by Beth Ciotta
“What code?”
Arch dragged his hands down his face, looking as though he regretted his words.
Gina piped in. “I assume he’s referring to the violent aspect of the case. Professional grifters don’t employ thugs to work over marks.”
Milo popped another painkiller, hoping to ease a headache that had worsened with Arch’s arrival. “There’s no forensic evidence to support Ms. Benson’s claim that thugs are responsible for her grandfather’s death. According to the autopsy report, Stokes died of natural causes. A heart attack. Period. Not inconceivable considering his advanced age and depressed state of mind. His wife died not two weeks before.”
“Had you dug deeper—”
“Ms. Benson’s report indicated that, according to her grandfather, the come-on and sting took place in La Romana. The Dominican Republic, Arch. That falls under territorial law. Out of our jurisdiction.” Milo glanced at Gina, who knew the law as well as he did. She sat cross-legged on her bed, glass in one hand, the bottle in the other. Apparently, she wasn’t inclined to share with their guest. The fact that they hadn’t exchanged pleasantries also piqued Milo’s curiosity.
“If that’s not enough to deter you, and it should be,” Milo continued, “the alleged mark and alleged roper were of two different nationalities, the ship from a third country. The alleged crime, for Christ’s sake, took place in a fourth country.”
Arch studied him with an enigmatic expression. “The difference between you and me is that you play by the rules.”
“Not always.” If he played by the rules, Arch would be serving time. “You’re determined to make my life hell, aren’t you?”
Arch smiled. “Just returning the favor.”
Again, Milo was aware of Gina’s silence. She sat drinking, taking it all in, her keen brown eyes ping-ponging between the two men. “Bad enough you acted without the team,” he said to Arch. “You had to pull in an unsanctioned player?”
“Evie wasn’t my first choice. A last-minute glitch. Lemonade out of lemons, yeah?”
“You could’ve used me.” Gina’s first words since Arch had entered the room. She smirked. “Oh, wait. You did.” She drained her champagne, poured more.
Milo assessed the situation. Son of a bitch. His partner had bedded and dumped Gina. He glared at the bastard who had the balls to shrug. Tension between team members. Great. Just great. “Do you even know this Evie?”
“I knew of her.”
“Can she be trusted?” What was he saying? Only a fool trusts a grifter. He listened as Arch explained the personalities and background of Charles and Sugar Dupont. Sugar was a party girl, a free spender who had her wealthy husband wrapped around her finger. Charles, it would seem to anyone who observed, would do anything to keep his young wife happy, including investing in a good-time time share.
“So the brainless-bimbo thing is an act,” Gina said. “She’s pretending to be the kind of twit that will fall for anything. That’s always attractive to a roper.” She smirked. “Good call, Ace. The outside man won’t be able to resist her.”
Actually, it was. Milo shot her a look, while asking his partner, “What do you know about this woman?”
“She’s a professional actress. She’s good.”
“An actress? Not a player? You’re joking, right?”
“She can handle it.”
“How much did you tell her?”
“Not much.” He smiled, shook his head. “Christ, she’s easy.”
Gina leveled Arch with a deadly glare. “I almost feel sorry for her.”
Milo frowned. “I’m inclined to agree.”
Arch unleashed a rare show of temper. “Listen, you weren’t supposed to know aboot this. Not until I’d lured these bastards back onto American soil. I mean, that was your bloody problem, right? That you can’t touch them legally? As long as they’re within your jurisdiction, as long as there’s proof or a confession, then you can arrest the buggers, take them out of commission, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Right, then. Now that you’re here, you’re in.” He leaned forward, rested his forearms on his knees and lowered his voice. “We’ll divide and conquer. We know the roper’s a crew member.”
Milo held up a hand. “Hold on. How do we know they’re still working this ship?”
“I know,” Arch said without further explanation. “What I don’t know is the roper’s identity. And unfortunately, Mr. Stokes didnae provide his granddaughter with the name or description.”
“Just an overview of the sequence of events,” Gina said, “that led to the poor sucker forking over seventy thousand dollars for a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ investment.”
