumpkin to a roller-skating cowgirl, right? Right. Considering the heavy pedestrian traffic and considering that I’d dressed in black (London’s denim), it was easy to lose myself in the crowd. I buttoned my peacoat against the brisk evening breeze. Even though I was wired tight, my stride was loose, my expression calm. My brain replayed my mentor’s advice should the bartender come sprinting after me.

If the mark seems confused, go on the offense. If the mark seems suspicious or agitated, run.

But no one chased me down. No one yelled “Thief!” When I reached the corner of Northumberland and Whitehall, I pumped my fist in the air and performed my signature victory dance. “I did it!”

“Bloody hell, Sunshine. Dinnae announce it to the world.” Arch Duvall, a reformed con artist with a hot body and a sexy accent, clasped my arm and guided me across the bustling intersection.

I still couldn’t believe I was with this guy. As in, having a pulse-tripping fling with this guy. Me, a contemporary Doris Day. Perky, blond (this month anyway), a renowned Goody Two-shoes. Meanwhile, he reminded me of the hunky leather-clad Scot in that Tomb Raider movie. Droolworthy physique, dark cropped hair and a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, hypnotic gray-green eyes and a devastating smile. Before you label me a shallow horn-dog, let me tell you his appeal runs much deeper than his rebel good looks. He isn’t merely a fascinating confidence man, he’s a performance artist. A kindred soul.

“It worked exactly like you said,” I blurted. “I paid for my ale, played the dumb American when the bartender gave me all those weird coins in change. Too confusing, I told him. Let me trade in ten one-pound coins for a ten-pound note, please. He handed me the ten-pound note and I passed him the coins, only—”

“He told you you were one pound short.”

“I pretended to be flustered. Really? Are you sure? Maybe you dropped one. Oh, forget it. Just give me back the coins and—”

“Then you really confused the shite oot of him. I was there. I saw.” He shushed me and hurried me along.

“I just can’t believe it,” I said in a rapid-fire replay. “Because I distracted him by talking a blue streak and changing my mind about what I did and didn’t want, I walked out of there ten pounds ahead of the game!”

“I know the scam, love. I taught it to you, yeah?”

Yeah. “Change raising,” he called it. A short con. But if you scammed ten to fifteen cashiers in a day, you could make a decent score. It was one of a few grifts Arch had taught me this past week. The first I’d tried out on anyone but him.

Reality blindsided me like a ruthless heckler. Said heckler being my conscience, and it screamed, Crook! I couldn’t tune out or ignore the taunt, as it was—gulp—true. “We have to go back.” I spun on the rubber heel of my high-top sneakers.

Arch caught my elbow and swung me back around.

“I know, I know. Returning to the scene of the crime is risky.”

“There was no crime, love. He gave you too much change because he allowed himself to be distracted, yeah?”

“But his drawer will come up short tonight. He’ll get in trouble, maybe even be accused of stealing.” Deceiving the guy was one thing. Getting him fired—or worse—was unacceptable. Plus, the money in my pocket wasn’t mine. Unlike Arch, I didn’t see the difference between stealing someone’s money and persuading them to give it to you.

“It’s taken care of.”

“What?”

“I know the owner. I also know you.” He smiled down at me, a devilish grin that accelerated my already zipping pulse. “I only want you losing sleep over one thing, yeah?”

Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. Sexy thoughts superseded guilt but then gave way to confusion. “Wait a minute. You mean, I didn’t con the bartender for real?” For me, it wasn’t about the score but the scam itself. Proving to myself—and Arch—that I had the chops.

“You conned him, love.” His mesmerizing eyes twinkled with pride and …

Uh-oh. Zing. Zap. I knew that look. Not that we needed a reason other than that we were hot for one another, but anytime I went against my uptight Midwestern upbringing and deviated from the straight and narrow, Arch got turned on. Did I mention the creative sex? My hoo-ha ached in anticipation. His flat, newly inherited from his grandfather, was in Bloomsbury. A good thirty-minute walk, and that’s if we hustled. Knowing us, we’d never make it that far. We’d end up in a coat closet or a darkened alley, making out like two hormonal teenagers. In the short time I’d known the man, we’d groped and shagged, as Arch called it, in some very unusual places. Mostly because I was opposed to doing it in bed missionary-style. Too intimate. Losing my heart to a born manipulator would be a mistake. Because of a cheating ex-husband, my emotions were already fragile. Don’t think about Michael. Don’t think about how he’s having a baby with his twentysomething girlfriend.

Don’t think. Live. I cupped the back of Arch’s head and pulled him down for a kiss. Quick but deep. Lots of tongue. Zap. There it was. That white-hot connection that consistently melted my bones. Even as I eased away, something I dared not name sparked between us.

“Bollocks.”

I smiled because that was his signature term for I’m toast. Leaning in, I felt John Thomas—a heck of a big guy—straining against his trousers. “Maybe we should get a cab.”

He eyed the heavy traffic. “We can walk it faster, yeah?” He nabbed my hand and set a brisk pace, guiding me through hordes of international tourists and locals. I noted the Mall, a central square featuring fountains, bronze lions and a massive phallic monument to Admiral Nelson, on my left. Up ahead on my right, St. Martin-in-the-Fields, an eerie-looking church that dated back to the 1700s. Yes, I’d had my nose in a guidebook. Plus, Arch had toured me around, happy to show me the city he considered his second home. Everything about London, from the historical landmarks to the Beefeaters and bobbies to the apple-red telephone booths, was of curious interest to me.

Kind of like my companion. My mentor, my lover. A sexy bad boy with a sensitive heart and a James Bond aura. Okay, instead of a license to kill, he had a license to shill, but the man was still double-oh-seven hot. Sean Connery-esque accent. Pierce Brosnan wit. Daniel Craig intensity. Plus, like Bond, he worked for a government agency. Not a U.K.-based operation—go figure—but the covert branch of a U.S. agency. I’d never heard of the AIA—Artful Intelligence Agency—and I didn’t know what they did exactly, but the specialty branch Chameleon busted up nefarious scams. Special Agent Milo Beckett, who’d founded the team, relied heavily on Arch’s grifter expertise. Two weeks ago Arch had acted solo, hiring a civilian actress—me—to portray his wife on a couples’ cruise. His goal: to take down the ruthless, unscrupulous scum artist who’d murdered his grandfather and who’d cheated countless seniors out of their savings.

