by Beth Ciotta
“So…” Nic said, passing the platter of eggs, “the cruise ship. The acting gig. These guys hired you to work a sting, didn’t they?”
“Yes.” The admission lightened my heart considerably. “Although I didn’t know that going in.” Lest she think I’d been lying to her from the get-go.
She turned on the men. “What’s wrong with you? Suckering an untrained woman into a dangerous situation.”
Beckett bristled. “We didn’t—”
“She came home with a fricking bandage on her head.”
“That wasn’t their fault,” I said. “I cracked out of turn.”
“What does that mean?”
“Missed my cue. Made a mistake. The roper directed us to the insideman. We were in the big store, but before he could put us on the send, I cracked out of turn. The reverse con curdled, I faked a swoon and bonked my head.”
Nic gawked. “Everything before faked a swoon and bonked my head was Greek to me, Evie.”
Arch sipped coffee, smiled. “You’ve been reading up on the lingo, yeah?”
“Had her nose stuck in Maurer’s The Big Con on the flight from Philly to Cleveland,” Beckett said. “Informative but outdated. If you want to learn—”
“She doesn’t,” Nic said.
“Yes, I do. This is my chance to do something important.”
“When you perform, you make people happy, Evie. That’s important.”
“Except the casinos aren’t hiring me anymore.”
“You know how it works in town. Cycles. This is a phase.”
“But not one I can weather. It’s not about what’s hot musically, it’s about what’s hot physically. It’s about age.” I laid my hand on hers, squeezed. “And you know it.” They weren’t hiring her all that much, either. She kept afloat by filming commercials and modeling at trade shows. Two markets I’d never broken into, and at this late date, forget it. “Performers and con artists have a lot in common, Nic.”
“I’ll try not to take that as an insult.”
I smiled. “I’ll explain later. Eat your eggs. They’re getting cold.” The men had already cleaned their plates.
“Not so fast,” she said. “Are you singing in that club for real?”
“Yes,” Beckett answered for me. “I’m not putting her in the field.”
“Yet,” I said. “I have to pay my dues.”
“I can only hope they’re high,” she said drily. “Second, did you break up with Too Hot To Handle over there or not?”
Arch’s eyes danced with humor, but his expression and tone were stone sober. “She did.”
I seconded that. I didn’t blush. I didn’t scratch. It wasn’t a lie. I’d broken off with him in London.
“That’s something, I guess. Trusting your heart to a con artist wouldn’t be smart.” She eyed Arch. “No offense.”
He smiled at her over the rim of his coffee up. “Cannae argue with logic, yeah?”
His lame comeback revived previous reservations. Damn him. “He no longer grifts for personal gain,” I felt compelled to say.
Nic smirked. “Let me put it another way. Trusting a man who’s in the business of deceiving seems iffy at best.”
Arch chuckled and winked at me. “No guff.”
“Guff makes me gag,” Nic said. “Tell it to me straight or tell it to the King.”
Beckett’s lip twitched. “Elvis or Larry?”
“Larry, of course. Who talks to dead people?”
“Jayne’s psychic,” I said. “Madame Helene.”
“You know what I think of her.” She focused back on Arch. “So why are you here? Why are you here?” she asked Beckett.
“What did you say to Mrs. Parish when she mentioned Arch and the baron angle?” he asked by way of an answer.
“What could I say? Since I didn’t want to look like a fool, I played dumb. Said I misunderstood and thought they were staying with her.”
“Brilliant,” Arch said.
“Fortunate,” Milo said, then added, “I don’t suppose there’s a chance you’ll fly back home tonight, Ms. Sparks.”
“Get real, Slick. I’m not leaving until Evie does or until one of you explains why you’re all here.”
He looked to me. “Want to tell her about your mom?”
Boy, did I ever. “I think she’s being swindled.”
Nic blinked. “I’m all ears.”
I relaxed a little as she picked at her breakfast, grateful for a chance to come clean, at least in part, with my friend. I was also happy for the chance to impress Arch and Beckett with my newly acquired knowledge of the Sweetheart scam.
When I finished, the only one who looked dazzled—or maybe I should say dazed—was Nic.
“I’ll drive you to the airport,” Beckett said, to which she replied, “Like hell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MIDMORNING, DRESSED, fed and primed for action, Arch and I headed into town. I didn’t argue when he took the wheel; I needed to make a call, and reception was stronger closer to Greenville. A mile down the road I dug my cell out of my Lucy tote and powered on. Only…“Darn it.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot to charge my cell and I need to touch base with my brother.”
Instead of razzing me, like Michael, Arch simply reached around to his left side and produced his cell.
“Thanks.” I held it in my hand, perplexed.
“Just press in the numbers, then hit the green button, yeah?”
“It’s not that. I just…didn’t you get a new phone?”
“No.”
“I could’ve sworn…” Yesterday, on his way to rescue me from the tree, he’d been ending a phone conversation. I could’ve sworn the cell looked smaller, sleeker. Then again, I’d been several feet above him with leafy branches partially obstructing my view. “Never mind.”