“The roper directed Mr. Stokes to a Mr. Simon Lamont of Dragonfly Cruises,” Milo said, recalling the granddaughter’s written statement.
“The inside man,” Gina said.
The big guy. The boss. The smooth-talking hustler who pitched the irresistible deal—the come-on. Milo wrung his hands together as frustration with Arch gave way to anticipation of the hunt. “We dock in La Romana on Thursday. That gives us three days.”
Gina whistled low. “Do you know how many employees are on this ship?”
“Stokes said he considered the man who introduced him to Lamont a good egg. We’re talking someone he and his wife had a lot of contact with. Someone in a highly visible position. Hospitality or entertainment.” Arch rubbed the back of his neck. “The key is to be as visible as possible. Between the four of us we can spread a lot of bullshite, yeah? We have the advantage. We’re savvy to the psychological aspects. I’ve already targeted three likely suspects. The assistant cruise director, the shore excursion director and Beau, the poolside bartender.”
“I’ll feel them out,” Milo said.
“I ran into a dance instructor who also conducts various activities and games,” Gina said. “Fred. A real silver-tongued Romeo.”
“Fred?” Milo asked.
“You know. Like Astaire.” She rolled her eyes. “Get with it, Jazzman. Like that’s his real name. He’s a hot-blooded Spaniard with more lines than Disney World. Trust me, he’s suspect. Although if he got to Stokes, it was probably through Mrs. Stokes. This one works the ladies.”
“So we keep an eye on these few while scoping other possibilities,” Arch said. “Once we determine our mark—”
“—we con the hustler into believing we’re his perfect marks,” Gina finished.
“Between the two couples, one of us will win an introduction to Lamont and that team will hook and lure him back to the States.”
A bastardized version of a Turnaround Confidence. At times like this Milo wondered who was in charge of Chameleon, him or Arch? He usually soothed his ego with the A.I.A’s mantra: Results are all that matter. But something felt off-kilter with this one. Mainly the unsanctioned player. “What’s the bait?”
Arch checked his watch, stood. “I’ll explain when we meet up again. Tomorrow morning in the Fiesta Theater. Ten-thirty.”
Milo raised a guarded brow. “What’s wrong with now?”
He secured his buttons, smoothed the uniform and picked up the empty tray. “I need to get back. I dinnae want Evie to wake up alone.”
Gina poured more bubbly. “God forbid.”
The door closed behind Arch and Milo dropped his throbbing head into his hands. In the space of ten minutes, he’d seen a flash of his partner’s temper and a peek at his tender side. Genuine emotions. Arch was definitely off his game.
Gina abandoned her glass and robe, wiggled under the sheets. “Notice he didn’t explain why he contacted Ms. Benson in the first place?”
Fending off a feeling of doom, Milo switched off the lamp. “I noticed.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SEX WAS GREAT.
In my dreams, anyway. I fell asleep talking. Stretched out on the cushy, queen-size bed, I’d spewed my fears about drowning. Although, maybe that was preferable to enduring the demise of my career—Did I mention three casi
nos are requesting lounge bands with twentysomething members only?
Arch mostly listened to my self-pitying rant. Unlike Nicole and Jayne, he didn’t add fuel to the fire. His calm demeanor eventually cooled my jets. I fell asleep reminiscing, telling him about the time I fell off a trapeze in a casino showroom. I guess that’s why I dreamed about having creative monkey sex in a Bungee Sex Swing. No, I didn’t have practical experience. I saw it featured on The Tonight Show. But there could be a first time. Call me adventurous—my new motto.
I woke up disoriented and frisky, a man’s arm wrapped around my waist. At first I basked in the fact that I wasn’t alone. I felt safe and cherished and, if this was a lucid dream, I never wanted to wake. Spooning was heaven, except…Michael didn’t like to spoon. Reality poked at my hazy brain. Something else poked at my backside. Something massive and granitelike. Not Michael, I realized, now fully awake. Arch.
Oh, boy, oh, boy.
I blinked at the sunshine pouring through the parted drapes like a spotlight. My heart pounded. My body froze. Showtime. Only I was unsure of my lines, the blocking. What should I say? Do? This was totally awkward. He was either sleeping or pretending to be asleep. He was not taking the lead. JT, however, was ready to rumble.