I’d landed what I’d thought was a legit acting gig through a quirk of fate at a time when my life was falling apart. Turned out we were both in the midst of a personal crisis and proved balm for each other’s emotional wounds. Just now, we were both on the mend. Not that sex was a cure-all, but it certainly didn’t hurt.

Since Arch kept a tight rein on his emotions and personal history, I didn’t know him well. But I liked him. Call me bewitched. The man was complicated and intriguing. A master of disguises. Charismatic and dangerous. He could charm the devil into trading his pitchfork for a halo. By his own admission, he could not be trusted. I didn’t wholly believe that, although I was stymied by his absolute lack of guilt pertaining to his past grifts. There are scam artists and scum artists, he’d once told me. Dinnae confuse the two. Did I mention he was slick? Just like my ex-husband, a silver-tongued, double-talking entertainment agent. S-L-I-C-K. Arch couldn’t be more wrong for me, and yet he felt like the perfect fit.

Lost in my thoughts, I heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m screwed.”

“Not yet, lass. But soon.”

That promise sizzled through my skin and ignited a fire down below. My brain and body burned with immediacy. This was my last night in London. My last night to enjoy whatever it was Arch and I had going, because once we were both back in the States, whatever this was had to end. He didn’t know that yet. He also didn’t know that I’d talked Beckett into hiring me as a full-time member of Chameleon. I’d been waiting for the right time to tell him, like maybe three minutes before I got on the plane. I didn’t want to break off with Arch, but I didn’t want to compromise my new job, either. Beckett had a no-hanky-panky-between-team-members policy. This was my shot at being a real-life Charlie’s Angel. A kick-butt crime fighter. The casinos didn’t want me, but my country did. Powerful motivation for sacrificing a fling. Clichéd as it was, I hoped we could still be friends.

The thought of possibly severing our unique connection made me sad and reckless. I squeezed his hand and jerked him toward a small, chic restaurant. “There’s gotta be a coat closet in there.”

He tugged me in the opposite direction, hustled me through the doors of the National Portrait Gallery.

“You’re kidding.”

The sizzle in his smile said otherwise. He guided me up the stairs into a main concourse, a chaotic room brimming with museum visitors.

My skin prickled with two parts excitement, one part dread. A darkened alley would’ve been preferable. Seedy but less crowded. Then suddenly we were in a deserted hallway. We passed two doors. The third was ajar. Arch tugged me over the threshold. Not a coat closet but a janitor’s storage room. Close enough.

I jumped his bones.

The unexpected impact knocked him against the wall of shelves. A metal bucket fell and clipped his shoulder—”Dammit!”—then clanged to the floor.

“Sorry. Let me kiss it and make it better.” I shoved his leather blazer off his shoulders. What I really wanted was to rip off his shirt and lick the Celtic tattoo banded around his bicep. That tattoo drove me wild. Only I couldn’t get to the tattoo because his jacket snagged at his elbows. “I guess I should’ve waited until we stripped and then jumped you.”

“Do you really want to get naked in a room full of cleaning products, Sunshine?”

“Good point.” My luck, I’d topple into a bin of toxic rags and break out in hives. I wiggled against his arousal. “Maybe just half-naked.”

“You’re killing me, yeah?” He whirled and pinned me against the wall, kissing me into a stupor. He was good at that—kissing me stupid. I willed my knees not to buckle as he worked the buttons of my peacoat. I fumbled with his belt buckle. His fingers skimmed beneath my long-sleeved T-shirt and expertly unclasped my lacy bra. I moaned my approval even as my mom chastised from afar, Are you crazy?

Mom and I didn’t see eye to eye on a lot, but I had to agree. Fooling around in a popular museum wasn’t the brightest idea. Then again, I was in idiot mode. I reached into Arch’s briefs and palmed JT—big, hard and ready to rock … me.

Arch caressed my breasts and whispered sexy expletives in my ear as I stroked his admirable length. Scottish accent plus dirty talk equals me squirming and begging. “Touch me.” Crazy talk. What if someone walked in? Even as that thought crossed my lust-soaked brain, I shoved his pants down over his hips, gasping as he sucked my earlobe and unzipped my pants. I almost came undone the moment his fingers dipped into my panties. I groaned, anxious and disappointed when his hand stilled—climax interruptus. “Why—”

“We’ve got company, love.”

CHAPTER TWO

YOU KNOW THOSE PEOPLE who constantly break rules and never get caught? I’m not one of them.

Escaping that pub after pulling that short con had to be a fluke. The one time I played hooky in high school … busted. The one time I ignored the no-right-turn-on-red sign … busted. So, naturally, the one time I attempted to have sex in a museum’s broom closet had to end badly. Naturally, the door creaked open.

Busted.

Heat flooded my cheeks, leaving the rest of my formally hot-to-trot body cold. Could’ve been worse, I rationalized in a fluster. We could have been full monty. We could have been boinking like bunnies. This was just embarrassing, especially for Arch. Even though my shirt was askew, he’d been caught with his pants down. Luckily for him—and the wide-eyed cleaning man—his three-quarter-length leather jacket covered his spectacular butt.

“What the—”

“Dammit, honey,” Arch said in an American accent, “I knew this was a bad idea.” He winked at me while subtly removing his hand from my private region. Thank goodness his six-foot body shielded my much shorter self. “The wife and I are on our honeymoon,” he said, turning slowly to face our intruder. “Can’t blame us for … Marvin?”

“Ace?” The janitor cleared his throat, closed the door with a firm thud. “Do me a favor and pull up your trousers. Don’t fancy seeing your naughty bits, eh? Blimey.”

Marvin chuckled in an easy manner that intimated he and Arch were friends, or at least on friendly terms. Curiosity almost bested my mortification. Almost. Cheeks flaming and bra willy-nilly, I pulled down my shirt and zipped up my pants.

