Everybody Loves Evie

by Beth Ciotta

  I snatched my hand out of his grasp. Hard to think straight when he seductively stroked my inner wrist. “What risk? Remember when I picked the tour guy’s pocket? He never suspected a thing.”

  “He wasn’t a pro.”

  “We’re not one hundred percent sure Randolph is, either.”

  “But if he is, he’ll be savvy to the dip.” His expression was relaxed, but I sensed irritation. “Dinnae counter me on this, Sunshine.”

  I bristled. Was that an order? A threat? A comment on my dipping proficiency? Steam built between my ears, but before I could explode, Randolph swept back into the room along with a wiry man wearing dark trousers and a wrinkled golf shirt. “I apologize for the disruption,” the dance instructor said to Arch, “but Mr. Smith simply will not be deterred. He insists that you are European royalty. I’ve explained that you’re a foreign businessman, but he insisted on questioning you himself.”

  “I’m not royalty,” Arch said, straightening the tie I’d mussed.

  “I have it on good authority,” Smith said, producing a small spiral notebook, “that you’re the Baron of Broxley.”

  “I am. But it is not a royal title, simply a title of nobility, yeah?”

  The reporter beamed all the same.

  Randolph touched his fingertips to his heart. “Good heavens. I’m teaching a baron to waltz.” I could almost see dollar signs in his eyes.

  “I apologize for not being up front,” Arch said, affecting a lofty but congenial air. “I prefer to keep my title low-key. I’m here on holiday.”

  “To meet your girlfriend’s parents,” Smith said, pen to pad. “Since this is Ms. Parish’s hometown, you see why the local newspaper is interested to scoop the news first.”

  “News?”

  “The wedding.”

  I caught myself before I could blurt, What wedding? This wasn’t about the real me, the wannabe Chameleon in love with a slippery devil. This was about the embellished me, the Atlantic City performer in love with a Scottish noble. Playing an over-the-top character like ditzy Vegas girl Sugar Dupont had been a cinch compared to this. Playing any role aside from this would be a cinch. This ruse was too close to home—literally.

  I did what I always did when Arch sprung something on me. I followed his lead. He skirted the wedding issue and expertly fed the reporter information intended to advance Senator Clark’s sting. Though I pretended interest, my attention was on Randolph Gish. His enthusiasm seemed natural, but I had the distinct impression he was sizing up a mark.

  What a coincidence. So was I.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ARCH AND EVIE WERE tripping the light fantastic in Greenville. Gina and Tabasco were holed up in Chicago in a luxury hotel. Both teams were actively engaging marks.

  Meanwhile Milo was stuck in the fricking country, juggling calls from Pops, the Kid and the pain-in-the-ass director of the AIA. Preferring not to use the landline for business purposes, he’d strolled the grounds in search of signal for his cell. Frustrating, but not as frustrating as prepping the she-cat currently curled on the front-porch swing.

  He breathed in the fresh spring air hoping for a dose of tranquility. Instead he got a whiff of her bold perfume, a spicy scent that revved his pulse. Clearly this career crisis had triggered a self-destructive gene. He backed away and settled in a wicker rocker. “Let’s go over it one more time.”

  “Let’s not. Ever heard of rehearsing something to death, Slick? If you’re worried I’ll—what did Evie call it?—crack out of turn, don’t. Because I won’t.”

  After one afternoon in Nicole Sparks’s company, Milo understood why the woman was unattached. “Anyone ever told you you have a bad attitude, Nicole?”

  “Anyone ever told you you’re an uptight control freak, Milo?”

  He rolled a kink out of his neck, thinking a man would have to be a saint, a masochist or a mama’s boy to put up with her shit day in, day out. He didn’t care how beautiful she was or what those glossed full lips could do to a man. She was stubborn and opinionated. Not as cynical as him, but close. She also smoked and cussed like a dockworker. She was a dark, stormy night compared to bright, sunshiny day Evie.

