All About Evie

by Beth Ciotta

  No expression. No response.

  “Sugar,” I clarified, trying to get a bead on him and failing. “That’s what you said, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So I guess that means hugging and kissing and stuff.”

  “When in public, aye.”

  What about behind closed doors? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. “As an actor I’m sure you know how uncomfortable it can be doing it with a stranger. Kissing, that is. For the first time, I mean.” I willed my voice not to warble. Blushing was another matter. “So I’m thinking our first time shouldn’t be in front of an audience.”

  “You think we should kiss. Now.”

  For once his response sounded like a statement instead of a question. My blood pumped. The spirit of my friend Nicole cheered in my ear. You go, girl!

  “As a professional, I take my job seriously. I know this is an improvisational gig, but a certain amount of rehearsal seems wise. After all, we’ve been doing it, getting it on, Sugar and Charles that is, for a month. If you want people to believe we’re in lust—um, love—we should look like we’ve been around. Each other, that is. Intimately.”

  He scraped his teeth over his lower lip. Nice teeth. Nice mouth. “Appreciate your dedication, Sunshine.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was serious or sarcastic, and right now I didn’t care. I wanted him to kiss me, dammit. I wanted something in this miserable day to go right. Was that so wrong?

  “Let’s just get it out of the way,” I plowed on. “The awkwardness—misaligned mouths, bumping noses and all that.”

  Except there was no awkwardness. He swooped in without warning, framed my face, ravished my mouth. He kissed the ever-lovin’ daylights out of me.

  His beard scratched and ignited my skin. Rough. Hot. Primal.

  His tongue…Oh sweet, Lord, my panties were damp and all he was doing was kissing me!

  It seemed like forever. It seemed like a blip. Next thing I knew, he was standing six inches back, draining the last of his beer.

  I fought a dizzy spell and resisted the urge to glance down to see if JT had roared to life. I was, after all, a professional. Those superior acting skills kept my knees and voice from quaking. “I guess we’re good then.” We were better than good. We were Bogie and Bacall, sizzling hot!

  “Right.” Arch tugged on a ball cap and denim jacket, snatched a cigarette from the pack on the desk and announced he needed a smoke. “Dinnae open the door for anyone. I have a key, yeah?”

  I watched as he left and shut the door behind him.

  Yeah. That went well.

  Not.

  Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, as the song goes, I weaved across the room, drunk on the headiness of that kiss. Hands trembling, I rooted through Big Red for my most current diary, a girlie-pink-and-white journal entitled Secrets of a Diva. Knowing I tended to bottle up my feelings, my dad had bought me my first diary when I was ten, telling me when my brain and heart were all jammed up, I should pour my thoughts onto the pages. My brain and heart were definitely jammed. Today had been a total freak-fest. And that kiss…

  I unlocked the diary using the key I kept hidden in my wallet then grabbed my purple pen. The familiarity of the process provided me with a small dose of comfort. At this point, I’d take what I could get.

  Dear Diary, Why are men such asses?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Atlantic City, New Jersey

  The Chameleon Club

  MILO BECKETT STOOD at the living room window of his second-floor apartment, hands braced on the scarred sash. Jaw set, he stared out at the Atlantic Ocean. Not that he could see it. He’d invest in a bottle of glass cleaner, but it would ruin the desired effect. His apartment was directly above his place of business—The Chameleon Club.

  Seedy was the objective. He didn’t want the Inlet Tavern to attract a large clientele. The club was a front. The government operative’s goal was to blend in.

  Like a chameleon.

  Milo was good at fooling the masses. He’d learned from the best. His mentor, his nemesis, his partner in crime. Right now he was pissed as hell at the man.

  Ocean gazing usually lowered his blood pressure, but he couldn’t see the damned ocean. A grainy film of sand and dirt streaked the outer pane, compliments of a nor’easter. The quarter moon skulked behind ominous clouds. An occasional flash of lightning illuminated choppy seas and the driving rain battering the Inlet’s boardwalk. One working streetlamp flickered on and off. Mostly off. The scene was dark and dangerous.

  Like Milo’s mood.