“Guess there’s not a lock you can’t crack,” Marvin said.

“The door was open,” said Arch.

“The new kid must’ve been in here. He’s always forgetting something—scrubbing the toilets, polishing the banisters, locking the supply closet. A good bloke but easily distracted. Spend half my days cleaning up after him.” He snorted and chuckled. “Get it?”

Arch whispered in my ear. “As often as I can.” Eyes twinkling, he angled away, and Marvin and I got our first clear look at each other.

“Who’s the bird?”

“Evie,” Arch said while tucking in his shirttails.

“Pretty bit of stuff.”

“Thanks,” I said, hoping that was a compliment. I didn’t feel pretty. I felt self-conscious. Marvin, who looked to be in his sixties, wasn’t leering exactly, but he was definitely checking me out. I smoothed my passion-mussed hair from my face and hoped my long-lasting lipstick hadn’t smeared.

“Known this boy since he was in short pants,” he told me while pushing his electric floor buffer thingy into the corner. “Started hanging around the museum when he was a kid. Inherited an appreciation for art from Bernard—along with his fine eye for women.” He clucked his tongue in wonder. “Ace always gets the pretty birds.”

“Marvin was a good friend of my grandfather’s,” Arch said, clearing up one relationship while I pondered countless others. Exactly how many birds were we talking? Was he currently involved with any of these other women? Why hadn’t I asked? Why had I just assumed that I was special and that we were exclusive? Talk about naive. Or stupid. Just because we’d worked one sting together. Just because he’d bought me a plane ticket and said he wanted my company while he tended to his grandfather’s estate. That didn’t make me the girl of his dreams, just the girl of the moment.

Marvin’s keen blue eyes ping-ponged from Arch to me and back. “You didn’t really get married, did you?”

“Hell, no.” Arch glanced over his shoulder. “No offense, love.”

“As if I’d shackle myself to you. No offense, Ace.”

Marvin cackled.

Arch grinned.

I wanted to smack them both.

“Can we talk?” the older man asked Arch.

“Sure.”

“In front of her?”

“Aye.”

That would have earned him points except they inched away and lowered their voices. I took the opportunity to reach up the back of my shirt to fasten my bra. I pretended not to listen.

“Guess you came back to look after Bernard’s interests,” Marvin said.

“Aye. He willed me his flat and everything inside. Spent the last week going through his belongings, yeah?” He glanced my way, his mesmerizing eyes warm with affection. “Evie’s been a big help and a pleasant distraction.”

My heart performed gymnastics.

“Distraction, eh?” Marvin shook his head. “I’m all for a bit of spontaneous slap and tickle, but a tumble in the museum? What if you’d been rousted by someone other than me? The last thing you need is a run-in with Scotland Yard.”

“Dinnae think it would’ve come to that, mate.”

“Don’t be so sure. These are tense times. Bloody terrorists. What’s this world coming to? Violence everywhere, even in our own circle. Look what happened to Bernard—God rest his soul.”

Arch shifted his weight and looked away.

“Didn’t see you at the funeral, son.”

“I mourned in my own way.”

The older man nodded. “There’s a rumor circulating about Simon the Fish.”

“If it has anything to do with him being dead,” Arch said, “it’s fact.”

Marvin’s nose whistled with a sigh of relief. He moved forward and clapped an arm about Arch’s shoulders. “We knew you’d see justice done. I’ll pass on the good news.”

His words sent a chill down my spine. Even though I’d been excluded from the conversation, I knew they were talking about Arch’s grandfather, a career art forger who’d been lured out of retirement and ultimately double-crossed. I’d helped Arch perpetrate a ruse that was supposed to end with this Simon-the-murdering-Fish behind bars. Instead he’d ended up dead. Up until now, I’d blamed myself since I’d unwittingly botched the sting. If not for me, Simon wouldn’t have pulled a revolver. There wouldn’t have been a struggle that resulted in Simon being shot and Arch holding the smoking gun.

I hadn’t witnessed the actual shooting because I’d been disoriented, then knocked out, but Arch had claimed self-defense. I believed him. Beckett believed him. Then again, the agent had advised Arch to disappear and lie low while he smoothed things over with the AIA.

I’d assumed the smoothing over had more to do with Arch and Beckett acting outside of agency jurisdiction than with the actual shooting. After all, it had been, as they say in the movies, a clean kill.

So I’d been told.

Ugly thoughts riddled my brain, causing my neck to prickle with a nervous rash. “I can see you two have some catching up to do. Besides, I need to use the ladies’ room. Excuse me.” I stepped into the hall, desperate to purge my escalating suspicions.

“Think she’s embarrassed, son,” I heard Marvin say behind me. “Can’t blame her. What are you now? Thirty-four?”

“Thirty-five.”

“A bit old to be snogging in a closet. If you didn’t want to take her to Bernard’s place, you could’ve …”

The door clicked shut. Even though I could no longer hear them, the conversation clanged in my head, especially that part about Arch’s age. “Bastard.”

Anger propelled me down the hall. I made it halfway up a set of stairs before Arch snagged my arm. “The privy’s in the opposite direction, yeah?”

“I’m not going to the privy.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“That’s not oot. That’s up.”

“Then I’m going up. Please let go.” I slipped his grasp and continued on.

“You’re pissed.”

“You lied to me.”

“Aboot?”

“About your age.”

“For fuck sake, Sunshine.”

I hit a landing and pushed through a door. I really wanted to hit and push Arch, but I wasn’t the violent type and I’d just walked into a populated gallery. Good girls don’t cause scenes. And neither do Chameleons in training. Blend, Evie, blend. I pretended interest in a painting. I pretended to be calm. “You told me you were thirty-nine.”

“I told you what you wanted to hear.”

“I wouldn’t have slept with you if I’d known you were six years younger than me.”

“Aye, you would have,” he said with damnable confidence. “You just would have obsessed on it afterward.”

