by Beth Ciotta
Two suited men, one a hulking guy with mile-wide shoulders and the other a squirrelly-looking dude, stood behind the leather couch. They smiled.
We smiled.
A dark-haired, good-looking gentleman, wearing an expensive tailored suit, rose from behind the cherrywood desk. “Simon Lamont,” he said in a deep, pleasant voice. He smiled and offered his hand in greeting to each person in the room, listening intently as Gavin made the introductions. He didn’t look like a criminal. He looked like a casino VP. Kind of like Alec Baldwin in that movie where William Macy plagued gamblers with bad luck. The Cooler. The same movie where Alec Baldwin’s character broke scammers’ bones with a baseball bat, come to think of it. My stomach turned at the possibility.
“Mrs. Dupont,” he said, taking my hand. “Gavin has raved about you. Seems you’re the social hit on the Fiesta.”
And you’re the man who killed Arch’s grandpa, the shark who preys on the trusting and vulnerable. People like Martha. I despised Lamont, but my disgust had to pale in comparison to what Arch was feeling. I glanced sideways, half expecting him to lunge at the creep. He didn’t lunge. Not even an eye twitch. He looked amiable and relaxed. My admiration for the man soared. More than ever I wanted to do whatever I could to advance his cause. Lamont was the lowest piece of scum I’d ever had the misfortune of meeting and yet I smiled graciously and shook his hand.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said with a sincere smile.
I wished I could say the same. “Aren’t you a peach?” You rat bastard scum-artist.
Lamont chuckled, seemingly charmed.
Gavin left us to business, promising to meet up after for dinner.
Squirrelly-dude moved in. “You look familiar.”
I realized with a start that he was talking to me.
“My friend Earl says she’s got one of those faces,” Martha said, cleaning her glasses with her shirt.
“No,” the man said, narrowing his eyes. “We’ve met.”
Oh, no. Oh, God. He did look familiar. “Ever been to Vegas?” I asked brightly.
“Lots of times.”
I smiled, clueless and casual. “You probably saw me performing in one of the casinos. I’m a lounge singer. Well, was a lounge singer. I’m retired now. Charlie and me, we’re married.”
“Living in Connecticut now, old boy.” Arch shifted his cane to his right hand, slid his left arm around my waist.
Martha shoved on her glasses. “Earl thought he saw you in Atlantic City,” she said. “Working a Fourth of July Sweepstakes dressed as the Statue of Liberty.” She snorted. “I told him he was cracked. Told him I’d asked you about your career and that you moved straight from Brooklyn to Vegas.”
“Look,” Vic said. “I ain’t got all night. I’m here to do business. Maybe. That’s if this deal is as sweet as King says.”
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Lamont said, smiling at Vic, then glancing at me.
My neck prickled with a rash. Don’t scratch. Don’t tell.
“Our screening process is quite intensive. We’re only allowing a select—”
“Atlantic City.” Squirrelly-dude snapped his fingers. “Craps tournament. You presented me with a trophy. We had our picture taken together. In fact, you were wearing that same dress.”
Crap!
“Only your name wasn’t Sugar. What was it?”
“Speaking of gambling,” Carol said in a husky voice, “I’d like to get some in before we have to return to the ship.”
“Speaking of ships,” Vic said to Lamont, “King said you have floor plans and sketches of this supposed six-star wonder. Seeing’s believing, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Lucy. You went by the name Lucky Lucy.” Squirrelly-dude smiled as though he’d just answered the winning question on Who Wants to be a Millionaire? “Am I right?”
“Wrong,” Martha said. “Sugar never worked Atlantic City. Although, crazy world, she’s an I Love Lucy fanatic. Carries the cutest tote with Lucy’s picture all over it. Her father gave it to her for her birthday last year. For luck.”
The silence was brief but suffocating. I sucked in a breath and launched into a ditzy explanation. I’d forgotten all about the short stint I’d done in Atlantic City last year. Thunk to the forehead. “Jeez. Am I a bubble brain, or what?”