  Downstairs, a cheap audio system dished jazz classics, his music of choice. Jazz soothed his soul and kept the twentysomething customers at bay. John Coltrane’s version of “My Favorite Things” floated up through the heating ducts along with patron chatter. A couple of local seniors nursed drinks and swapped stories with Samuel Vine, The Chameleon Club’s primary bartender, the man who ran the tavern when Milo was in the field. Pushing seventy, the dark-skinned ex-boxer was still formidable, but also dependable as the rising sun. Honesty in Milo’s line of work was as rare as a thirty-year-old virgin. He’d learned long ago not to trust anyone.

  Especially Arch Duvall.

  He smelled more than heard Woody, the newest member of the unconventional dream team, enter the room through the secret stairwell. Dumped by his girlfriend, the twenty-five-year-old techno-geek had been trying to win her back for weeks. New haircut, new clothes. This week: new cologne.

  It reeked. Aside from flies, all he’d attract with that flowery stench were curious looks.

  Milo didn’t figure it was worth mentioning since they weren’t on a case. Woody, nicknamed The Kid, was a sensitive bastard. He was also brilliant. He’d been holed up in the basement for the past few hours doing what he did best—cracking and tracking.

  “Did you find him?” Milo asked without turning.

  “How’d you know it was me and not Vine?”

  “I’m psychic.”

  Woody snorted. “You saw my reflection in the window, right?”

  Milo couldn’t see shit in that window. “You got me.” Another thing he’d learned from Arch. The art of lying. He turned, folded his arms over his chest. “So?”

  “It wasn’t easy, sir.”

  “Milo,” he prompted, although it was wasted breath. Woody had been on the team for three months. He’d yet to drop formalities where his boss was concerned. Respect had been ingrained in the Midwestern boy by the grandparents who’d raised him. He twanged ma’am and sir without thought. Sir made Milo’s balls twitch. Aside from making him feel old, it reminded him of the bureaucratic bullshit that had resulted in him overstepping and his wife stepping out.

  The only time anyone referred to him as Sir or Agent Beckett was when he was at HQ, which, to their mutual relief, wasn’t often. He’d earned a reputation as a hot dog. If he weren’t so tight with the director, he’d be out on his forty-seven-year-old ass. As far as his team was concerned, the A.I.A.—Artful Intelligence Agency—operated on a “the-less-we-know-the-better” policy. He had a directive. Results, within blurred reason, were all that mattered.

  Like the ones tucked away in Woody’s eccentric mind. Milo angled his head. “Where is he?”

  “Fort Lauderdale. Traveled under the name of Charles Dupont.”

  Arch was a pro at operating under the radar. Woody was good, but he shouldn’t have been able to track him this fast. Arch must have slipped.

  Something was wrong.

  “Tomorrow he’s sailing for San Juan on an adults-only cruise. The Fiesta line focuses on romance in the golden years. Caters mostly to second honeymooners, couples celebrating anniversaries. Kind of a geriatric Love Boat.”

  The Benson file.

  “Son of a bitch.” Milo strode to the hall closet, yanked a suitcase from the shelf.

  The flowery stench followed him into his bedroom. “Do you think he’s up to his old tricks, sir?”

  “I think he’s taking an unauthorized vacatio
n.” Read: Defying team policy by acting solo. Worse, acting outside of A.I.A. jurisdiction. Chameleon’s license-to-shill wasn’t valid on foreign soil. They had domestic leeway, not international carte blanche.

  And Arch knew it.

  Milo crammed the case full of casual and formal wear, processing details. Vine and Woody could handle the bar. He’d have to keep A.I.A in the dark in order to keep Arch’s ass, and his own, out of a sling.

  Woody scratched at his sparse goatee, also new. “Guess you’re going after him.” For a smart kid, he often stated the obvious.

  “I need you to make travel arrangements.” This was the second time in eight months Arch had gone renegade. Milo’s patience was spent.

  “Done.”

  He glanced up.

  The shaggy-haired boy, who presently resembled a modern-day beatnik, shrugged. “Figured it was the next logical move given your mood when you ordered me to track Ace.”

  Aka Arch. Grifters referred to their underworld aliases as monikers. Thanks to Arch, every team member had one. Even Milo. Woody referred to everyone on the team by their monikers, except for Milo. Nope. Milo was Sir.