We’d had this conversation before. It was part of my personal crisis. He didn’t understand my preoccupation with my age. Then again, he wasn’t an over-forty female trying to survive in a youth-obsessed industry. These days when auditioning performers, ninety-eight percent of the entertainment executives focused on youth and beauty. Talent wasn’t a requisite as much as a bonus. Michael, my ex, had told me that himself, and, as an agent who booked performers for buyers, he would know. To add injury to insult, after fifteen years of blissful—okay, amiable—marriage, he’d dumped me for a twentysomething lingerie model. So, yeah, I had a big flipping chip on my shoulder regarding age.

I hadn’t given that obsession much thought over the past two weeks. Not being in Atlantic City and losing gigs to girls half my age and with a quarter of my experience helped. Not being around Michael and his young squeeze helped. Having sex with a charismatic hunk and learning the ins and outs of an exciting new career worked miracles.

Now the anxiety that had ruled my life pre-Arch was back. My jaw ached—remnants of TMJ. My skin itched—a nervous rash. Rejection had one-two punched my self-esteem. “I don’t want to go back.” I turned away from the paintings, pinpointed the nearest exit sign.

“I said goodbye to Marvin.”

“I’m not talking about the closet.” And I didn’t want to talk about Marvin. I didn’t want to know the connection between an art-museum janitor and an art forger. I didn’t want to know who the collective “we” was and how they’d known Arch would seek justice. Mostly because Marvin made justice sound like revenge. I didn’t want to know why Arch should be leery of Scotland Yard. Although, given his shady past, there were probably dozens of reasons. I didn’t want to know about any of that because I feared the truth was more than my squeaky-clean morals could handle.

Bottom line—I wasn’t okay with what Arch and his grandfather used to do. I wasn’t okay with his past, because his past was full of deceit. I’d fallen for the new Arch. The man who used his intelligence and experience to bring down the bad guys. After meeting Marvin, I wasn’t sure that Arch had forfeited his old lifestyle. Obviously he hadn’t cut ties with old cronies. Not that I intended to kiss off my entertainment friends when I started with Chameleon. I couldn’t imagine life without my best buds. Then again, Nicole and Jayne weren’t criminals.

“Keep clenching your teeth like that,” Arch said, “and your jaw’s going to lock.”

I hoped not, but it was possible. It had happened before, and he’d witnessed an episode firsthand. TMJ was stress-related. I needed to relax. “I’m fine,” I said, even as I felt a twinge of pain. Chill, Evie, chill.

“You said you didn’t want to go back,” he said as we breached the main doors. “Back where?”

“To where I was. What I was.”

He lit a cigarette—amazing how he made a nasty habit look sexy—and walked beside me in silence as I headed toward Leicester Square. Probably trying to get a bead on my mind-set. Welcome to the club.

Though it was early spring, there was a blustery nip in the air. At least it wasn’t raining. Although it was damp and gray. All I needed to augment my dismal mood was a blanket of London’s famous fog. Hands stuffed in my coat pockets, I breezed past the discount ticket booth and cut through the heart of the theater district. I saw the play and movie marquees, heard music from a nearby dance club. I imagined countless singers, musicians, actors and dancers warming up for a night’s performance. My old life. My stomach spasmed just thinking about my washed-up career. “I have to move on.”

“You need to slow down and talk plainly, yeah?” He nabbed my elbow and pulled me onto a park bench.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. “This isn’t going to work.”

“What?”

“Us.”

He blew out a stream of smoke. “Because I’m a few years younger than you?”

“Six years younger. And, no, that’s not the reason, though it doesn’t help.”

“Because I lied aboot my age?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I could name a million reasons.”

He crushed out the cigarette. “Name one.”

“Milo Beckett hired me.”

No reaction.

“I’m going to work full-time for Chameleon.”

He looked at me, expressionless.

He was good at that, not telegraphing his thoughts and emotions. Still … “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“You think I’m not cut out for it. That I’m too nice.”

“There is that.”

“I’m capable of fighting my nature. I’m capable of change. I have changed.”

“You’d never survive in my world, Evie. You feel too deeply.”

“What world are we talking about, Ace? Your old world or your new world?”

“One and the same, yeah?”

“No. Smoke and mirrors. Confidence games. I get that similarity. What I don’t get is your inability to differentiate between conning innocent people and conning people who prey on the innocent. Your past grifts were for personal gain at someone else’s expense. Chameleon grifts are for the greater good.”

“You can’t cheat an honest man, and I never conned anyone who couldn’t afford the loss.”

He didn’t sound or look angry, but my internal radar blipped. I’m pretty sure I’d just insulted him. There was always a calm before Arch’s storm. “The difference between a scam artist and a scum artist, huh?”

“Aye.”

Night and day to him. Bad versus evil to me. He was right. I’d never cut it as an honest-to-gosh grifter. Guilt would eat me alive or land me in jail. But those same morals, coupled with my artistic nature, told me I was a born Chameleon. They conned cons. Entrapped sociopaths through elaborate and sometimes not-so-elaborate schemes. Smoke and mirrors. Deceiving for the greater good. I wouldn’t feel guilty about duping scum artists. I’d feel like a superhero.

“After a devastating divorce and a year of celibacy, I’ve rediscovered passion, thanks to you. Now I need purpose. A new goal—because I’m not going to invest in plastic surgery, BOTOX injections and a lifetime supply of diet pills just so I can perform in the casinos.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I’m a decent singer and dancer and a damn good actress.”

“Absolutely.”

“Those acting skills, along with my excellent memory and a talent for sleight of hand make me perfect for Chameleon. I can tap dance with the best of them. All I need is to learn the steps. You’ve been teaching me the basics. You’ve seen me in action. You know I can do this.”

Looking up at the darkening sky, he dragged both hands over his head and laughed low. “Bloody hell.”

“What?”

“All this week I thought I was educating you so that you wouldnae fall prey to another scam.”

This wasn’t news to me. While sightseeing on St. Thomas, I’d fallen for a street hustle. As a result, Arch had designated himself my mentor. In a world where a sucker is born every minute, he’d declared me a grifter’s dream. Gullible and trusting. Easily persuaded and deceived. If I learned how the grifts work, I’d spot them coming a mile away.