I hadn’t partied with the one-eyed monster in over a year. I’d never partied with a John Thomas as daunting as Arch’s. Not that size mattered. At least, I don’t think it does.
One way to find out, Nicole taunted from afar.
My hoo-ha tingled in anticipation. Have mercy, I begged. Instead, time dragged. Maybe he was waiting for me to make the first move. Waiting for a sign. I could wiggle my fanny against him or turn into him and run my fingers through his devilish dark hair. I could flash a playful smile, sing a line from an old disco fave. “Do you wanna get funky with me?” But not with morning breath and bed-head. And, crap, no makeup. Could I ease out of his arms, sneak into the bathroom, brush my teeth and hair, apply minimal cosmetics and crawl back into bed without waking him?
Not the way my luck had been running.
If he woke up while I was in the bathroom, he might rise and start his morning rituals—my chance for sex blown. Or maybe he’d instigate conversation and I’d say something stupid and wilt his erection—my chance for sex blown.
My mind continued to spin the possible scenarios. I’d fallen asleep without that stupid splint. What if I opened my mouth to respond and it locked open again? What if he deemed me unfit for this job? Left me behind at the first island stop? No money, nowhere to go but home where there was no work, no husband, no life.
Maybe we could have sex without kissing.
Not.
Arch was an Olympic kisser—gold medal. No way did I want to miss out on that. My mouth watered just thinking about his naked body. Exploring all that sinew would be a sensual thrill. Nipping and licking that six-pack was at the top of the list, followed closely by running my tongue along that tribal tattoo.
I thought about him nipping and licking me and the tingling intensified. Except wait. That meant him seeing me naked. No sinew. No sexy piercings. And sans the extreme-cleavage bra, no boobs. Well, I have boobs, of course, perky boobs—that’s a plus—but they’re small. Although, wait. Arch was a leg man, right? I had decent legs. Maybe he’d focus on those.
“I can hear your wheels turning.”
Did he mean my teeth grinding?
“Morning, Sunshine.” He kissed the back of my neck and rolled away and out of bed before I could act. Hadn’t considered that scenario.
“Well, darn,” I mumbled as he shut himself in the bathroom and day two of this gig began—without a bang.
MENTAL NOTE: Cruises are fattening. My waist expanded two inches just reading the culinary choices featured on the daily itinerary sheet. Aside from regular meals, the ship offered round-the-clock pizza and hot dogs and a midnight buffet. And what was up with the ice-cream-sundae-making contest? Let’s not even talk about the twenty-four-hour room service—Arch’s choice for breakfast.
As was our routine, he ordered while I showered. The fact that we had a routine fascinated me. We’d known each other less than three days and yet we joked and bickered like old friends. Old friends with the hots for each other. I’d never experienced anything like it.
Sitting across from each other at the suite’s balcony table, tropical skies as our backdrop, I was superaware of the sexual tension we’d yet to address. No way would I bring it up first. What if I’d misread the situation? What if the attraction was, in reality, one-sided? Maybe that morning wood had been the result of a sexy dream.
What did a man like Arch fantasize about, anyway? Probably something really risqué. Probably something I shouldn’t ponder over breakfast, especially since he was way more appetizing than my veggie omelet.
I nibbled on a piece of rye toast and refocused on the itinerary. Arts and crafts, bingo, a fashion show and cha-cha lessons. Plenty of contests and activities to keep Sugar-the-social-butterfly fluttering.
“Something wrong with your food?”
I glanced from the itinerary to my traveling companion, my boss, my stage husband, the man I’d slept with, only literally. He’d yet to apply the prosthetics, so I was forced to endure his staggering good looks. I swallowed a groupie sigh. “No. There’s just a lot of it.”
He lit a cigarette, shrugged. “Not so much. You didnae finish your meal last night, either. You must be starving.”
“Not so much.” Not for food, anyway. I watched him take a long drag, blow out a lazy stream of smoke and marveled that I actually found it sexy. Why did he have to be so flipping bad-boy gorgeous? And so young?
