All About Evie

by Beth Ciotta

  My perpetuated fantasies started to crack, along with my heart. “Who are you?”

  “A man who’s trying to do the right thing.”

  “You talk in circles.”

  “Aye.”

  “You’re just like Michael.”

  “Worse.”

  “Do you want me to despise you?”

  “It would be best.”

  For whom? What was he saying? “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m a con artist, Evie.”

  I pressed my hands to my aching chest, gasped for air. “Oh, God.”

  He clasped the back of my neck, forced my head between my legs. “Breathe.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, squeezed off the tears. I told myself to breathe, to live, if only to take Ethel’s advice and knee a lech in the groin. My brain scrambled as I sucked air. I knocked away Arch’s hand and lunged to my feet. I didn’t want to cry. Instead I let myself get angry, the very same emotion that landed me in this mess.

  “The Parkers aren’t the bad guys here,” I said, starting to pace, needing to move. “You are. You and this Simon Lamont, and Gavin and whomever else is in your gang. You’re using me to set up the Parkers. You took Vic to that meeting to suck him into the Dragonfly ruse. You’re going to try to sell him a cabin on a cruise ship that doesn’t exist. What did you call it? Investment fraud. You’re going to steal—”

  “I never steal. I persuade.”

  I looked at him aghast. “You think there’s a difference?”

  “Aye.”

  “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.” I studied the posh suite as I continued my frantic pacing. If I kept moving, maybe I wouldn’t pass out from shock. “I can’t believe I’m here. With you. A thief.”

  “Grifter.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Someday I’ll explain why that’s insulting, yeah?”

  “How could Michael do this to me? He said there was an element of risk. Called you a manipulator. He had to know.” I whirled to face Arch. “Does he? Does he know what you do?”

  “Aye.”

  I palmed my forehead to keep my brain inside. “How can you be so calm?”

  “Someone has to be.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No.”

  I hugged my arms around my middle, forced myself to maintain eye contact, even though angry tears blurred my vision. “I’m not sure when I ever felt such a fool. Except for when Michael told me he’d fallen in love with someone else. Sasha. Oh wait, maybe you’ve met her. Then of course, you understand why he chose her over me. Pretty. Young. Built. Is that why you took pity on me? Was I so pathetic that you created a fantasy for me? Was it just fantasy? Smoke and mirrors? A con to keep me in character?”

  “Now you’re pissing me off.”

  I swiped away a renegade tear and sneered. “Really? I can’t tell. You look more bored than anything. Then again, according to Michael I’m boring. An unadventurous, predictable, goody two-shoes. No wonder he left—”

  Arch body-slammed me against the wall, knocking away my words and breath. “I’m not after the Parkers’ money. I’m here for Simon Lamont. Period.”

  Stunned, I stared up into his eyes, speechless, my heart thundering in my ears. His heart pounding against my chest.

  “So tell me, Sunshine, do you still believe me when I say I’d never let anything bad happen to you?”

  It was the craziest thing. “Yes.”

  “Stone’s a fuckin’ idiot.” He tangled his fingers in my hair, studied my face with an intensity that singed my soul. “I’ve never encountered a more dangerous woman in my life.”

  He smothered my protest with a kiss that spiraled through my trembling body, obliterating my doubts and insecurities. My struggles ceased as he conquered my mouth and curves. The feel of his hands laying claim to my body stirred my blood. He set me on fire, burned off my anger. Rational thought—gone. Good girl—gone.

  In a burst of frenzied passion, I managed to flip our position—trapping Arch against the wall as I deepened the kiss. I felt a snap, a connection. Kindred spirits, Madame Helene whispered. Holy smoke.

  Gripping his shoulders, I tore away my mouth and searched the shielded windows to his soul. “Is Simon Lamont a criminal?”

  “Aye.”

  “More unscrupulous than you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Would the world be a better place if he were…taken out?”

  “He’s fleecing the elderly out of their savings. He terrorizes the weak and naive in order to control them. He betrayed a good man, robbed him of his earnings and his life. He’s scum.”