  Ignoring his twitching balls, he clasped shut his case, pulled on a leather jacket and silently cursed Arch “Ace” Duvall. “I don’t know why I bother,” he muttered.

  “Because it’s what friends do.”

  He let that pass. His relationship with Arch was complicated. No one, aside from Milo and Arch, knew the particulars. He intended to keep it that way.

  Woody handed him a stuffed envelope. “I made arrangements for two. It’s a couples’ cruise.”

  Woody hadn’t been on the team for long but he knew Arch’s history. Knew he was up to something and that he’d just reeled in his friend. Whether he wanted in or not, Milo was now part of Arch’s game. He’d stick out like a sore thumb if he showed up single for a couples’ cruise.

  “I called Hot Legs. She’s packing. You can pick her up on the way to A.C. International.”

  Gina Valente, aka Hot Legs, was an ex-cop with a gift for grifting. A valuable asset, she often ensnared marks via her feminine wiles. He wasn’t keen on dragging her into this mess, but now, thanks to Arch, this was Chameleon business. “You’re two steps ahead of me, Kid.”

  “Three.” He gestured to the envelope.

  Milo thumbed through the contents. Travel documents. Passports. Character profiles…Aw, hell. “Why this guy?”

  “You’ve played him before. You’re already prepped. We’ve got the wardrobe in stock and we’re on a tight schedule. He’s middle-aged, but he’s rich.”

  “He’s annoying.”

  “He gets on Ace’s nerves, that’s for sure.”

  Milo cracked his first smile of the day. He shrugged out of the leather jacket, opened the suitcase to swap out the wardrobe.

  Woody hovered nearby, rubbing the back of his neck—his nervous tell.

  “What?”

  “There’s something else, sir.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Ace enlisted an unsanctioned player.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AFTER AN HOUR of scribbling in my diary, rehashing a day of rash actions, and checking in with Nicole via a brief phone call, I’d fallen into a fitful sleep. Most people have nightmares about showing up at an important event in their underwear. I showed up topless.

  I’d have to ask Jayne, a new age enthusiast, to look up the interpretation of breasts in one of her dream books. Or not. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe it symbolized a need for my mother—please save me from the big, bad world. Only the last person I’d run to is my I-told-you-so mom who told me to go to college. You could’ve been a teacher, I could hear her saying. Instead you’re a gorilla. Or maybe the topless bit simply meant that I was destined to lose my shirt.

  Great.

  I blinked up at the ceiling, thought about the days to come and how I’d be spending them with Arch. Surprisingly, the hurricane of loneliness that generally ruined my mornings weakened to a Category One. Last night’s kiss lingered and sparked under my skin like a summer lightning storm. The man was not only dangerous, but potent.

  I kicked off the sheets, scooted to the edge of the bed and scanned the darkened room.

  He was also missing.

  My heart raced with familiar pangs of desertion. He found you lacking. He’s gone. My jaw throbbed. Falling asleep without my splint—the retainerlike appliance provided by my TMJ specialist—hadn’t been smart. Stressful dreams on top of a stressful day make Evie a prime candidate for lockjaw.

  I massaged my chest with one hand, my jaw with the other. I told myself to chill. You’ve survived a year without Michael. You don’t need a man. You don’t need Arch.

  I marched over to the window and wrenched open the curtains. Florida sunshine flooded the room. Craving a glass of orange juice, I palmed the warm plate glass and squinted at the blue skies, palm trees and hedges bursting with pink and white flowers.

  I thought about Disney World. Maybe I could relocate and get a job there. Maybe I could snag a gig as Goofy or Minnie Mouse—full-body costume. Better than a gorilla suit. At least I’d be hawking fairy tales instead of cars.

  Sighing, I turned away from the tropical scenery, my spirits lifting when I realized Arch hadn’t vamoosed. His suitcase yawned open, propped up on one of those metal luggage stands. His laptop sat on the desk. A cushioned chair overflowed with rumpled blankets and a pillow, the only proof he’d even returned last night. Add scary-quiet to his bag of tricks.