Yeah, boy, when he wasn’t sporting Charles’s wrinkles and silver hair our age difference remained a tough pill to swallow. “How old are you, anyway?”
He scraped white teeth over his sexy bottom lip, poured more coffee.
Cheeks burning, I set the itinerary aside and sipped my green tea. “That was rude. I’m sorry. Forget I asked.”
He stirred sugar, real sugar, into his java. Sure, he had a youthful metabolism. Never mind that earlier, while I was in the bathroom transforming into Sugar, he’d tackled sit-ups and push-ups and jogged in place for thirty minutes listening to whatever music pumped out of his MP3 player. Yeah, never mind that, I thought as I gripped and twirled my ring.
“Age is a real issue with you, yeah?”
“No.”
His mouth quirked.
Was my nose growing? “I mean, yes, obviously. Hence my rant last night.” Twirl, twirl. “Not that you’d understand. You’re a man. A young one at that. Not that it matters.”
He glanced at my ring, at me. “It matters.”
I fidgeted in my seat. “I know you’re my employer and all, but I have to tell you…that’s kind of irritating. That I-know-your-mind thing that you do. You don’t know me.”
“I dinnae have to know you, Evie. You’re easy to read.”
“Meaning I’m predictable?”
“Meaning your body language betrays your feelings.”
I stiffened.
He snuffed the cigarette then shoved out of his chair. “You’re a gifted actress, but a wretched liar.”
Was that a compliment? An insult? I sat there, contemplating an appropriate comeback as he snatched up stuffy cruise wear and a black makeup case.
“Thirty-nine,” he said and disappeared into the bathroom.
Thirty-nine years old? No way! I would’ve sworn early thirties, not late, although his personality smacked of a mature, confident man. Thirty-nine? One year from forty. Only two years younger than me. Not that I felt like the elder. I felt like a besotted teen. Two years’ age difference. In the older woman–younger man scheme of things, that didn’t even count. Did it?
I imagined Nicole and Jayne rolling their eyes, speaking in unison. Jump him.
Right. The age issue melted away. Two years. Heh. Nothing. Certainly nothing like the quarter-century Michael-Sasha age difference. Still, having a
hot and sweaty fling with a hot and hunky guy, an associate of Stone Entertainment no less, would absolutely tarnish my conservative crown. I’m not one to boink and tell, but, I gotta confess, I was pretty jazzed about rubbing Michael’s nose in my sexcapades.
All I had to do was have one.
Come on, creative monkey sex! The only thing holding me back was, well, me. I’d never been the aggressor. Never had casual sex. Before Michael, there’d been three other men—all serious relationships. I wasn’t the type to seduce a mysterious, vibrant stranger.
But Sugar was….
I scrambled toward the vanity mirror, rolled up my rib-hugging T-shirt and studied my lily-white stomach. Skimping on dinner and breakfast had paid off. I didn’t look buff, but I didn’t look fat. Just soft. Most of the women on this ship were over fifty. I thought about Martha, over seventy and battling elephant skin and varicose veins. That didn’t stop her from wearing shorts. I wouldn’t be surprised if I caught her in a two-piece bathing suit.
I pointed at my reflection and spoke some nonsense at myself. “You’re not Evie. You’re Sugar. Age is a state of mind and Sugar’s a kid at heart. You’re fun-loving and proud of your body. You’re sexy. Arch said so yesterday. Wear the Keds.”
I sashayed across the room, peeling off my tee and singing Sugar’s new signature song. “I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt. So sexy it hurts.”
I dipped into Big Red and pulled out a bright green bikini. I dressed quickly, doubled up the padding in the cups, pulled white denim shorts over the French-cut bottoms and slipped on my flowery Keds. I was bent over, tying the laces when Arch exited the bathroom and uttered my new favorite word.
“Bollocks.”
INSTEAD OF ATTENDING the shore excursions talk in the Fiesta Theater, Arch asked me to visit the shops in the Atrium. “I need you to make some purchases, yeah?” He pulled on the Panama straw hat, completing his transformation into Charles. “Perfume, clothes, trinkets. Whatever catches Sugar’s eye. Charge it to our Fiesta Card.”