  So on top of everything else this shark was a killer? “Why should I believe you? How can I trust you?”

  “You can’t.”

  Those devastating eyes that said nothing and everything. My heart and mind imploded. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “I’ll order room service.”

  That connection. I barely made it into the sanctity of the bathroom before bursting into tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MILO KNOTTED HIS TIE. Dress code for tonight was informal, but he’d promised Gina a fancy dinner in the Cha-Cha Club by way of an apology for a hasty reprimand. He’d blasted her for allowing Evie to wander off in a town rife with muggers and pickpockets before allowing her to explain. It was the second time in two days that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. He blamed Arch. The man’s erratic behavior of late had put them all on edge.

  A soft rap sounded at the door. “Your towels, sir.”

  He shrugged into his suit jacket on the way to the door. Gina stepped out of the bathroom dressed to the nines just as Arch, dressed as a room steward, pushed in and past Milo.

  Grim-faced, the Scot dumped a stack of folded bath towels on the bed and unloaded on their female teammate. “I thought you were a professional.”

  She braced her hands on her hips, worked her jaw. “I’d watch my step, Ace.”

  “First the perfume—”

  “You deserved that.”

  “Then the Fred fiasco.”

  “I explained at the mansion.”

  “Magens Bay—”

  “That’s enough,” Milo said. “Gina and I have been through this.”

  “I can defend myself, Jazzman.”

  Milo watched as the lethal beauty moved forward, thinking that if Arch had any sense, he’d apologize now or leave. The stupid bastard stood his ground.

  “We were ‘on’ at that beach, you prick. Surrounded by passengers who’d already witnessed Vic and Carol’s racy behavior on board. Not to mention Sugar’s. I played my role. I admit I pushed, but you’re asking me to work a sting with a civilian. An accident-prone, emotional half pint. I wanted to see what she was made of.”

  “So you threw a vulnerable woman to the wolves of Charlotte Amalie.”

  Milo whistled low just as Gina swung out and gut-punched Arch. “Feel better?” he asked her.

  “A little.”

  “Take a walk.”

  She slid him an annoyed look.

  “Now.”

  He waited until she’d left the room to address his partner. “Evie blew Gina off. She couldn’t stick close without risking her cover. So she tailed her. All day. Most of the time your girl was in the company of five seniors. The couple of times she was alone, Gina was close enough to step in if things got rough.”

  Arch sucked in a breath, rubbed his stomach. “She let her fall prey to a street grifter.”

  Milo raised a brow. “In your own words—if the mark’s stupid or greedy enough to fall for a scam, they got what they deserved.”

  “Still true.”

  “What makes Evie different?”

  He didn’t answer so Milo took another route. “Are you in love with that woman?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Milo wasn’t.

  Arch dragged his hands over his da
mp hair. “I’m off my game, that’s all. You said it yourself, yeah?”

  “I’m hoping taking down Lamont is the cure. I, Chameleon, we can’t work like this, Arch. You can’t work like this. Not without getting yourself killed or incarcerated.”

  Arch smoothed his fingers over his fake moustache, studied the toes of his boat shoes. After a long, agonizing moment thick with tension, he said, “Did you prep Gina on tomorrow night’s confidence?”

  “She’s good to go. What about Evie?”

  “Haven’t discussed details yet.”

  “Second thoughts?”

  “Deep thoughts. Weighing what I want to reveal.”

  Milo said nothing. He trusted Arch’s judgment, even if he didn’t trust the man.

  The sober Scot turned to leave. “Tell Gina—”

  “Tell her yourself.”

  He nodded, then he was gone.

  ARCH WAS MISSING when I came out of the bathroom. All I felt was numb. I’d had a good cry in the shower. I was all cried out. No more crying. Done. I wasn’t upset or angry. I wasn’t anything. Just…numb.