Noting several bars, indicating we’d hit a hot spot, I pressed in the number, hoping the signal held strong. Arch navigated the bumpy rural road. I handled Christopher.
“So you didn’t learn anything yet?” my brother asked.
“It’s not like Mom and I are best buds.” I adjusted my seat belt, a subtle excuse to massage the ache in my chest. “I’m working on it.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t brought your boyfriend…”
“Actually, she’s more forthcoming with Arch than she is with me.” The ache intensified.
“So let him sweet-talk the information out of her. I heard the guy’s smooth.”
“From whom?”
“He impressed Dad, and Dad’s not easily impressed. Also Sandy heard it from someone who heard it from Monica Rhodes.”
“Monica is a self-absorbed, spiteful…witch.”
“When are you two going to bury the hatchet?”
“She’s the one holding the grudge. She didn’t even offer me a part in the production the theater’s putting on for Mrs. Grable. The other drama-club alumni are participating in some way. Me, she just invites to watch. Oh, and to make a donation.”
Arch glanced over.
I waved off his concern. “Whatever,” I said to Christopher. “Mom hasn’t withdrawn any more money, has she?”
“No.”
“Good. Listen, we’re on our way into town. We could swing by the bank and—”
“I’ll see you tonight. Mom invited us to the barbecue.”
“Are you bringing the kids?”
“Of course.”
Oh, goody. The snooty wife and her demon offspring. “Excellent. A chance to get to know them better.”
“Sandy’s looking forward to meeting…your friend.”
European nobility. But of course she was.
Christopher made a queer sound in the back of his throat. “How in God’s name did you hook up with a Scottish baron, Evelyn?”
As if I wasn’t sophisticated or smart enough to mix with nobility. Evie the lowly entertainer. “I’m sure you didn’t intend that like it sounded,” I gritted out, wanting to give him the
benefit of the doubt.
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. See you tonight.” I disconnected and banged my head against the car’s luxurious headrest. Why did our exchanges have to be so cold? Why hadn’t I followed through with my vow to be the first one on the floor? I could have ended the discussion with I love you— which I did. Or I can’t wait to see you. Something, anything, to indicate sisterly affection. But as soon as he’d pushed me away, I’d taken offense and distanced myself even further. A habit I wanted to break.
Must. Boogie.
I passed Arch his phone, wondering suddenly if I’d at least remembered to toss my charger cord in my tote. More than once I’d needed to charge while on the road. I rooted in the jam-packed bag—wallet, address book, checkbook, sunglasses, hand cream…
Arch veered off the gravel road onto the paved road leading into town. “I take it we’re not stopping by the bank, yeah?”
“No.” Breath mints, three lip liners, two lipsticks, tampon…bingo! I yanked out the coiled cord and wired it from my cell to the car’s cigarette lighter.
Arch just grinned. “But I’ll meet your brother tonight.”
“Yes.”
“And his wife and kids.”
“Stepkids. Yes. You’ve been warned.”
“Cannae be that bad.”
I copied my brother’s throaty grunt.
“You dinnae fancy kids?”
“I adore kids.” I slid him a look. “You?”
“Kids are great, yeah?”
“Yeah.” My stomach lurched with a new and sickening thought. Not new to me but new in my thoughts regarding Arch and a long-term relationship. “I’m too old to have children. Safely, anyway. Not that you asked, but…”
“Not a factor, Sunshine.”
“Because you don’t want any?”
He peered over the rims of his sunglasses, a brief but soulful glance. “Just because.”
Okay, that was…cryptic. Suddenly I wasn’t so keen on being the first one on the dance floor where Arch was concerned. Sure, I’d implied I trusted him with my heart when we made love and I knew deep down I’d taken the plunge, but I hadn’t out-and-out said the L word. The old me, the insecure me, had made a cameo appearance. I wanted him to say it first or to at least suggest his heart was up for grabs. Then Beckett’s food-for-thought speech echoed in my head, doubling my trepidation. “Arch.”
“Aye?”
“About this morning…the making-love part.”
“Regrets?”
“No. You?”
“How can I regret something so profoundly fantastic, yeah?”
The romantic me melted. I wanted to believe him, but I didn’t. Not completely. Damn him for once telling me not to trust him. Then I thought about his unconventional upbringing. His personal code. Maybe he was holding back because he worried he’d hurt me. Emotional attachments compromise a grifter’s judgment—his words, not mine—and even though he no longer hustled for personal gain, he was still very much in the business. If he did love me, then he had to be wrestling with some powerful conflict. Maybe I needed to slow down, give him a chance to catch up.
Yeah, that was it.
“Nic wasn’t keen about lying to my family.” She’d doubled the guilt I’d already felt. “You know, the baron thing. I’m not all that keen on it, either. I know it’s for the greater good, but when the truth comes out…” I trailed off because, even with my boffo imagination, I couldn’t imagine.