  “I still don’t understand why we have to lie at all. Wouldn’t it be easier to tell Mrs. Parish the truth? We think you’re being swindled, ma’am,” she said, dropping her voice an octave and mimicking Milo’s mannerisms. “Possibly by your dance instructor, who we believe has won your confidence through nefarious measures.”

  “Ever been duped by someone you trusted, Nicole?” She averted her face, but not before he saw her cheeks flush. “Someone who took advantage, made you feel foolish? I’m guessing you didn’t feel comfortable sharing what you perceived as poor judgment with friends, let alone strangers. Grifters typically go free because the victims are too embarrassed to report the crime.”

  “Thank you for the lesson in Scams 101,” she said without looking at him. “I’ll file away the knowledge.”

  “I’m just saying, if we can make this go away without embarrassing Mrs. Parish—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” She lit up her third cigarette in one hour.

  “Those things will kill you.”

  She grunted. “That’s original.”

  “It’s your life.”

  “Yes, it is.” Composed now, she met his gaze. “So how’d you meet Arch?”

  “We were adversaries for several years.”

  She smirked. “Cat and mouse, huh? Wily mouse kept slipping through the claws of the law? That must’ve been hell on your ego.”

  “He kept me on my toes.”

  “And now he’s working with you.”

  “He is.”

  She swept her long hair over one shoulder, perked up for a story. “How’d that happen?”

  Milo stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “Classified.”

  “This Tabasco guy and what’s-her-name, Gina. They were here, now they’re not. What gives?”

  “Classified.”

  “Why’d you hire Evie?”

  His brain stumbled, but he responded automatically. “Need-to-know basis.”

  She held his gaze, blew out a stream of smoke. “I need to know.”

  He figured he owed her something. She was asking out of concern and loyalty to a friend. Had to respect that. “She caught me off guard.”

  “Not much of an answer.”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “Just digesting.” Her gaze slid south. “What’s with the mismatched socks?”

  He glanced down. One brown, one black. Hell.

  She smiled. “So…ready to lie your ass off at that barbecue?”

  He dragged his hands over his face. “Pretending to adore you is going to be a real stretch, Nicole.”

  “Ditto, Milo.”

  BY THE END OF THE afternoon Mr. Smith had his scoop, Randolph Gish had payment for several private lessons and I had a bone to pick with Arch. Strike that. An entire skeleton to pick with Arch.

  In spite of last night’s personal vow to speak my mind, I internalized. As long as we were in town, we were on. As a professional, I was committed to playing the part Arch had assigned me—a moony-eyed woman head over heels in love…with him. Similar to the role he’d assigned me on the cruise. My directive had been to fawn over him and follow his lead. Similar to this gig, only I got to wear my own funky clothes as opposed to dressing like a bimbo.

  I understood, given the circumstances, that I had to play me. We were dealing with my family, after all, not strangers. I understood why the baron thing might help with the senator’s case. Given his wealth and supposed weakness for cards, the Baron of Broxley made a prime mark. But why did we have to be a couple? He could’ve concocted a dozen other scenarios. Scenarios that wouldn’t have flamed our physical attraction. Now I was officially in love with the man and flirting with disaster. Loving Arch—a man with more secrets than an international spy—com
plicated things in ways I didn’t want to imagine.

  But I did.

  The entire time he schmoozed that reporter and baited Randolph. And after, when we grabbed lunch at a local shake-and-burger joint. Arch knew I had a weakness for happy-tummy food. Even that felt like a manipulation of some kind. But we were in public and we had to play our parts. I fawned like a pro and let him lead the way.

  Until we were in the car and driving back to the Appleseed.

  What if you have to choose?

  “We need to talk.”

  “You’re pissed because I asked you not to pinch Randolph’s wallet, yeah?”

  “You didn’t ask. You ordered me not to defy you.”

  “I didnae order.” He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, reconsidered. “I apologize if I sounded harsh.”

  “Apology accepted, but…” I tried to think of a delicate way to put it but couldn’t. “Stop manipulating me, Arch.”

  “I prefer to think of it as protecting, yeah?”