“In truth, I gave you a crash course so that you could impress Beckett when you reported for your first day.” He angled and regarded me with an amused expression. “You snowed me, Sunshine.”

“You think I manipulated you?”

“Didn’t you?”

My stomach clenched.

“When did Beckett hire you?”

“The day I woke up in the hospital.”

“Ten days ago. Yet I’m just hearing aboot it.”

I wet my lips, scratched my neck. “I tried to tell you at the airport, before we all flew out of La Romana. You cut me off and …” I blew out a breath. “I was going to tell you first thing when you picked me up at Heathrow, but you distracted me and …”

“Yeah?”

“Well, the days just sort of whizzed by and the right moment never …”

“Uh-huh. You didnae tell me Beckett hired you because you were afraid I wouldnae approve. You worried I’d stop teaching you the basics, yeah?”

“No.”

He stilled my nervous scratching.

“Maybe.” My brain acknowledged the ugly truth. “Oh, God, Arch. I used you.”

“Dinnae look so stricken, love. I’m impressed.”

“I manipulated you.”

“I didnae feel a thing. Either I’m slipping or you’re gifted. A bit of both, I imagine.” He clasped my hand and skimmed his thumb over my knuckles. “Beckett has a brilliant eye for talent. He’s also obsessed with his work. If he hired you, it’s because he believes you’re a valuable asset to the team.”

My heart pounded. I wasn’t sure if it was because of Arch’s touch or Beckett’s belief. Probably both. “What do you think?”

His mouth quirked. “I think you’ve changed.”

I took that as a compliment. Three weeks ago, my self-esteem had been at an all time low, but instead of sticking my head in the sand, I’d taken a walk on the wild side. For the first time in years I felt genuinely motivated and happy. Well, except for now. Just now I felt ill. “I hope you don’t think I slept with you just to learn your secrets.”

“You slept with me because you wanted me, yeah?”

I rolled my eyes, but it was true. “Please don’t make me say it out loud. Your ego is scary big enough.”

He smiled, that ornery smile that made the back of my knees sweat. Great. “You once said that mixing business with pleasure is messy.”

“Aye.”

“Beckett said the same thing.”

“He would.” The grin broadened. “So you’re breaking off with me, yeah?”

“We’d have to be in a relationship to break up. You don’t do relationships, remember?”

“That bang-on memory of yours is going to bite me in the arse one day.”

I forced a smile of my own. “Maybe it’ll save your ass.”

He laughed. “Maybe.”

I marveled at my sudden calm. Another talent of Arch’s: obliterating my frustrations. “So you’re okay with me working for Chameleon?”

“Not my call, Sunshine.”

I frowned. “You’re not okay with it.”

“I’m okay with you.”

The man talked in circles, but I was used to it. So had my ex. “What about the not-having-sex part?”

“Are you sure you’re not breaking off with me? That sounded a wee bit like the ‘can we still be friends’ speech, yeah?” He squeezed my hand and smiled. “We don’t have to shag to get on.”

I scrunched my brow. “The least you could do is sound disappointed.”

“Didnae say I wouldnae miss it.” He kissed me then. Slow. Deep.

Heat spiraled through my system. I dug to the center of my soul not to feel anything other than lust. Lust I could manage. Anything deeper was dangerous. Loving a man like Arch was insane. First, he was too young for me. Second, what if he’d plotted to kill Simon the Fish from the get-go? Third, he’d once told me I couldn’t believe anything he said. One way or another, the man would mangle my heart.

He eased away, and my heart thump-thumped at the teasing sparkle in his eye. “So how do you want to spend your last night in London, friend?”

Sweaty-kneed, I gave him a come-hither grin. “I haven’t officially started with Chameleon.”

He nipped my earlobe. “I’ll race you back to the flat. First one to get naked gets to be on top.”

CHAPTER THREE

Atlantic City, New Jersey

SHE LOOKED LIKE MEG Ryan, only shorter and softer. Blue eyes, full lips and pair of killer legs. She ran toward him singing a Joni Mitchell classic. “Help me! I think I’m falling …”

Her voice jumped an octave, a feminine squeal, as she tripped and plowed into his open arms. They landed on the beach, rolled around in the sand and surf. “From Here to Eternity,” she said in her little-girl voice. She was obsessed with Hollywood. A real fruitcake. Twinkie, he called her, because she was so damn sweet. He shouldn’t do sweet, but he wanted to do her.

“Help me,” she sang in his ear.

“I’ll save you,” he said.

“My hero.” She flashed her dazzling smile and breasts.

He reached for those perfect 32Bs, but an alarm stopped him cold. No, not an alarm. A phone. What was a phone doing on the beach? “If this is a dream, please don’t let me …”

Milo Beckett woke up reaching for thin air. “Dammit.” He squinted at the digital clock, cursed again. Not bothering to turn on a light, he palmed his cell phone and fell back against his pillows. “Beckett here. What’s up?”

“Are you mental?”

“I’m sleep-deprived. It’s 3:00 a.m., Arch. This better be good.”

“She’s not like us.”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Ah.” Evie Parish. The woman of his fractured fantasy.

“Why didnae you tell me you hired her?”

“Figured you had enough on your mind. The shooting. Dodging Scotland Yard.”

“Haven’t given the shooting a second thought, mate.”

“That because it was a straight-up accident? Or because he deserved to die?”

“Let’s just say the world’s better off, yeah?”

“Skirting the issue.”

“Speaking of skirts, what’s the deal with Evie?”

Milo reflected on the half-pint fireball awakening in the island hospital. How she’d asked after everyone’s welfare, never complaining about her own injury. He remembered her passionate argument regarding her qualifications and the spark of desperation in her deep blue eyes. He remembered how she made him feel every time they were in the same room—alive, amused and, dammit, randy. “She wanted to work for Chameleon,” he said. “I agreed to give her a shot. I didn’t specify the job.” Arch didn’t comment, but Milo heard relief in the significant pause. “Unlike you,” he continued, “I wouldn’t put an untrained civilian in the field.”

“Aye, except she’s not a novice anymore.”