Arch backed me up, a brilliant bit of improvising. Vic and Carol lamented the delay. Was this a business meeting or a social? Martha argued with Squirrelly-dude.
My stomach lurched.
This smacked of a live performance gone wrong.
That horrible moment when someone drops a line or misses a cue or a piece of scenery topples. The moment after, where someone or everyone tries to cover, and usually does because usually they’re professionals. If you’re lucky the audience doesn’t notice, or thinks it’s part of the act. Martha, for sure, was not a professional and I, for damn sure, did not feel lucky. I felt cursed. My role had been simple, the direction clear. Yet nothing was going to script. Warning, Will Robinson! Danger! Danger!
Through my vertigo, I heard Lamont ask Hulking-guy to show Martha and the Parkers to another room for refreshments. “I like to spend quality time with each prospective investor.”
I slowly let out my breath when Martha exited, asking if they had piña coladas. However, I felt a little cold fear when Carol and Vic left, too, leaving us alone with Lamont and Squirrelly-dude. So maybe they weren’t the insiders. Then who was?
Lamont unbuttoned his suit jacket and settled on the corner of his desk. “As I said, we have an intensive screening process.” He looked at me with a quizzical smile. “According to my information, your parents passed on five years ago, Mrs. Dupont.”
In that space of a moment I knew I’d committed a cardinal sin in the world according to Arch. I’d cracked out of turn, messed up, deviated from my character profile and mentioned a true life occurrence. My dad. My birthday. Not Sugar’s.
I wanted to scratch my itchy neck, but I kept smiling that clueless smile as Arch segued into a song and dance. Only Lamont wasn’t buying it, his face hard as stone. “Forgive me, but my experiences with cutthroat competitors have made me a cautious man. If there’s any chance you’re not the real Mr. and Mrs. Dupont…”
“I understand, good man,” Arch said in his blue-blood accent. “I’m equally cautious when purchasing art for my collection. One needs to be sure they’re dealing with the genuine article.” He reached into his suit jacket and passed Lamont his wallet. “My identification.”
Lamont inspected the contents, though his gaze kept flitting back to Arch. “I’m a bit of an art connoisseur myself.”
“Charlie’s into paintings,” I said, following Arch’s cue. Train wreck averted. Get the show back on track. “He just purchased a Vermin.”
Lamont’s brow rose. “You mean Vermeer?”
“The guy they did that movie about,” I said with a chipper smile. “Girl with a Pearl Earring. Did you see it?” I rolled my eyes while passing him my own fake identification. “Boooring.”
“That painting is in a museum,” Lamont said.
“I’m in possession of another Vermeer,” Arch said. “An earlier work. But that’s neither here nor there. About the Dragonfly—”
“Found this on the grandma, boss.” Hulking-guy strode back into the room and laid a small handgun on Lamont’s desk.
I stared at the firearm, stunned. What the—
“Pat them down,” Lamont ordered. “Security precautions,” he said to us with a tight smile. “You understand.”
A jolt of panic rushed through my system. Arch’s fake gut. The prosthetics. What if he took off Arch’s glasses and found the smooth skin around his eyes? My heart pounded against my ribs. Did Arch carry a gun? Did the goons? Martha had been packing. The mystery of the century! “I don’t feel so good.” It wasn’t wholly a lie. On instinct, I went limp, falling into a dead faint, directly in Hulking-guy’s path.
I banged my h
ead hard on the floor, suppressed a groan when he tripped and landed partly on top of me. I couldn’t see anything, well, because my eyes were closed. But even when I peeked all I saw were the legs of the couch. I could hear, though. Still in character, Charles protested. “Get your hands off of me, old boy. Allow me to help my wife.”
“He’s wearin’ a fat suit,” Squirrelly-dude said. “And a fuckin’ wire!”
Wire?
I heard cursing, shuffling. Hulking-guy scrambled off me, so I scrambled, too. Only I was disoriented from the head banging. Cross-eyed, I saw Arch clobber Squirrelly-dude with his cane, throw a punch at Hulking-guy. Saw Lamont pull a gun. Aim it at Arch.