  Like a zombie rag doll, all loose-limbed and wide-eyed, I dressed in yellow-and-pink striped lounging pants and a SpongeBob T-shirt. My hair was freshly washed and dried, the funky layers sticking out every which way. I’d scrubbed away the day’s sweat, sunscreen and fading makeup, and, after careful consideration in the mirror, applied a bit of eye crème and lip balm. Arch was right. I’d gotten too much sun. My face was beet-red, my nose and cheeks dotted with freckles. Lovely.

  Barefoot, I padded over to Big Red and fished out my journal and purple pen. I sat at the desk, opened the book to a blank page and wrote.

  Dear Diary,

  I tapped the pen against my teeth. I doodled a broken heart and lots of question marks. I scribbled stick figures in bed. Stick figures of a con man and an actress. I wrote…

  Who am I? Why am I here? What is my purpose?

  I doodled a picture of the earth and clouds. I scratched out the earth and wrote…

  I like perpetuating fantasies. Violence is wrong. People who terrorize the weak and naive are scum.

  I stared at the blank pages a little longer, then closed the journal knowing that I was going to help Arch take down Simon Lamont, and little else. Despite what Arch had said, he wasn’t worse than Michael. I’d known him less than a week, and though our relationship, friendship, affair, whatever, had started off dishonestly, he’d come clean. I’d been with Michael for fifteen years and yet the entire marriage felt like a sham. Did I know him at all? What was his connection with Arch? He knew he was a con artist. Did he supply him regularly with actresses for scams? Was he involved in other illegal activities?

  I felt another snap. A disconnection. More numbness.

  Arch walked through the door, noted my journal. “Private stuff?”

  “Yeah.” I closed and locked the diary, returned it to Big Red. I didn’t ask him why he was dressed like a room steward. Brain full.

  He slipped out of the uniform and into his own sweats and a T-shirt. I watched. Still numb.

  “You know your laptop?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you get Internet access in here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could I—”

  “Absolutely.”

  In less than three minutes it was booted up and waiting for me. “Just let me know what it costs,” I said as I signed on to my e-mail account.

  His reply was a look that said, don’t insult me. He was touchy about the weirdest things.

  Room service arrived, snagging his attention.

  I skimmed my e-mail, looking for news from home. Home, home. Thank goodness, I spied an e-mail from Christopher. But there were ten, no, eleven from Nicole, all with the same subject header: CALL ME.

  My heart raced, but I still clicked on my brother’s e-mail first.

  Evelyn,

  Still working on it. Mom and Dad are stubborn.

  Blah. Blah. Blah. No new news. I moved on to one of Nicole’s messages, then the next, and the next. They all said the same thing. Call Me. Now.

  It was then that I noticed there were no e-mails from Jayne. Not even one.

  Dread swam through my numbness, threatening to attack. Still, I couldn’t ignore Nicole’s distress. Had something happened to Jayne? I signed off the Internet, glanced over to Arch, who was setting our food on the table. “I need to use the phone. Call a friend. It’s important.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s really expensive, the ship-to-shore thing.”

  “Make the call.”

  It occurred to me that he was being super nice. Gentle. As if he thought I was going to break or something. You’re too soft. “I’m going to help you,” I said while punching numbers. “That is, if you still want my help.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m up to the job.”

  “I know.”

  I swallowed hard, focused on the call. The process took a few moments. Finally, a connection and Nicole’s husky voice. “Hello?”

  “I got your e-mails. What’s wrong? Is Jayne all right?”

  “Jayne’s fine. No one’s hurt…yet.”

  Dread took a bite out of the numbness. I gripped the receiver tighter. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you get any other e-mails?”

  “I got lots of e-mails. Probably mostly junk. Only opened my brother’s and yours.”

  “Good. That’s good.” I heard her light a cigarette, blow out a pent-up breath. “Word’s out. Everyone’s talking. E-mails are flying. Jayne and I didn’t want you to learn about this in a casual gossipy bit from someone in the biz. We flipped a coin. I lost.”

