by Beth Ciotta
My overactive imagination ran amok. Arch had watched the brunette glide through the atrium. Maybe he knew her. Was it possible? Could it be? Was Tall, Dark and Beautiful the bad sort we were striving to deceive? Was she a modern-day Mata Hari? A double agent? A sexy spy who used her feminine wiles to seduce top-secret information out of political and military lovers? Was Arch the undercover agent sent to bring her down? A real-life James Bond?
My heart pounded as the fantasy mushroomed in my mind like hype on Paris Hilton.
Get a grip, Evie.
It was only after she left that I realized Mata Hari stuck out on this ship more than I did. Far younger than most of the passengers, younger than me. Her beauty and confidence demanded attention as did her conditioned body. If we attended the same function, all eyes would swerve to her, and I was supposed to be the life of the party.
I snorted as I passed the clerk my Fiesta card. Well, duh, no wonder I didn’t like her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IT’S EASY TO FORGET one is on a boat, excuse me, ship, when the vessel is several stories high and approximately as long as three football fields. We’re talking huge! A fifty-thousand-ton floating resort hotel and, although I’d spent the day shopping, dining and participating in various games and classes, I’d only ventured onto three decks. I hoped to explore more of the ship before returning to Fort Lauderdale. Selfishly, I almost wished that we’d fall victim to the Bermuda Triangle so I wouldn’t have to return home.
Just now I was on Deck Nine, the center of my social activities, in the middle of a late-afternoon dance party, a spin-off from this morning’s cha-cha class. A few passengers splashed around in the Olympic-size pool, while others lounged and sipped margaritas. The poolside servers—smiley guys wearing Bermuda shorts and tropical shirts—certainly kept the frozen concoctions coming. Arch sat at the bar, sipping scotch, chatting intermittently with Beau-the-bartender and Dirk and Nan Iverson, an obnoxiously friendly couple from California. Every now and then he’d glance over at me.
Although I still wore a bikini, I’d swapped my short shorts for a floral ankle-length sarong and my Keds for platform sandals. The sandals weren’t as comfy as my sneaks, but they looked adorable with the sarong—call me shallow. Besides, I reveled in the way Arch checked out my legs every time I twirled and the sarong parted. Since I was dancing with a pro and my insecurities do not extend to my ballroom techniques, I’ll admit to showing off.
This morning, Fred and Ginger had noted right away I wasn’t a novice. Since I was the only one in class without a partner—even Martha-of-the-Two-Left-Feet had shown up with a man—they’d matched me with Fred. Spicy hot, Brazilian-born Fred—definitely not his real name. The man was built and the man could dance, an ultrasexy combination. Like a latino Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. This evening, Fred swept me into his arms the moment he realized Charles was out of the dancing picture, what with his, ahem, bum ankle. Fred looked at this as a chance to perform with an accomplished partner. I looked at this as an opportunity to make Arch squirm.
I’d been dancing with Fred for about ten minutes when Martha bopped up to the bar and engaged Arch in conversation. I continued to dance, but my mind wandered, rehashing the day thus far. I’d flitted from one activity to another—cha-cha lessons, bingo, ceramic painting, merengue lessons—sitting only long enough to have lunch with my husband. The only activity he’d participated in was bingo. Otherwise, he’d loitered at the closest bar, sipping scotch while chatting amiably with passengers and crew members. How he could drink so much without getting even a little drunk was a mystery.
Another mystery, I should say.
Although I mingled and frolicked as Sugar, part of me remained sharp and in tune with my surroundings. Who specifically was I performing for? Michael had cited a level of risk. Arch had confirmed that we were dealing with a dangerous sort. You’re safe with me, he’d promised. Obviously, I believed him, because I wasn’t scared, just curious.