“No!” I lunged to knock away the gun. Only Squirrelly-dude pushed me. I whacked my head on the desk. Saw stars. Heard voices. Vic?
Then a bang, a loud, sickening bang that reverberated in my ears as my eyes glazed over and the scene faded to black.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I DREAMED ABOUT AN APE. A docile ape. A new and unusual friend, Jayne said. I flashed my breasts. The ape grinned. Bollocks. I heard a bang. Saw blood. Heard Madame Helene. I see a tragic event in your future. A loved one will suffer.
“No!” My eyes flew open. Tex Aloha hovered inches above me, watching me with that brown stare. Startled, I slapped his face.
He eased back, rubbed his cheek. “Welcome back, Twinkie.”
I blinked. “What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you’re okay.”
The adrenaline from my dream made me snappish. “Doesn’t your wife care that you ogle other women?”
“My wife divorced me and married another man. I can ogle all I want.”
My throat felt scratchy and raw, my mind muddled. “Carol divorced you?”
“There is no Carol. No Vic, either. Thank God.”
“I don’t understand.” Then I realized I didn’t even know where I was. Sun streamed in through a window, and then I heard beeping and saw machines. Hospital machines. My bed had rails. My adrenaline shot up again. I tried to push myself up on my elbows, felt woozy and plopped back down. “Where’s…Charles?”
“You mean Arch?”
“You know Arch?”
“As well as anyone can.”
“You’re his insider. The professional. You and Carol—”
“Gina.”
“You knew each other all along. I was right.” Sort of. Instead of spies, they were con artists. My head throbbed. My stomach pitched. I touched my head, felt thick bandages and fought a dizzy spell. “Was I shot?”
“No.”
“Arch?”
“He’s fine. Martha, too.”
“Why in the world did she have a gun?”
“Some street punk sold it to her earlier in the day. Told her the island wasn’t a safe place for little old ladies.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “She was pretty pissed when Lamont’s muscle took it off of her. Kicked him in the shin.”
“He’s lucky she didn’t kick him somewhere else. Martha may look fragile, but she’s got spunk.”
“That makes two of you. To hear Arch tell it, you tried to defend him.”
“Lamont aimed a gun at him and…” I palmed my bandages. “I thought I heard—”
“You did. There was a struggle. Lamont took a bullet.”
“Is he—”
“Yeah.”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t expect to feel bad for Lamont, and maybe I didn’t. But a man had been shot dead. In front of me. We’d come to put him in prison, not six feet under. Right?
“An accident,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Self-defense. Luckily, Arch was wired. He intended to record the come-on as security. Instead, he got the altercation. That squared us with local law enforcement. Still, Arch needs to lie low for a while.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Where is he?”
“Someplace safe.”
“Can I see him?”
“He’s already left the island.”
“Oh.” My dismal mood worsened. I noted Tex’s attire. A tasteful shirt and pants that matched. No cowboy hat. No cigar. Younger than I first thought and good-looking in a quiet way. “Who are you?”
He produced identification. Government ID. Only I didn’t recognize the branch. I squinted at his name. “Agent Beckett?”
“Call me Milo.” He returned the wallet to his pocket. “We were here unofficially.”
“Arch works with you? He told me he was a con artist.”
“Reformed.” He scratched his clean-shaven jaw. “Supposedly. We head a special team. Chameleon. Our objective, simply put, is to con cons, bust scams.”
“Fraud investigators?”
“In a way.”
“Smoke and mirrors. For the greater good.” My splitting head reeled as I tried to absorb the information. So Arch was a good guy. Tears pricked my eyes. I wasn’t a total Walter Mitty. Arch wasn’t a superspy, but he did work for the government. “I’ve never heard of Chameleon, or the Artful Intelligence Agency.”
“We’re covert.”
I furrowed my brow, studied his face and tried to adjust to his non-Texan, nonabrasive personality. “So, you probably shouldn’t have told me about the team.”
“Probably not. But I figure you’re owed some sort of explanation for being dragged into this. I’m hoping you can keep a secret.”