  “Must be bad. Have I been barred from the casinos for the flashing incident?” I half joked. “I’ll never work Atlantic City again? Is that the buzz?” At this point, nothing would surprise me. Oddly, the thought of being washed up as a casino performer didn’t even faze me. Subconsciously, I guess I’d accepted it as a done deal. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I got home, but I knew I’d changed. My world had been turned upside down. There was no going back to the life I knew. I didn’t want that life, anyway, I realized, sinking into a notion and a nearby chair. I wanted something else. Something more.

  “It’s about Michael,” she said, softly, tentatively. “And Sasha.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Arch was lounging in a chair, sipping beer and watching me. I schooled my expression, lowered my voice. “Let me guess. They’re getting married. Didn’t take him long to get back on the matrimonial horse, did it?” I felt a zing, but that’s all. No crushing pain. No panic. After all, I didn’t even know the man. “You can relax, Nic. I’m not upset. I’m over it. Over Michael.”

  “Truly?”

  “Completely.”

  “Great. That makes this a little easier.” I heard her take another drag. “I don’t know about the marriage thing, although I assume it’s in their future. That is if Michael does the right thing. Not that I have faith in his sense of right and wrong. If he had a decent bone, he would have contacted you and told you himself. The bastard.”

  “Nic…”

  “Sasha’s pregnant.”

  Good thing I was sitting down, because you could have knocked me over with a feather. Huh. Okay. Life did indeed hold more surprises. I placed a hand over my flat belly, acknowledged a hollow feeling in my gut and tucked conflicting feelings deep within my mangled heart.

  “Evie?”

  “I’m okay.” I was. “Good for them.”

  “You mean that?” She sounded incredulous.

  “Yes.” Sort of. “I have to go, Nic. I appreciate you breaking the news to me, but this call is costing me a small fortune.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m in the Caribbean with a nice man. Complicated, but nice.”

  She laughed. “Right. How’s that going, anyway?”

  “I’ll let you know.” We said our goodbyes. I joined
Arch at the table.

  He caught my gaze. “Don’t you mean a rat bastard thief?”

  I uncovered my dish, expecting a salad. Cheeseburger and fries. Comfort food. I smiled a little. “Meant what I said.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I COULDN’T SLEEP. My mind wouldn’t shut down. Arch had bunked on the couch, wanting to give me some distance. The truth about who he was had driven a wedge between us. Even though there was a physical attraction, even though I felt an emotional connection, I couldn’t wrap my mind around his core beliefs. How was convincing someone to give you their money of their own free will different or better than stealing? The fact that he fleeced only those who could afford the loss did little to ease my discomfort. It still seemed wrong. I mean, he wasn’t exactly Robin Hood, seeing that he kept the spoils.

  Speaking to my Hollywood sensibilities, he’d assured me that, although there was a dark side to his world, a world depicted in movies like House of Games and The Grifters, his immediate circle more closely mirrored Ocean’s Eleven. Of course he’d liken himself and his associates to that sexy, witty crew. The arrogant comparison made me smile. Then he’d added, “Or Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.” I’d chuckled, envisioning him in the goofy Steve Martin role. Arch’s ability to put me at ease was astonishing. Just one of a confidence man’s talents, I’d reminded myself.

  “When we go into this tomorrow night,” he’d said, “think The Sting with a twist. Two con men, one experienced—me—and one green—you—avenging the wronged by conning a ruthless rat bastard and putting him out of commission.”

  That made me feel better. Sort of.

  “There are scam-artists and scum-artists,” he’d gone on to say. “Scam-artists prey on greed and vanity. Scum-artists prey on fear and loneliness, the weak and elderly. We all use scare tactics, emotional manipulation to dissuade a mark from contacting the authorities. But some, like Lamont, follow through on threats. Some terrorize and employ violence. Those are scum-artists. Dinnae confuse the two, Sunshine.”

  He’d certainly given me something to think about. Something to toss and turn over—4:00 a.m. and I was still wide-awake. I rolled over for the umpteenth time, fluffed and punched my pillow. I shoved away thoughts of his occupation and mentally reviewed the Lamont sting. If I fell asleep, I’d probably be plagued with anxiety dreams. Either way, tomorrow I was going to need a gallon of coffee and a bucket of antacid.