by Beth Ciotta
And, okay, I wanted to make Arch suffer.
After catching him watching me and hearing that curse, I was pretty certain I’d stirred up something with my tongue. I’m not exactly inexperienced in the kissing department. Damn him for making me doubt my sensuality, even if only for a few restless hours. As if Michael hadn’t done enough damage.
But I digress.
My job, as described by Arch, was to be the life of the party, to dupe some bad sort into believing that I’m a free-spirited, head-over-heels-in-love newlywed. For the greater good, he’d said. For art, I added on my own, because I wanted to show the world that a convincing performance comes from within. Honed skills over physical perfection. Age is moot.
With each stroke of the makeup brush, I thought more about Sugar and less about Arch. Her background and dreams. Specific character traits—socially outgoing, expressive, a desire to be admired. We had a lot in common—upbeat and imaginative, flying through life by the seat of our pants. Those aspects of Sugar’s personality would come to me naturally. The klutz factor would require effort, although I could count on the stilettos to keep me off balance. Flaunting my body wouldn’t be too much of a trial since it wasn’t my body, but Sugar’s. A character’s clothes, or lack of, provided superficial motivation.
The true challenge lay in adopting her excessive-talking, heart-on-her-sleeve mentality. I’d have to battle my suppressed Midwestern upbringing in order to gab about anything and everything that came to mind, especially personal fears and desires. Unlike Sugar, I internalize. I’m not one for unleashing my inner demons. Giving those casino execs hell had been totally out of character.
I thought back on yesterday—post-booby-baring, pre-contemplating-the-consequences. For a brief moment, I’d felt empowered and free. Sugar, I decided as I supersized my breasts to 34Cs via the “extreme cleavage” bra, felt empowered and free around the clock.
Must be nice.
Then again, being in character allowed me to act out of character. Bonus. I could do with a little acting out.
I crammed my feet into strappy stilettos and squeezed my curves into a skintight, low-cut, purple-flowered sundress because Sugar felt better dolled up.
And because I wanted to make Arch suffer.
Glamour makeup—check. Sex kitten hair—check. Lots of skin…well, way more than I generally showed—check.
“Brilliant,” was all he said when I emerged from the bathroom an hour later in my Doris Day meets Pamela Anderson splendor. A man of few words this morning, but at least the words were positive. Whether he meant them personally or professionally, I didn’t know and didn’t care. A glimmer of his flirty nature returned as we reviewed our profiles over the breakfast he’d ordered in. Arch-Charles in flirty mode was more fortifying than a bowl of Wheaties.
It wasn’t until we’d loaded into the cab and were on our way to the cruise port that my husband became chatty. “My wife’s first cruise,” he said to Ramon the cabbie, an apologetic explanation for my enthusiastic rambling.
Though I gabbed with a Brooklyn accent, used exaggerated hand gestures and occasionally giggled, the bubbling nervous energy was every bit mine as it was Sugar’s. I’d never been to Florida, never been on a cruise. I’d never performed in a two-person show, an entire ship as my stage. Considering the escalating traffic as we neared the cruise port, my audience—passengers and crew—would number in the thousands.
My neck tingled with the promise of a rash. My jaw throbbed. What if I bombed? What if someone saw through my ruse and pegged me as a fake? You’re not Sugar Dupont, the sexy, vibrant, wife of a wealthy author. You’re that over-forty divorcée with the washed-up career!
I scratched at my prickly skin and wrestled with a monster called stage fright, while Ramon navigated traffic and delivered his tour guide spiel. His description of Lauderdale’s Blue Wave Beach—white sand and crystal-clear surf—provided an escape from my imagination’s crash-and-burn scenario. “Gee, it sounds beautiful. Think we can take a detour, Charlie?”
“Paradise awaits in the Caribbean,” Arch said, heavy on the Cary Grant accent. “Patience, love.”
He halted my scratching by clasping my hand and nuzzling my ear. My eyes rolled back in my head. Not that he noticed since I was wearing my mambobig and dark sunglasses. The orgasmic groan, he noticed.
“Newlyweds,” he explained to Ramon.
The dark-eyed Cuban checked me out via the rearview mirror. Men of various ages and ethnicities had been checking me out all morning—the bellhop, the front desk clerk, a group of conventioneers. Jayne would’ve shot them a disapproving look. Nicole would’ve twitched her hips or flipped them the bird, depending on her mood. I didn’t have a standard reaction. Men didn’t leer at women like me.
Except, I wasn’t me. I was Sugar.
Every smarmy wink and suggestive smile validated my acting skills and boosted my damaged ego. I’d probably wake up tomorrow or the day after feeling cheap, but just now I felt desirable. Take that, Sasha.
I sensed myself sinking deeper into fantasyland, disconnecting with Evie Parish and embracing Sugar Dupont.
“Lucky man,” Ramon said with a sexy smile.
“Yes, I am.”
I pretended that Arch was sincere, another positive charge to my confidence. I’ll take all the zaps I can get. Then I thought about something else he’d said. Not the paradise part, because that only summoned visions of us doing the horizontal rumba, but the part about the Caribbean. I hadn’t given thought as to where we’d be sailing. I’d been too focused on my performance. My mind fast-reeled with movies filmed in the islands. Tropical images burned bright. I could hear Bob Marley—“One love, one heart.” I could taste the rum. I could feel my cares slipping away.
Paradise.
Who needed Calgon when they had the Caribbean? Turquoise waters, sunshine, sunscreen. Arch in a bathing suit. Arch in a bathing suit rubbing sunscreen on my bare back.
My rash ebbed as my imagination soared.
“Here we are,” Ramon announced, cutting my fantasy short. “Port Everglades.”
The cab rolled to a stop at a security checkpoint and Arch handed the guards the requisite passports and travel documents through the window. Pleasantries were exchanged and, when they handed back the passports, I nipped them out of Arch’s hands for a look-see. Mostly I was interested in mine.
Amazing how official it looked. It boasted Sugar’s name and my professional head shot. I remembered then that Michael had e-mailed a JPEG, but how had Arch transferred it onto a government document?
I quirked a suspicious brow and handed the falsified booklet back to my not-entirely-truthful husband. I resisted the urge to punch him in the arm for lying to me. Socking my cane-wielding, AARP-card-carrying husband might not look so good to Ramon, shattering the illusion of newly wedded bliss. Not that I should give a flying fig about Arch’s illusion. The deception might not be illegal, but that passport was. If I landed in a foreign prison because of him, I’d…I’d…well, at the very least, he’d never work with this actress again.
Either he was a mind reader or he could hear me grinding my teeth. He derailed my runaway thoughts by pressing his mouth to mine. His tongue teased open my mouth and a fierce hunger caused me to feast. The ache in my jaw instantly eased. Kissing—the new treatment for TMJ. I melted in his arms, my senses fully and wonderfully compromised. For a few blissful seconds I was sweet sixteen and making out in the backseat with the high school hunk. My insides bubbled with girlie excitement. Don’t giggle, Parish. Jeesh.
When he eased away and lowered my sunglasses, it took me a minute to focus on his intent gaze. The man had kissed me blind.
He smiled. “No worries, love.”
I would have believed him if he told me the sky was green. I contemplated his top-notch bullshitting skills as I fought to recapture my breath and he angled away to look out the side window.
“Third-busiest cruise port in the world,” Ramon said while maneuvering heavy traffic
. “Mucho ships set sail on Sunday. Between all of the cruise lines, day like today, you’re looking at 35,000 embarking passengers.”
Arch mumbled something like, “35,000 marks.” Or maybe it was max. Mumbling plus accent equals Greek to me. Plus my heart still thudded in my ears, an aftereffect of that supernova kiss. He’d messed with my hearing as well as my vision and if that wasn’t bad enough, I felt as if I was hurtling through space. Had I really thought Arch merely potent? Try lethal.
I surveyed our surroundings seeking to ground myself. No businesses or shops, just massive lots of land teeming with trailer containers, like the ones on the back of a semitruck.
Then the ships came into view! About a dozen of them, docked side by side. A fleet of floating hotels and entertainment resorts. I flashed back to my favourite episodes of The Love Boat. As a teen, I’d loved that sitcom. Although deep down I’d always believed I would become a professional performer, I sometimes toyed with the idea of pursuing a career as “cruise director.” Maybe I should have taken those interests more seriously. I’m beginning to think the concept of destiny is a load of hooey.
A fervent believer in mystical hooey, Jayne would argue differently. According to Nicole, yesterday our friend had visited her psychic. Madame Helene had seen a tragic event in Jayne’s future. A loved one will suffer.
My gaze zeroed in on the lifeboats. Scenes from Titanic, which I saw, like, ten times, assaulted my brain accompanied by Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.”
Great. Better to focus on The Love Boat and its schmaltzy theme.
Ramon delivered us to the appropriate gate. A porter carted off our luggage and placed it into a large square cage along with a lot of other luggage. Arch tipped the men, bade them farewell.
“I hope they don’t deliver Big Red to the wrong cabin. My feet are killing me.” Sugar could look sexy in sneakers, couldn’t she?
“Who’s Big Red?” Arch asked softly as we hobbled toward the glass doors of the terminal.
“My suitcase.” I didn’t have a cane to lean on, so I leaned into Arch. Besides, his limp was fake.
“You name your suitcases?”
“People name their cars, don’t they?”
“Some people.” He lowered his voice even more. “You dinnae talk to Big Red, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“Typically, people who name their cars talk to them, yeah? Come on, baby. Turn over,” he lulled in a husky voice. “Purr for me, and I’ll fill you up with the good stuff.”
It’s impossible to squeeze your thighs together while walking at a brisk clip, so I had to endure the erotic tingle. Heavenly hell. “I don’t talk to Big Red.”
He grinned, and the tingling intensified.
He’d probably charmed his way through life, wielding his sexual charisma like a suggestive spell. Harry the Hypnotist had nothing on Arch. During the aftershock of one of his kisses, if he directed me to squawk like a chicken, I’d probably flap my arms for good measure. Part of me reveled in the magic. Part of me felt manipulated. Mostly I felt challenged. I knew that in order to hold my own with this Bad Boy, I needed to connect with my inner Bad Girl. The same girl who’d flashed the execs. This was war.
As soon as we breezed through the doors, I threw my arms around his neck. “Oh, Charlie, baby, I’m so excited!” Yeah, boy, that was the truth. “My first cruise!” I kissed him. Openmouthed with lots of tongue. No mercy. I slid my hands to his spectacular butt. I wiggled against JT—not easy given that strap-on belly—and…hello!
Someone cleared their throat. Couldn’t have been Arch. We had a tonsil-teasing kiss going on.
He pushed me to arm’s length and the throat-clearer came to light. A uniformed greeter. A round-eyed young chick with a Crest Whitestrips smile. Her freckled cheeks burned bright.
“Newlyweds,” Arch and I said in our pseudo accents, our smiles nearly as broad and fake as hers.
“I, um, I was just noticing—” she glanced toward Arch’s cane and ended up staring at his crotch “—your limp.”
I—Sugar, rather—laughed. “I beg to differ, honey.”
Arch, rather, Charles, coughed.
The girl blushed brighter and focused on something in the distance. “If we can ease your discomfort, I mean, assist, I mean…would you like a wheelchair, sir?”
“Gee, we’ve never done it in a wheelchair, Charlie.” I winked at the poor girl. She looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but here. Arch, the one I meant to ruffle, looked amused.
“I say, dear girl, that’s most kind of you. Sprained ankle,” he said. “Dreadful pain.”
“I’ll summon a wheelchair, sir.” She couldn’t get to the phone fast enough.
Arch smiled at me—slow, evil.
Then I got it.
Ramon had warned it could take as long as two hours to check in. Arch would be in a wheelchair.
I’d be on my feet.
Oh, yeah. This was war.
CHAPTER NINE
CHECK-IN WAS HECTIC and tedious. Don’t get me wrong. The cruise ship representatives were helpful and friendly, but, given the mob of embarking passengers, the process took forever.
My feet and good humor took a serious hit.
Just after crossing over the gangway, Arch and I encountered the ship’s photographer and two young women dressed in fun, flirty sailor suits. I know fellow entertainers when I see them. The hairpieces, theatrical makeup and outgoing personalities were dead giveaways. They engaged us in a classic meet and greet and invited us to join them for a souvenir photo. Part of their job was to distract boarding customers from yet another line forming in the ship’s atrium. Even though they made me smile, I endured a stab of envy as they worked their magic.