  Okay, that was sweet and it did cool my jets a little. Good intentions and all that. Still…“I don’t want to be protected. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines. I want to live and learn and grow—and I can’t do that if you’re being a mother hen.”

  He smiled at that. “No one has ever accused me of being a mother hen.”

  “Yes, well, if the beak fits…”

  He laughed.

  His good humor was annoyingly sexy. I could feel my anger fizzling. Sometimes, like now, I really hated that he could so easily derail my runaway thoughts. Speaking my mind came easier when I was pumped up, so I locked down. I ignored his bone-melting grin and my fluttering heart. I focused on the dashboard and stated my gripe. “l feel like you’re relegating me to the backseat. I know I’m a greenhorn in the confidence game, but I do have relevant skills. I also have a personal stake in this case.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “I appreciate your help in this matter but resent the way you flew in and took over. At least Beckett…”

  He glanced over. “Aye?”

  Something in his tone told me to choose my words carefully, except I was too revved to think of a way to wrap a pretty bow around the ugly truth. “At least Beckett’s motivations for coming here were pure.”

  The car picked up speed, eating up the country miles as Arch took an unexpected detour. I checked my seat belt, angled the air vents so that they blew directly on me as I battled a bout of flop sweat. I wanted to ask where he was going. I wanted to demand he slow down. Call me tongue-tied.

  “What was that supposed to mean?” he finally asked.

  He didn’t glare. He didn’t shout. Too bad for me, because that would’ve triggered a red haze. Instead I struggled to state the ugly truth as I saw it. “Beckett was genuinely worried about my mom. He came here to help, to lend his expertise, not to show off. We discussed the situation. We came up with a plan. We can do this, he said. Costars, not the leading man and the starlet extra.” Tears pricked my eyes as my heart bumped its way further up my throat.

  “Dinnae stop now, Sunshine. You’re on a roll.”

  I balled my fists in my lap so as not to sock him in the arm. I’m not a violent person. Usually. The things this man brought out in me…“You said you came here to keep your partner from botching his career. As if he’s incapable of functioning without you—but that’s another matter. Then you said you were here to help me, too. Like I was an afterthought. I think you’re too much of a coward to admit what really propelled you across the ocean to Greenville, Indiana.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Want me to say it for you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Jealousy.”

  He jammed on the brakes and I knew I’d gone too far. Not that I cared. He was right—I was on a roll. Ensconced in the red haze, patriotic music blaring in my ears, I unbuckled my seat belt and faced him. “You’re jealous of Beckett.”

  He left the car and slammed the door behind him.

  I did the same. I rounded the Mercedes, hopped up on tearing down Arch’s walls.

  He loosened his tie, worked his jaw. “Sometimes I just want to…” He mimicked strangling me.

  “Right back at you.” I understood his anger was born of frustration and fear. More than once he’d commented he was slipping. If I thought I was losing my singing chops, I’d be freaked out, too. He’d taught Beckett everything he knew and now Beckett was having some sort of career crisis. Was the government agent looking to fly solo? Did Arch view him as competition? Circulating in the entertainment industry, where artists, including myself, often measured self-worth by degree of talent, I knew the pitfalls of envy. Professional jealousy could be toxic. “Why can’t you just admit it?”

  “Fine. Have it your way.” He came toe to toe, stared me down. “The thought of you naked in Beckett’s apartment drove me insane, yeah?”

  My righteous tirade keyed down a notch. What?

  “And what aboot the skimpy nurse’s uniform? What the hell?”

  My mind scrambled.

  The Midol/whiskey debacle.

  I faintly remembered Beckett being on the phone a couple times. Arch must’ve been on the other end of the line. He’d overheard snippets of my slurred speech. My cheeks flushed hot. Surely he didn’t think…“Are you accusing me of sleeping with Beckett? Do you think I want to work for Chameleon so badly that I’d seduce the man in charge?”

  “You seduced me into sharing industry secrets, yeah?”

  I swung out, but he caught my hand before it connected with his face.

  “Sorry. Fuck.” He blew out a breath. “I didnae mean that.”