My heart ached, my thoughts centered on Arch. We didn’t even get to say goodbye. Was he angry because I botched his sting? Was he glad to put some distance between us? It couldn’t end like this. I didn’t want it to end at all. Even though I’d unintentionally mucked things up. Even though I’d ended up in the hospital and another man had ended up dead. A scum-artist, I reminded myself. A man who preyed on the weak. Something exploded inside of me. Something positive. Something electric.
Purpose.
I pushed myself into a sitting position, ignored the aches and pains. “I can keep a secret, but I want in.”
He crossed his arms, poked a tongue in his cheek. “Ms. Parish. Are you blackmailing me?”
I blushed. “No.” One of Jayne’s affirmations rang in my ears. Glory awaits those who accept the challenge. “Yes. Sort of.”
He smiled, studied me as he had so many times before. Only this time he didn’t give me the willies. This time I recognized the glint in his eyes for what it was. Interest. Curiosity. I intrigued him. Okay. That was good, right? Because it meant he wouldn’t mind having me around. Maybe.
“You’re not qualified.”
The thought of working with Arch, of doing something vital bolstered my confidence. “You’re wrong. Arch explained that a con artist is a one-person theater troupe—set designer, writer, director, actor. I’ve done all of those things. I have more than twenty-five years’ experience in entertainment. I create illusions. Perpetuate fantasies. I can blend in anywhere. Just like a Chameleon.” My heart thundered in my chest. “Plus I have sleight-of-hand skills and a kick-butt memory. I can think of a dozen scenarios where those talents might come in handy.”
He grinned.
Optimism sparked and burned through my blood. Call me hopeful. “I was born for this job.”
“You talk a good game.”
“I can bullshit with the best of them.”
“I’ve seen you in action.” He rocked back on his heels, studied me, hard. I didn’t flinch. As auditions went, this was cake. All I had to do was be myself. A woman with dreams and goals. A woman of many talents.
“There might be a position, but—”
“Great. I’ll go through the training. Whatever it takes. I’m your girl.”
“I’m thinking you’re Arch’s girl.”
My heart fluttered. “Why would you think that?”
He didn’t answer directly, just studied me with those disconcerting eyes. “Mixing business with pleasure is dangerous. Especially in our field, Ms. Parish.”
“You can call me Evie, Agent Beckett.”
“Only if you call me
Milo.”
“Milo.” Now, I decided, was a good time to utilize my acting skills. “No offense, but you’ve misread the situation. I was just pretending to be enamored with Arch and vice versa. It was part of our ruse. We’re just…friends.”
“Friends, huh?”
I smiled and lied through my teeth. “The last thing I want is a romantic entanglement with a man who has secrets. Trying to get a straight answer out of Arch is—”
“Frustrating?” He smiled then glanced away and blew out a breath. Unease danced along my spine, but then he turned back and offered his hand. “I’ll give you a shot on a trial basis.”
I pumped my fist in the air. “Yes!” Remembering myself, I clasped his hand, shook. “I mean, thank you, Agent Beckett, um, sir.”
“Milo.”
“Milo.” So different from Tex. Then again this man was nothing like that obnoxious character. I didn’t know this man at all. But he was…interesting.
He nodded to the door. “I’m going to have a conversation with your doctors. You have some serious bumps and bruises, but I figure you’re fit enough to fly home. I have a chartered jet on standby. We can discuss Chameleon on the flight.” He gave me a hard look. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
I don’t know this dance.
Neither do I. Just go with it.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
When he was gone, I turned to the table next to the bed, poured water from a pitcher into a glass and drank. My tongue was bone-dry. Performance jitters, I thought with a wry smile. I noticed my Lucy tote on the table and pulled it onto my lap. Agent Beckett—Milo—must have put it there. The sun shone through the window and heated my sheets. I could see palm trees through the glass. We were still in the islands. I probably couldn’t get a signal, but I wanted to check my cell. Maybe Arch had left me a message. When I opened my tote my fingers connected with a book wrapped in tissue paper. I yanked it out, tore away the wrapping.