I used to make people happy.
I’m not a competitive person, but my adrenaline spiked. I could still make people happy. To prove it, I ratcheted up the schmaltz—Sugar, full blast. I used ditzy banter to amuse the security guards who inspected our Fiesta Cards—a plastic card thingy that worked as a boarding pass, room key and on-board charge card. I cracked up the assistant cruise director, Gavin King, by nabbing a hairbrush out of my purse to demonstrate my microphone technique when he mentioned a karaoke night. “Although I don’t know that it would be fair of me to participate,” I said in my cutesy voice. “I’m a lounge singer, you know.”
“Retired lounge singer.” Arch grasped my left hand, thumbed my fake wedding band. He smiled up at me all lovey-dovey, and I froze, my next line forgotten! “We recently married,” he continued. “I fear life on my remote estate can be quite boring. I trust my wife will be well entertained upon this cruise.”
“Absolutely.” Gavin enthusiastically listed several other activities. A consummate people person, this man was responsible, along with his boss, for coordinating passenger activities and creating excitement and fun.
I could create excitement and fun.
Again, it occurred to me that maybe I’d missed the boat—no pun intended. Maybe I should’ve pursued my fleeting childhood dream to fill Julie McCoy’s canvas shoes. Was there an age limit on newbies in the cruise director field? Except experience had taught me that you don’t pull special events out of your butt. A lot of preplanning and day-of details go into coordinating one measly function. I prefer performing to paperwork. Rehearsals over red tape.
My mom’s voice barked in my ears. When are you going to grow up? You’re over forty now, you know.
Yeah, I know.
Rebelling, I regressed another few years, singing “Conga” and weaving Arch’s wheelchair on a serpentine route through the Atrium—a spacious public area that resembled the lobby of a high-class hotel. Stepping onto a Fiesta cruise ship was like stepping into Oz. An overwhelming glitz factor and multitudes of happy, peppy characters. Umm, staff. One would think that, since I work in casinos, I’d be used to glitz and pep. Except I work in Atlantic City, not Vegas. With the exception of one or two of the East Coast resorts, there’s not a lot of emphas
is on glitz. And though most casinos preach customer service to their employees, consistent downsizing made hotel and gaming staff cranky rather than peppy. Costumed performers used to spread cheer, but the strolling entertainment programs in A.C. were obsolete.
Making me obsolete.
I buried the sobering thought. I was Sugar, not me. “Come on shake your body, baby, do the conga!”
Hubby craned around, peered up at me through his tinted lenses. “Nice voice.”
I’m not sure if it was the compliment or the sexy tilt of his mouth, but my insides went all gooey. Again. I reflected on his atomic kisses. Again. I wanted to ask if he was as hot for me as I was for him or just a total horndog who could get it up for any woman—but I didn’t. It had to be the latter. Men like Arch Reece, enigmatic, dark and dangerous charmers, didn’t chase women like me. Sexpots like Sugar, maybe. But not Ivory-soap Evie.
My jaw throbbed and again I cursed the fact that I’d fallen asleep without my splint. Sugar didn’t have TMJ. Sugar wasn’t stressed. Then Cher materialized in my mind as she’d appeared in Moonstruck and slapped me twice. Snap out of it!
Right.
You are Sugar.
Right.
I rounded the wheelchair and, hands on Arch’s thigh, bent over to give him a prime view of my pumped-up cleavage. “Ah, Charlie, you were a sucker for my voice from the start.” Mimicking Peggy Lee’s sultry voice, I crooned a line of “Fever.” Then I leaned in closer, winked. “Or was it that split-up-to-there red dress?”
He stroked his silver whiskers, started to say something, but was distracted.
I glanced in the direction he was looking. Speaking of red dresses…A dark-haired woman wearing a chiffon halter dress glided toward the elevators. The hem kissed the back of her superlong legs midthigh. Since we couldn’t see her face or breasts, I took it Arch was a leg man.
I pressed my mouth close to his ear. “Hey, you’re a newlywed, remember? You shouldn’t be checking out other women.” I eased back, forced a smile and twirled my ring. “Not that I care.”
He studied me, grinned. “You care.”