“One sting does not make—”

“I taught her a few short cons, yeah?”

Milo pressed a thumb and forefinger to his closed lids. The throbbing behind his eyeballs promised to intensify within the next thirty seconds or however long it took his partner to explain his asinine actions. “Why?”

“Because she’s gullible and someone needed to open her eyes to the real world.”

“Huh.”

“Stop projecting, Jazzman.”

“Who’s projecting? One minute she’s anxious to start her new job, the next she remembers she booked a vacation. To England, no less. I assumed it was your doing, but I didn’t pry. Figured you had unfinished business.”

“Figured I owed her after dragging her into that land-investment mess. So I treated her to a holiday. So what?”

“So is it finished?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Because mixing business with pleasure—”

“Messy. I know.”

“Look what happened with Gina,” Milo said. An ex-cop, Gina Valente was a valuable member of the team, and they’d almost lost her because of Arch’s fickle dick. Thwarting company policy, they’d had a short fling. Shorter than what Gina would’ve liked.

“She still pissed?”

“I think her exact words were I’m over that amoral prick.”

“All’s well that ends wonky. Nice to know.”

Milo rolled to his side and felt his nightstand for the ever-present bottle of pain relievers. “When are you coming back?”

“Depends. We clear with the Agency?”

“Yes and no.”

“Meaning?”

“Chameleon’s on sabbatical until the new director re-evaluates our purpose.”

“You’ve got a new boss?”

“We’ve got a new boss. Vincent Crowe. Company man.”

“Hard-ass?”

“You got it.” He popped two aspirin and swallowed them dry.

“You dinnae sound happy, mate.”

Try miserable. Even before Crowe had been appointed, the Agency had started mangling Milo’s vision for Chameleon by inundating the team with cases pertaining to high-profile scams. Scams that target the select upper crust, as opposed to those that ruin lives of the blue-collar majority. Given his dealings with the new director thus far, he feared his vision was one step closer to history. “Maybe Evie could sing me a song. Cheer me up. Where is she, anyway?”

“Just put her on a plane. She’s on her way home. Be warned, she’s over the moon aboot her job with Chameleon. Has illusions aboot saving the world. Reminds me of you, yeah?”

“I don’t want to save the world, Arch. Just a naive few.”

“People like Evie.”

Milo didn’t comment.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her, mate. Remember what you told me aboot mixing business with pleasure.”

“That a warning?”

“Just an observation.”

The exchange reignited Milo’s previous suspicions that Arch had fallen in love. Dangerous territory for a man who valued emotional detachment. Never attach yourself to anyone you can’t walk away from in a split second. “You sound jealous. Just an observation.”

“Bugger off.”

“Fuck you.”

“Beckett?”

“Yeah?”

“Try a glass of warm milk. And dinnae worry aboot Crowe.”

“Thanks.” Milo disconnected and fell back against his pillows. His relationship with Arch was complicated. Onetime rivals, they now danced the same dance. Partners in anticrime. Arch occasionally slipped into old routines, solo. His last performance had earned Milo an ass chewing from Crowe. It had also pulled Evie Parish, a sexy variety performer, into their lives. As if he needed another complication coming between him and his professional goals.

He massaged his temples, dreaded another bout of insomnia. He swung out of bed and headed for the kitchen, contemplating this new and constant restlessness. He needed to take charge.

First order of business: tackling insomnia. Which meant two things: addressing his discontent with the Agency and getting a grip on his infatuation with Twinkie. In a warped, adversarial way, he considered Arch Duvall a friend. But it was his obsession to learn everything the crafty genius knew about grifting that motivated Milo to keep him close. If he pursued this attraction to Evie, he risked driving a wedge between him and the Scot. Just because Arch claimed the affair was over didn’t mean he was over Evie.

Face it, Beckett. Hiring Twinkie was a mistake. “That’s what you get for thinking with your dick.” He opened the fridge, nabbed the milk. “Just an observation.”

CHAPTER FOUR

JET LAG. THE AWFUL zombielike sensation rivaled motion sickness, and I suffered from both.

Queasy and fog-brained, I dragged my suitcase into my apartment, a one-bedroom rental with minimal furnishings and three weeks of dust. I added depressed to the list. It didn’t just feel empty, it was empty. I wish I could say someone robbed me while I was away. But, no, this was my doing. I’d moved in after the divorce, but I’d never really lived here. I’d purchased essentials—a couch, a television, a bed—and hadn’t bothered decorating. I was too busy wallowing in my postdivorce funk and pitiful work schedule to give two figs about curtains, wall hangings and knickknacks.

Bleary-eyed, I scanned the living room—strike that—sterile room, wondering how I’d been immune to the starkness for so long. Maybe I was just hypersensitive since I’d spent the past week in Arch’s grandfather’s apartment. The Bloomsbury flat was twice this size, but you could barely move what with all the clutter. In addition to the late resident’s own artistic creations, the flat had exploded with eclectic collections of paintings, sculptures and ceramic figurines. Not to mention art-history books, mystery novels, videotapes and impressive antique furnishings. Helping Arch sort through and decide what to sell off or give away had been difficult because, to me, everything was worth keeping. Bernard Duvall had surrounded himself with a lifetime of charming treasures.

I’d created a shrine to midlife crisis.

Mental note: tomorrow buy something cheery and useless. Even toss pillows would be an improvement.

Pillows made me think of bed, which made me think of sleep. But first I needed to make a few calls. I kicked off my cushy suede clogs and plopped down on my sofa—a boring contemporary piece that I’d picked up on sale. At the time I hadn’t cared that it was monochromatic gray. Mental note: opt for colorful, whimsical toss pillows.

I reached into my I Love Lucy travel tote for my cell phone. My fingers connected with my journal—the keeper of my innermost thoughts.

