Everybody Loves Evie

by Beth Ciotta

  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 reevaluates 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 wa
s 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 attenddue 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.