  Since the bathroom door was closed, I assumed Houdini was in there peeing or preening. Maybe he was taking a shower. Maybe I should join him. Yeah, boy, wouldn’t that be fun? Except I was too chicken to risk rejection. He hadn’t seemed impressed with my kissing skills, certainly not enough to join me in bed. I couldn’t imagine he’d welcome me in his shower. Last night I’d endured several hours of dreamed humiliation. I had no interest in making them come true, thank you very much.

  My gaze skipped back to the chair heaped with bed linens.

  Okay. So my stage husband had opted to stretch out in a chair or on the floor rather than next to me. Disappointing, but not devastating. At least he hadn’t split. At least I wasn’t a total failure, losing husband number two after day number one.

  Nicole grumbled in my imagination. I say he slept on the floor because you gave him a hard-on and he couldn’t whack off lying next to you. Well, he could but—

  Yeah, Jayne interrupted. He didn’t sleep with you because he wants to get down and dirty, and he can’t because he assured you this is business. At least he’s honorable.

  It was a confidence-boosting fantasy and I intended to revel in it like a day at the spa.

  The bathroom door creaked open. My pulse accelerated, then stalled. I looked like I’d just rolled out of bed. Which I had. Not the point. The point was cartoon loungewear, bed-head and morning breath. Ugh.

  I fished a mint out of my purse just as Arch stepped into the room, only it wasn’t Arch but Charles. Either he’d risen predawn or he was a quick-change artist of extraordinary skill. My knowledge of the application of prosthetics was nil, however, I’d read in some celebrity rag that it was a long and tedious process. Of course, that had involved transforming a mortal man into a beastly alien. Arch had merely accelerated the aging process.

  I blinked at his wrinkles and beer gut, those absurd glasses, and marveled at my lustful reaction. Not a sign of Mr. Manly Man and my engine still revved. I even got a sexual charge out of the scent of Old Spice. Did I ever have it this bad for Michael? I mean, I am-was-am physically attracted to my ex, but I don’t remember my body buzzing and humming and my mind blanking as it was now. I knew I should say something but couldn’t think of anything other than, Take me. Take me now.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Yeah. That would have been the icebreaker. “Good morning.” I tugged at the hem of my T-shirt, feeling self-conscious about my appearance. Not that he’d actual
ly looked at me yet.

  I crossed my arms over my braless chest and watched as he tucked an artfully knotted red scarf into the mouth of his starched white shirt. Amazing that a man these days even knew how to tie an ascot knot. The dated image reminded me of old Hollywood, royal races and Thurston Howell the Third.

  Suddenly, I didn’t feel quite as silly. I even managed a smile. “Sleep well?”

  He nodded. “You?”

  “Like a baby.” Okay. That was a lie. But I wasn’t about to admit I’d tossed and turned when he’d copped forty winks. Unless he was lying, too. Call me hopeful.

  I smoothed my hand over my tangled hair, took in his crisp white oxford shirt and creased navy trousers. Talk about conservative. But it somehow worked with his silver hair and those kooky glasses. He really looked like the camera-shy author.

  I looked like a delusional fan from a cartoon convention.

  Turning away, I rooted through Big Red for a change of clothes. I waited for Arch to bring up that atomic kiss, but he didn’t. Guys avoid mushy talk, said the spirit of Jayne, to which Nicole added, Like he’s going to admit the earth moved.

  Right. Thanks, girls. I looked over my shoulder to ask him a question and caught him staring. At me. Even though he wore an enigmatic expression, the air crackled like the Fourth of July.

  Jolted, I cleared my throat and almost choked on my breath mint. Smooth, Parish. “Are you…” I flitted a hand toward the bathroom, trying not to hack and cough.

  “All yours.”

  “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll order room service.”

  We’d spoken those same lines last night. It smacked of an unsettling connection that had me race walking toward the bathroom. Snap, crackle, sizzle. How is it possible he didn’t feel that sizzle? He seemed so calm, so unaffected.

  I shut the door between us, wanting to die. Then I heard a muffled “Bollocks,” and decided this day might be worth living after all.

  I DRESSED TO KILL because it was my first official day on the job and first impressions are vital.