Although I had little trouble expressing myself to Arch, in general I internalize. It stemmed from a suppressed childhood. My mom, a conservative high-school math teacher, didn’t understand my liberal artistic temperament. My brother was as uptight as Mom. My dad, though a right-brained workaholic, seemed to get me more than they did. Knowing I bottled my emotions, he gave me a diary when I was a kid, telling me when my heart and mind got jammed to pour my feelings onto the page. I’ve since filled a hundred diaries. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But you see my point. Diaries were a staple in my life. I pulled out the newest—a gift from Arch—and placed it in my lap. A bright yellow journal featuring a photo of tropical skies and a brilliant ball of fire. Sunshine. Aware of my nightly habit, he’d bought the thoughtful memento in the islands.

I opened the book and smiled at the chicken scrawl on the inside cover. For private stuff. Arch

I basked in his kindness while turning to the next page and my own purple-penned scribbles. I’d titled the first page The Chameleon Chronicles. I’d already filled a good twenty pages with my adventures in London. I’d also penned a few hopes and fears and some personal stuff about Arch. Private stuff. Stuff I didn’t intend for him to ever know. Especially since we were now absolutely, officially, just friends.

Frowning, I set aside the journal and snagged my cell. I immediately checked the battery. Sometimes I forgot to recharge it. Okay, a lot of times. According to the bars, I had full power. At least one of us had juice.

Falling back against the blah-boring sofa, I checked my messages, imagining fifty calls from Arch begging me to return to London. I cannae live withoot you, yeah?

But instead of a Scottish accent, I heard the nasal twang of a high-school rival. “Evie? Monica Rhodes here. Since you’re too busy to attend the Greenville Civic Theater’s upcoming benefit, I wondered if you’d solicit one of the casinos for a donation. Surely you know people. A weekend stay would bring a tidy sum at the auction. I would have e-mailed, but you don’t respond in a timely manner and I’m in a hurry to wrap things up. I asked your mom for your number. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Actually, I do,” I said, even though I was talking to a recording. Monica Rhodes had been the president of my high-school drama club. Later she’d snagged the role as director of our hometown’s civic theater. She was and still is a bossy, competitive witch. I’d responded to her e-vite three days after receiving it. For me—someone who’s not glued to the Internet—that was timely. Unable to attend

due to work, I’d written. A big, fat lie, but I had my reasons. I’d listed them at length in my diary.

“As you know, Mrs. Grable is moving to Florida to enjoy her golden years. Several of her past students are reuniting for a special benefit performance and going-away party. As one of her pet pupils, I thought you’d want to contribute—”

I cut Monica off midsentence, something I’d never do in person. Nice girls don’t interrupt. Except I wasn’t so nice anymore. I’d tarnished my conservative, respectable crown when I’d taken up with Arch. I was learning to speak my mind, stand my ground. I was … evolving. Even though I had fond memories of my high-school drama teacher, I wasn’t eager to be reminded of who Mrs. Grable thought I’d been destined to become. A big-time star. I wasn’t thrilled about attending a party and having to meet my thespian classmates’ spouses. I could hear it now.

Where are you performing, Evie?

I’m between bookings.

When’s your next engagement?

I’m considering my options.

Where’s your husband?

Boinking a lingerie model.

Kids?

Me? No. But there’s a bun in the model’s oven.

You can understand my reluctance to commit. I made a mental note to send Monica an e-mail—no way did I want to actually speak to the petty woman—explaining the improbability of obtaining a donation from an Atlantic City casino for a civic theater in Greenville, Indiana. Instead I’d offer a personal monetary donation for the cause. For now, I wiped Monica from my mind, punched auto-dial and focused on a true friend.

Nicole answered on the second ring. “Please tell me you’re home.”

Her husky smoker’s voice was music to my ears. I’d been so consumed with Arch these past days I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed my best buds. Nicole Sparks, a tall, lithe beauty with mocha skin, green eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, and Jayne Robinson, a not-so-tall kewpie doll with big brown eyes, vibrant red curls and a fascination with the supernatural. Both closing in on forty. Both seasoned performers. Both hurting for work.

“I’m home.” Such as it was.

“For how long?”

Nic was nothing if not blunt. I steeled myself before asking, “What do you mean?”

“First you split for the Caribbean for several days—”

“A last-minute booking.”

“So you said, although you never filled us in on the particulars. You returned home ahead of schedule with a bandaged head and flew out again the next day. Said you were meeting a friend in London. Only after significant badgering did you admit said friend was the hunk you lusted after on the elusive cruise-ship gig.” She paused, and I knew without seeing her that she’d just lit a cigarette. Nic had a few vices, but smoking, as far as I was concerned, was the worst. “We’re thrilled that you’re getting some nooky, Evie. God knows Jayne and I have been trying to hook you up for months. But why all the secrecy?”

“He’s not married, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I wasn’t sure about a lot where Arch was concerned, but I was one hundred—okay, ninety-nine percent—sure that he was single.

“We’re worried about you,” she said. “When I called with the news that Michael had gotten Sasha pregnant, you said you didn’t care.”

I palmed my upset stomach. Motion, not morning, sickness mixed with suppressed bitterness. “I don’t care.”

“Bullshit. The only reason you never had a baby was because Michael said he didn’t want children. And now—”

“Now he’s with someone else and I’ve moved on.”

“That simple?”

“Yes.” Not really, but I refused to give the matter deep thought. If I went there, I worried I’d mourn my time for having kids had come and gone. I worried I’d feel sorry for myself. I’d wallowed in self-pity for more than a year and it’s not a place I wanted to revisit.

“So have you talked to him?”

“Michael? Not since before I left for the cruise. We didn’t part on the best terms. He probably figures you told me about the pregnancy. I’m guessing he’s waiting for me to call him first. I’m thinking I don’t feel like it.”

“Have you called his office, talked to Violet about auditions or outstanding checks or … anything?”

Violet was Michael’s secretary, and though we’d always been friendly, we’d never been friends. “After the flashing fiasco, I don’t expect Michael Stone Entertainment Inc. will be sending me on any immediate auditions. The agency doesn’t owe me any money and Violet and I aren’t chatty.” I narrowed my eyes. “What’s up?”

“I’d rather tell you in person.”

“Has he decided to drop me as a client?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I wondered if Sasha had pressed him to do so or if he’d decided I was, as I suspected, washed up in this town. Not that it mattered. Deep in my heart, I knew it was time to break clean with my ex, but that didn’t mean I’d make it easy for him. My days of rolling over were, well, over. “If he wants to release me as a client, he’ll have to track me down, because I’m not going to make first contact or open any of his e-mails. The least he can do is tell me in person.”

“Evie—”

“Listen, Nic. I know I haven’t been myself lately, but that’s a good thing, trust me.” A headache needled behind my eyes. “Just now I’m exhausted. How about you and Jayne come over tomorrow night? We’ll have drinks and catch up.”

“We’ll bring the margaritas.”

“Swell.”

“I’ll let Jayne know you’re home safe. You get some rest.”

“Thanks, Nic. Thanks for caring.”

“That’s what friends do.”

She signed off without any smooches or sappy goodbyes. I wasn’t insulted. Nic wasn’t the sappy sort. Jayne was another specimen altogether. If I called her now, she’d keep me on the phone for an hour, fussing and spouting New Age gibberish regarding fate and destiny. Nic, bless her soul, was saving me from a woo-woo lecture. At least for now.

I massaged my temples and contemplated calling my dad. It had been a while since we’d spoken. Not that that was unusual. The Parishes were minimalists when it came to communication. I’m pretty sure we’re listed in the dictionary under dysfunctional.

Still, I couldn’t get over the fact that, after twenty years as a bank president, Dad had snubbed retirement and Mom and bought a tavern. He’d never been a barfly.

Although he enjoyed the occasional beer, the man could nurse a can of Bud for an hour. It had to be a life crisis. I could sympathize. I wanted to sympathize. But if I called him, I’d have to call Mom. Otherwise, she’d hear about it and accuse me of taking sides.

My parents had split up just before my cruise, for reasons I still didn’t understand. Neither of them wanted to talk about it, which was normal since it was a private matter and they never talked about emotional issues. My brother, Christopher, who lived near our parents, assured me he’d “fix it.”

I decided to wait until tomorrow, until I had more energy, before touching base on the home front. If something were terribly wrong, one of them would have called. Maybe.

I pushed my ex and my family from my mind and concentrated on my new job. Sitting straighter, I dialed the number given to me by Special Agent Beckett, who I still thought of as Tex Aloha—don’t ask.

“The Chameleon Club,” a deep voice answered.

Suddenly jazzed, I stood and paced. “Is Milo Beckett there?”

“Sorry.”

Beckett had asked me not to refer to him by his official title, which only heightened the intrigue. He’d also asked me to call him Milo, but I wasn’t comfortable with that. He was, after all, my boss—and a government agent, to boot. I wasn’t sure if I should leave a message, only he had given me this number—oh, and a name. “Are you, by chance, Samuel Vine?”

“I am.”

“Then I’d like to leave a message. My name is Evie Parish and Mr. Beckett—”

“Hired you.”

“He told you about me?”

“He did.”

I detected a smile in his voice. A smile at my expense. My heart pounded, and it wasn’t from pacing. Had Beckett told this man I’d tackled him? Had he told him about my lockjaw incident? Or how I’d ended up topless in St. Thomas? The government agent had witnessed more than a few embarrassing bobbles on that cruise, and it burned my buns that he’d shared them with Mr. Vine, whoever Mr. Vine was.

“Are you coming in?”

I blinked. “When? Now? No. I just got … I was in …”

“England.”

“How did you … Oh, right. I guess Mr. Beckett told you about my vacation.”

“He did.”

Mr. Vine was a man of few words. If he was privy to my Caribbean misfortunes, perhaps he’d keep my antics secret. One could hope. “Would it be all right if I came in tomorrow? Do you think you could ask him—”

“Tomorrow is fine.”

“Don’t you think you should ask—”

“We’ll expect you at noon.” He gave me an address, then said something about getting back to work—him, not me. Then he said, “‘Bye, Twinkie,” and hung up.

I gaped at my phone. Before I’d known Beckett for who he really was, I’d known him as a Texas oil baron. He’d been undercover and his disguise had been a hideous combination of the Duke meets Don Ho. Hence my thinking of him as Tex Aloha. He’d repeatedly referred to me as Twinkie, and although I’d been disguised as a bubble-headed bimbo, I totally resented that name. “I can’t believe he told his associate to call me …” I couldn’t say it.

I didn’t even want to think it. Did he tell the rest of the team, too? “Great.”

The needling behind my eyeballs graduated to stabs. I stalked to the bathroom in search of Tylenol. I told myself to calm down. Milo Beckett was now my boss, and though I’d only gotten to know the real him over a sporadic two days, he seemed pretty decent. Tomorrow I’d tell him—nicely—that I didn’t appreciate the nickname. Evie is fine, thank you very much. I washed down two capsules with a paper cup of lukewarm water, then schlepped into the next room and collapsed on the bed.

Almost time for blissful oblivion. One more call, and I’d saved the best for last. His was the voice I wanted in my ears when I fell asleep. I took a deep breath and willed my heart not to flutter. I reminded myself that we were just friends now. Parting at the airport had been easier than I’d anticipated. No bittersweet Casablanca ending. Mostly because Arch still flirted, and when the time came to board, the kiss we shared didn’t feel like goodbye. It felt like maybe later.

Smiling, I dialed the number he’d given me. He’d told me to check in when I settled in my apartment. I assumed he’d be waiting on pins and needles, wondering if I’d arrived safely. I assumed he’d answer on the first ring. Three rings in, I heard an automated greeting. Taken aback, my brain glitched. “Hi, I … it’s me. Evie. I … well, I’m home and I’m okay and I’m … here. Right. I said that. Okay. Call. You know … If you feel like it.” I signed off before I made an idiot—strike that—more of an idiot of myself.

I placed the phone on my nightstand, within reach. I told myself not to obsess about where he was and why he hadn’t answered. It was probably the middle of the night there, only I was too tired to do the math. I told myself to journal my frustrations, only I was too tired to hold a pen.

“Just friends,” I mumbled. “Coworkers.” I repeated those words like a mantra over and over until I started to drift.