  Furious, I tried to wrench my wrist from his grip, but he held tight, tugged me closer.

  “You’re right. I’m jealous. Christ.” He dropped his forehead to mine. “I dinnae think you shagged him, but the possibility got under my skin, caused me to book the first flight to Philadelphia. Pops phoned as the jet touched down, brought me up to date. I didnae want Beckett to be your champion. It had to be me, yeah?”

  My heart pounded in my ears. “Why?”

  He cradled my face and kissed me. A tender meeting of the lips. A romantic gesture filled with promise. I burned as I’d never burned. Body—melting. Mind—ash. Maybe this was as close as he could get to admitting he’d fallen in love, too. This man who lived his life shunning emotional attachments.

  “Gee,” I said as he eased away, “you make it hard for a girl to be mad.”

  He brushed my flyaway hair out of my eyes. “I’ve been wanting to snog since we danced.”

  My lip twitched. “Toe mashing turns you on?”

  “Not the waltzing, the grinding.”

  “Ah, yes.” I smiled. “That was nice.”

  “Nice?” He smoothed his hands down my arms. “How romantic,” he said, turning my own words on me.

  I unknotted his tie. “You want romance, Ace?”

  “That’s why I brought you here, yeah? Sure as hell wasn’t to fight.”

  I looked around, noted our location. He’d parked the Mercedes under a large elm, on the edge of a grassy bank. Below us, the river and Little Turtle Rock. “Oh, my God.”

  “Stargazing you called it.”

  “But it’s the middle of the day.”

  “Planned on showing you the stars in my own way, lass.”

  Zing. Zap. “In broad daylight?”

  “Turning conventional on me?”

  As far as I could see, the only ones around, aside from us, were the birds and the bees. Snort. I whipped off his tie, pushed off his suit jacket and tossed them in the car through the lowered front window.

  He opened the rear door and gave me a playful shove inside.

  I stifled a giggle. “What are you doing?”

  “Relegating you to the backseat.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  He kissed me. Hard.

  I was all over that. All over him. Our tongues dueled as we fought to unbutton each
other’s shirts. Could a person expire from dire want? I smoothed my hands over his bare chest, his strong shoulders. Leaned into him as he reached around to unhook my bra. All the while we kissed and kissed.

  He tasted of peanut-butter pie and chocolate milkshake—decadent. I breathed in his spicy aftershave—zing. Reveled in the feel of his hands on my bare skin—zap. His fingers trailed lightly down my spine, inciting erotic shivers. Heaven. No. Sin City. I broke away, dropping my head back to allow him access to my throat, my shoulders, my breasts…“Wait!”

  “What?”

  “There has to be music. You can’t stargaze without music.” I wormed out of his arms and leaned over the front seat. I keyed the ignition, switched on the radio and scanned for a station, any station with no static.

  Arch grabbed my hips. The heat of his touch seared through the fabric of my pants.

  He bit my butt and I giggled.

  He bit my other cheek and I screamed.

  “Sorry, love.”

  “Not you! Him!” I covered my bare breasts with one arm, used my free hand to point at a man with a camera, not more than ten feet away and snapping pictures through a telephoto lens.

  Arch flew out of the car just as the photographer sprinted for a copse of trees. He must’ve parked down the road.

  I grabbed a shirt, shoving my arms in the sleeves as I scrambled out of the Mercedes.

  “Screw the Tribune,” I heard the man shout. “The tabloids will start a bidding war over these babies!”

  Could a person die of embarrassment? The bastard had my breasts, Arch kissing my breasts and biting my butt, on film! This was worse than the casino incident. I shouted a victory cry when Arch tackled the man to the ground. “Pervert!” The photographer, not Arch.

  Buttoning the shirt—Arch’s shirt, I realized as I struggled with the too-long cuffs—I raced forward, meaning to bash that camera to smithereens if I had to. As I dived into the tussling match, I heard the whoop-whoop of a cruiser siren.

  Somewhere in the back of my brain Beckett groaned. Only you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE