by Beth Ciotta
Of all the…
“I only have eyes for you, Sugar.” He hauled me onto his lap and sealed that vow with a kiss. The crowd noise faded and the schmaltzy The Love Boat theme blared in my head. “Set a course for adventure, your mind on a new romance.” Arch’s tongue danced circles around mine and lulled me into a stupor. Again. Holy guacamole, this man could kiss.
Just as it was getting good, meaning the tingling between my thighs had intensified to a moan-inducing ache, he broke contact. The schmaltzy crooner in my head choked. No, wait. That was a cough. And it wasn’t the crooner in my head, but another happy, peppy crew member at our side.
Arch, or rather, Charles, winked up at the kid. “Newlyweds.”
“Congratulations!” he chirped, then manned the wheelchair. “Might I be of service?”
“Good of you to offer, son. I’m looking for the shore excursion director.”
I scrambled to my feet, scrambled for a thought that didn’t involve getting naked with Arch. I teetered alongside as the crewman steered the wheelchair across the Atrium. Sporting a dazzling white grin, he rattled off vital information. Most notably: the mandatory lifeboat drill. Yeah, boy, that worked like a cold shower. Aware that this cruise would be attended by a good thousand or more, I massaged my jaw while trying not to obsess on the lifeboat-to-passenger ratio.
The crewman circumvented the crush of passengers and ushered us to a vacant section of the front desk. Arch thanked him, abandoned the wheelchair and introduced himself to the shore excursion director.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. and Mrs. Dupont. My name is Lucas.” If he was shocked by our age difference, he didn’t show it. All of the crew members thus far had seemed unfazed. Like me, they’d probably seen it all. “Our official Shore Excursion Talk takes place in the Fiesta Theater tomorrow at 10:30 a.m. At that time I’ll provide you with an extensive overview of visits to San Juan, St. Thomas, La Romana and Nassau. You can book your excursions directly after. However, if you’d like to preview a brochure…”
I drifted as he launched into a sales pitch, noting that most of the other guests were seniors. I felt oddly at home. Although the Atlantic City casinos were currently angling to hook the younger generation, the meat of their revenue, minus high rollers, came from the over-sixty crowd. The blue hairs that bus in and drop their disposable income into the slots and buffet food into their purses. I’ve been entertaining and mingling with seniors for years. Maybe this Sugar gig wouldn’t be so hard after all. At least the demographics were familiar.
The bad-guy element, now that was another matter.
While Arch discussed ports of call with Lucas, I surreptitiously scanned the bustling area, looking for whomever it was we were supposed to deceive. Smoke and mirrors. All I saw were pleasant, smiling faces. Couples on vacation. Harmless, not dangerous. Certainly no one who looked suspicious.
On the other hand, there were a scattered few who looked plain silly. Like the cat-eye-spectacled grandma who walked away from the balloon artist wearing a latex palm tree on her head. On second thought, the fact that she was brave enough to wear the sculptured balloon hat was kind of cute. I couldn’t say the same for the fashion disaster, sitting in a club chair, chomping on an unlit cigar while reading the newspaper. Seriously, what kind of man combines a Texan Stetson, Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and combat boots, thinking he looks good?
Then again, I was wearing a skintight flowery sundress and carrying an I Love Lucy travel tote. Nothing criminal about quirky taste. Okay, Tex Aloha. Whatever rings your bell.
My mind zipped back to the element of risk. I twisted my ring, wishing I knew specifics. For the greater good, I told myself.
Arch wrapped a strong arm around me as if sensing my unease, all the while chatting amiably with Lucas. He really was a top-notch actor. Quietly friendly to the crew members and overtly adoring of me—uh, Sugar.
“Feel free to contact me if I can be of further assistance,” Lucas said. He then gestured toward the bustling area decorated with an abundance of plants and festive balloon sculptures. Whatever they were paying that balloon artist, he was worth every penny. “The Atrium bar is to our left. Danny, our most popular pianist, is performing there now. He knows at least four bars of any song ever written. There’s also a Welcome Aboard party in progress, poolside, Deck Nine. Live music. Dancing. Drink of the day, Fiesta Fandango.” He nodded toward a bank of elevators. “A cabin steward will direct you to the party or to the proper deck for your cabin, should you choose. You have plenty of time to explore the ship before the lifeboat drill.”
Again with the lifeboat drill. Dread shivered down my body, zapping life into my numb toes. I imagined Arch and I dangling from the stern, à la Jack and Rose, as the ship nosedived to the bottom of the deep blue sea. “At least they don’t have icebergs in the Caribbean,” I mumbled as we hobbled away from the desk.
“No,” Arch said with a smile in his voice. “Just hurricanes.”
Smart-ass.
I wrapped an arm around his augmented waist and leaned into him to ease the weight off of my cramped feet. Since I was pressed against him anyway, I took advantage and playfully nipped his earlobe. “You’re looking a little tuckered, baby. Whaddaya say we hit the cabin?”
Nudge. Nudge. Wink. Wink.
Not that I really wanted to fool around. Okay. That’s a lie. But not this minute. I really wanted to get off of my flippin’ feet.
He smiled down at me and my heart thumped. “Sweet of you to be concerned, love, but I wouldn’t dream of cheating you of a moment’s adventure.” He eyed the bar. “Let’s have a drink, shall we? Test Danny’s repertoire?”
So in other words it wasn’t time to break. “Sure.”
I sucked it up because I’m a trooper, and because Sugar wouldn’t turn down a drink. Why did I have this sinking feeling the fun-loving newlywed was going to be the death of me?
Don’t think the words sink, sinking or sunk while on a ship, Parish.
Right.
And don’t forget about the mandatory lifeboat drill.
Crap.
Dangerous men? Sinking ships? A drink suddenly sounded like a very good idea.
CHAPTER TEN
“GLAD I’M NOT claustrophobic.”
Milo shut the door with a quiet click and moved into the cabin behind Gina. Two steps in and he’d navigated half of the room. It wasn’t the square footage that surprised him as much as the monochrome decor. The carpet. The bedspreads. The cushion of the lone chair. Pink. The flower arrangement. The nightstand jimmied in between the twin beds. Pink.
Christ. “Cozy.”
Gina flipped her long brown ponytail over her shoulder, clipping Milo in the chin. He was standing that close. Back to him, she snorted her disgust. “Couldn’t The Kid book anything less…”
Cramped? he expected her to say.
“Pink?”
He smiled at that. He should’ve known. Although the five-foot-eight beauty was all woman, there wasn’t a delicate bone in her amazing body. Trained in self-defense and skilled in the art of love, she could seduce and throat-punch a man with equal proficiency. He liked that she could take care of herself. Unlike his ex-wife, Gina didn’t need a man to complete her. She didn’t hold men up to fairy-tale expectations. She understood Milo’s obsession with con artists, a like obsession that had driven her off the force. Gina Valente looked at the world with eyes wide open instead of through rose-tinted glasses. Next time he mated for life, he wanted a lioness, not a lamb.
Gina was a lioness.
She gestured to the beds. “Which one do you want?”
“Take your pick.” Both promised to cramp his six-foot-two frame. Hands on hips, he surveyed the accommodations, noted the limited storage space, the lack of windows. The thirteen-inch television had been shelved in a decorative corner box and suspended from the ceiling. Basic amenities. Given the last-minute booking, cabin selections were slim. Since suites and rooms-with-a-view were completely sold out, they’d had to settl
e on this interior stateroom.
Gina tossed her handbag on the bed nearest the postage-stamp-size bathroom. “What do you want to bet Ace has a suite?”
“Sucker bet.” Arch always traveled in style and rarely at his own expense.
Gina sank down on the bed, crossed those mile-long legs. “You snore?”
Although they’d worked together before, they’d never shared a room. “No. You?”
“No. But I sometimes talk in my sleep.”
To his knowledge, she’d slept with the enemy on at least two occasions in the line of duty. “Sounds dangerous.”
She smiled coyly as if reading his mind. “In those instances, I usually don’t sleep.”
He waited for the boner that never came. Annoyed, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts, rocked back on his rubber heels. “Thanks for doing this, Gina.”
“Please. Like this is work. Well, technically it is, but it’s a lot better than enduring subzero temperatures to bust a Ponzi scheme up in Juno.”
Last month’s reverse sting. Milo didn’t argue. February in Alaska was brutal.
Her keen brown gaze shifted around the room. “The cabin’s nauseating, but the ship’s a dream. A hop to the Caribbean? I plan on having fun, Jazzman. You could do with some yourself.” She looked him in the eye, blasted him with a sultry smile. “Fun, that is.”
He recognized flirting. What he couldn’t determine was her sincerity. He refrained from comment as she slipped into the bathroom and shut the door. Even if she was interested in a casual slam, it wouldn’t happen. Unlike Arch, he didn’t mix business with pleasure. Also, although he considered Gina hot, she didn’t light his fuse.
Not like the little firecracker he’d spotted down in the Atrium. The first woman to raise his flag in months and he was undercover. He’d looked away almost as soon as he’d noticed her. Who needed the torture? His divorce had been final a year ago. He was a free man. No ties. No obligations. Yet his sex life was freaking pathetic.
Meanwhile, he’d yet to corner his partner. He wanted answers, and they’d better be good. Although this was Arch, so of course he’d plead a convincing defense. Milo would need thigh-high boots to wade through the bullshit. Nothing new. The twist that threw Milo was Arch taking on a case Chameleon had determined dead in the water. This was uncharted territory.
Two weeks ago, HQ had alerted Milo to a beef filed by a Ms. Celia Benson, the granddaughter of Herman Stokes, a senior who’d claimed he’d been bilked in an investment scam. He’d died a month later, but not before filing complaints with a local bunco squad. Unfortunately, the police investigation tanked. Meanwhile, the crook who’d bilked him in the first place sent henchmen to dissuade him from making further complaints. They ended up scaring him to death. Or so Ms. Benson claimed. After a preliminary investigation, Chameleon had rejected the case. No proof. The complaint was based on hearsay and complicated by territorial laws. Bottom line, this scam was out of their jurisdiction. What the hell had possessed Arch to act?
With an unsanctioned player, no less.
The bathroom door opened and Gina reentered, freshly primped.
“I need to locate Arch’s cabin.”
She smoothed her hands over her sundress. “I’ll corner a steward.” She slinked toward the door. “How hard can it be?”
Definite flirting. Shit.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MENTAL NOTE: Fiesta Fandangos are toxic. A mild, fruity drink, the menu had said, with rum the only alcoholic ingredient. One word: False advertising. Okay, that’s two words, but those suckers are powerful. Pardon my muddled brain. I’d sipped the Fandango at the Atrium bar. It was the second drink, the one Arch had bought me poolside, that went down like water. I refused to let on that I was light-headed. My pride was at stake. No way, no how would I have Arch assuming I was a wimp…or a lush.
No way.
I’m a gifted actress. I can do sober. So act I did when, an hour later, a cabin steward showed us to our room. Hanging on Arch to keep my balance wasn’t a problem. I was only following directions, conscientious worker that I am. Michael would be so proud.
Yesterday’s cynicism welled up, but I pushed it down again. Besides, I was Sugar, not me. And Arch was Charles, an eccentric, potbellied, nearsighted author who’d sipped scotch and conversed sparingly with the bartender while I’d boogied with three energetic senior ladies at the poolside welcoming party. Calypso music and Gavin’s promise of a prize for the best mambo dancers had lured us away from our drinks. Since our menfolk didn’t want to participate, we’d latched on to each other. I’d partnered with Martha, the same woman I’d seen wearing the balloon hat, who had no sense of rhythm. We didn’t win, but we had fun.
Arch had watched the festivities with a crooked smile. “I need you to be the life of the party, yeah? A social butterfly.” I guess he was pleased with my efforts. All I could think was, this was just the first day in a week full of contests and activities. My feet hurt. My back hurt. The thought, I’m too old for this, crossed my mind and I shuddered.
I’d been on since we’d left the hotel this morning. I’d performed five hours straight. I was burned. I ask you—how am I supposed to maintain a vibrant, over-the-top personality for several days, hours at a time? As a lounge singer I’m used to forty minutes on, twenty off. Sure, I’ve worked harder. High-roller parties and high-stakes slot tournaments are murder. When booked as a dancer or an actress, I’ve gone as long as two hours without a break.
But this…this was a challenge. Challenge is good for the soul—the soul of body, not the feet. As soon as the steward vamoosed and the cabin door shut, I flopped facedown on the bed and groaned. “Whoever invented high heels should be shot. And as soon as I can figure out how to get even, you are dead meat.”
“Look forward to your efforts, Sunshine.”
I sat up to make a wisecrack and instead said, “Zowie.” The cabin was nothing like I’d imagined. I’d expected confined. Instead, I got spacious. A queen-size bed. Two, no, three rooms. Plus a balcony! TV-VCR, minibar, a love seat and cushy chairs. The entire setup was decorated in muted gold and shades of beige. Classy. I unbuckled the ankle straps, toed off the pain-in-the-foot stilettos and mentally happy-danced around the suite. That’s right, suite!
“I, um, wow. This is nice.”
“Charles is accustomed to comfort.”
“And you?”
“I’m a lot like Charles.”
“Filthy rich? Reclusive?”
He smiled then studied his reflection in a vanity mirror, re-knotted his ascot. “I need to go oot. You settle in. Relax. I’ll be back before we set sail, yeah?”
Hard to believe we hadn’t even left the dock and I’d already put in a week’s work. Ugh. Maybe he was right. Maybe I should rest. Recharge. “Yeah. I mean, okay.” I massaged the ball of my foot. “Where are you going?” It wasn’t my business, but curiosity preempted good manners.
“Oot.”
Out. Right. I frowned as the door hit him in his admirable ass. In his absence followed silence, and a flutter of anxiety. That desertion thing, I guess.
I twirled my chrysoprase ring, willing tranquility. None came. Get a grip, Parish. So I was alone. I could do alone. I’d been alone for months. More than a year, in fact.
Even though I was fuzzy headed, I didn’t feel like napping. I’d unpack, but our luggage had yet to arrive. I assured myself Big Red had not been mistakenly delivered to a stranger’s room, Big Red was in transit.
I stood and paced. I needed to walk off the Fandango and work out the charley horse cramping my left foot. I could also use a breath mint. I limped to the marble table where I’d ditched my Lucy tote, rooted for my Breath Savers. My cell phone chirped, announcing a new message. I popped a mint in my mouth, plucked the cell from the tote’s side pocket. As I connected to voice mail it occurred to me that I’d never listened to Jayne’s messages. According to Nicole, she’d left five. Was this the sixth?
Or maybe it was Micha
el.
Wince.
The first four were Jayne in frantic where-are-you mode. The fifth was Jayne again, only the morning after she knew I’d arrived safely in Florida. After a brief scolding, she turned upbeat.
“I just got a call from my agent and guess who got the spokesperson gig? Uh-huh. Britney. What was she, like, twelve? Whatever. So listen, Evie. I had a mass e-mail from Zippo-the-Clown. Fannie’s Flowers is looking for outgoing delivery people who can sing and dance. I know, I know. But it’s better than flipping burgers or typing status reports. Think of it as temporary, you know, until something legit comes along. At least you’d still be performing. Think about it, and be sure to e-mail me when you get settled on the ship. Love ya. Bye.”
My knees buckled. Thank goodness a chair was directly beneath my butt. Singing telegrams? That was only a notch above the gorilla gig!
I deleted Jayne’s absurdly chipper voice and moved on to message number six.
“Evelyn. It’s Mom.”
Great.
“I feel your pain. Now I know what it feels like to be betrayed,” she said with a sniff. “Don’t bother calling home hoping to speak to Daddy. He doesn’t live here anymore.”
End of message.
Panic buzzed in my ears. I signed off, stared at the phone. Dad cheated on Mom? I couldn’t imagine. Nor could I imagine him bailing on a forty-three-year marriage. She must’ve kicked him out. That I could imagine.
I punched speed dial.
A horn blasted.
“Jesus!” I nearly jumped out of my skin, nearly dropped the phone. I pressed it back to my ear, heard a ring and…another blast. More rings. Another blast. That made three—blasts, not rings.
Mom wasn’t answering and I was running out of time. Blast four. Five. Six. Seven. Then a long blast that had me chucking the phone and Mom’s crisis. That’s assuming the crisis was legit. Probably they’d just had a humdinger fight. Yeah, that was it. Call me the Queen of Denial.
Heart pounding, I zipped around the cabin looking for the life preserver. Our cabin steward had reiterated there’d be a lifeboat drill before we sailed. Mandatory, he’d repeated. Well, duh! As if I didn’t want to know what to do, if we sank like the Titanic. Celine Dion trilled in my ear. “Shut. Up!”