He didn’t respond. A second ticked by. Three. Five. The prolonged silence made me squirm. Then I realized I knew that look—or, rather, nonlook. It was the weighty pause that gave him away rather than his expression. Something I’d experienced a few times before. He was deciding how little or how much, if anything, he was going to reveal or admit about whatever.
My senses buzzed in anticipation.
“It’s not a lie.”
Buzz. Buzz. “What’s not a lie?”
“I am the Baron of Broxley.”
“For the time being, you mean. For show.”
“For real and until I die or ditch it, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.” I struggled against the seat belt to face him as full-on as possible. The buzzing intensified. White-hot zaps of adrenaline. “What do you mean? No guff or so help me…”
He smiled, easing up on the accelerator when he spotted the hood of a police cruiser poking out from behind a billboard hawking John Deere tractors. “In Scotland, it’s possible to acquire a feudal barony if one possesses the required funds.”
Buzzzz-zzzit! “You bought a title?”
“Willnae bore you with legalities, but any person who holds a barony with the land title recorded with the proper sources in Scotland is entitled to the name and dignity of a baron.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Is this some sort of a test? Are you conning me? Trying to prove I’ll fall for anything? Next you’ll tell me William Wallace once slept in your bed and hid a sword under your floorboards, a sword that can be mine for the bargain price of fifty thousand dollars.”
He laughed. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
I scrunched my brow. “You’re serious about this barony thing?”
“Aye.”
“Broxley’s a real place?”
“Charming village.”
“You own land?”
“Significant acreage.”
“A castle?”
“A cottage. Although it is made of stone, and a man’s home is his castle, yeah?”
My body burned and I consciously avoided looking over at the cruiser as we drove by. Surely my red face was freckled with the word guilty. Guilty of riding shotgun with a professional, sort-of-retired con artist. A man who frequently broke the law or at least frolicked in the gray. Guilty of sort of being turned on by the fact that I was shagging an honest-to-gosh noble. Yeah, boy, talk about your Cinderella fantasy.
I shook off my shock and shallowness and hurried on before he shut me down. The man was only so forthcoming. “You called the cottage home, but you only just bought it, right? To back up this sting? Talk about going above and beyond. That’s a little anal, don’t you think?”
Another smile—part amused, part thoughtful. “I purchased the barony four years ago.”
I blinked. “Why?”
“To perpetuate a fantasy.”
Must’ve been another big con. A mother of a con. “Must’ve cost a fortune.”
“Worth every pence.”
I mentally flipped through the pages of Maurer’s book, trying to figure out what type of con would have justified that kind of initial investment. It was beyond my grasp. Then I wondered where Arch had gotten the money to pay for the barony in the first place. Was he like one of those superthieves in the movies who kept his wealth stashed in various foreign banks? What’s more, who did he bilk over the years? For how much and why them specifically?
“I can hear your wheels turning, Sunshine.”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“I wanted to ease your mind, not vex it, yeah?”
I smiled—a stupid smile, I’m sure, because I was stunned and confused, but I wanted him to know I appreciated his honesty.
If he was being honest.
Crap.
Always the doubt.
I tell people what they want to hear. Perpetuate fantasies. Smoke and mirrors, love.
Double crap.
“Funny,” I said, feeling my way. “I could swear Beckett was totally blindsided by the baron angle.”
“He was,” Arch said, flexing his fingers on the wheel. “He thinks I made it up to serve immediate purposes.” He glanced over. “For now, I’d prefer to keep the truth of the matter between you and me, yeah?”
My chest constricted. “Why?”
“The more people know aboot me, the more vulnerable I am.”
He’d told me that before. “But Beckett’s not people, he’s your friend.”
“Our relation
ship is complicated.”
“More than ours?”
“More than ours.”
Okay. But…“I can’t imagine why it would matter if Beckett knew. Purchasing a title, if I understood you correctly, is legal.”
“I have my reasons for keeping portions of my life private.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“I dinnae trust anyone.” He reached over and squeezed my knee, as if he knew I’d find that statement cynical and sad. “Nature of my profession.”
“Fine,” I heard myself say. “I just feel funny lying to your partner—my boss.”
“You’re not lying. You’re just not offering information.”
I quirked a brow. “You have a warped way of looking at things.”
Another squeeze. “Perspective, yeah?”
Yeah.
“Take Nicole, for instance.”
Okay, that wasn’t a too obvious change of subject.
“She didnae fuss overly much aboot the profile you concocted for her. If pretending to be Beckett’s girlfriend isn’t a lie…”
“That’s because she’s my friend and she wants to help. Besides, it made sense. We’re friends. Beckett’s the baron’s personal assistant. If he travels with you, then he was with you on your trips to Atlantic City. If she was with me when you and I met, then he was there, too, and there is such a thing as love at first sight.”
Arch stroked his goatee, hid a smile. “Amazingly, I followed that cockeyed line of reasoning.”
“Also reasonable was the scenario that her gig fell through last-minute, affording her time to join Beckett for a holiday at the B and B.”
“Absolutely.”
“Beckett could have been more gracious about it.”