The unique deception was us posing as the wealthy Duponts. I got that. In public, Charles lavished his new wife with affection, gourmet meals, spa visits and shopping sprees. I rolled my eyes, remembering how I’d pegged the bombshell brunette as a double agent. Jealousy, envy, insecurity, whatever, makes you crazy. Me, anyway. Jeez. Earth to Evie.
Arch wanted someone to believe that he was enamored with his young wife and would do anything to make her happy—that much I’d puzzled through. What I couldn’t figure was why I had to be a sexy social butterfly. I guess it meant I usually ended up the center of attention. I’d certainly made a spectacle of myself at bingo when I’d instructed Gavin to shake his balls. What? He kept calling Bs and I needed a G! And, it’s not like the majority of the geriatric crowd hadn’t heard that one before. They proved their knowledge of clichéd bingo retorts when Gavin called B11 and they chorused chicken legs!
But I digress.
Everywhere I turned, everywhere I played I was surrounded by jovial vacationers. Mostly seniors. Mostly couples. Honeymooners, second honeymooners, couples celebrating aeons of togetherness. Couples like my parents—only my parents were no longer a couple. Another mystery. One I blocked out in consideration of my TMJ. Besides, my brother was handling the crisis and Christopher was enterprising and competent—so Mom had told me a billion times.
Truth be told, he was in a better position to engineer the reconciliation seeing that he lives in their—and my—hometown. I’m presently sailing through turquoise waters past a bunch of islands—the Caicos Archipelago, according to the daily itinerary sheet. Fat lot of good I could do from paradise.
I turned my face toward the sky, soaked in the sunshine, breathed in the salt air. I willed myself to steep in the fantasy of Sugar Dupont. A gift, really. A respite from real life.
If only I could seduce Arch, the fantasy would be complete. Later tonight, I’d spray on that Jasmine perfume, channel Sugar’s confident sexuality and make my move. Tomorrow I aimed on knocking Nic’s socks off when I e-mailed that, yes, indeed, I’d boinked his brains out. The mere notion made me dizzy—or maybe that was the four-revolution spin I’d just come out of. The more I kept up with Fred, the more complex his moves got. I wondered if I’d be able to keep up with Arch—in bed, not on the dance floor. Although if he wanted to do it on the floor, or in the shower, or against the wall…call me willing.
Martha stepped away and I refocused on getting a rise out of JT, er, Arch.
The setting was perfect. Sunset. Skies of pink, orange and red. The moon newly visible on the horizon. Music—dirty, sexy—more salsa than cha-cha. Fred gripped my scantily clad body and we undulated in joint expression. Hot. Sensual. Our gazes locked—Arch’s and mine, not Fred’s. Heat pooled in my southern hemisphere. I danced seductively with my instructor, but I was seducing my roommate. I felt naughty, empowered. I could feel the conservative crown slipping. I sensed Arch’s interest, could feel the sparks zapping between us, even though we were yards apart.
Just then Tex Aloha sauntered up to the bar wearing patriotic swimming trunks and his cowboy hat. Flip-flops, no shirt. He edged in between Dirk and Nan, motioned Beau for a drink. His timing, once again, sucked. He claimed Arch’s attention and ruined my seduction!
Fred ground his lower region against me and nuzzled my ear. Uh-oh.
Cheeks flaming, I stammered that I should get back to my husband, only Fred held tight.
“Rarely do I get to dance with someone as beautiful and talented as you, Mrs. Dupont. Surely your husband wouldn’t mind if we finished this song.”
I might have been flattered if his hand hadn’t shifted from the small of my back to the swell of my rear. Since I’d unwittingly stirred him up to begin with, I figured he deserved a diplomatic set-down as opposed to a slap in the face. “Listen, Fred. I think you misunderstood my…enthusiasm.”
“I understand that you are full of energy and passion.”
“I’m a married woman—”
“And I have been indiscreet.” He retur
ned his hand to a respectable body part, spoke close to my ear. “Later tonight. After he falls asleep. Meet me—”
I misstepped, accidentally on purpose, and crushed his instep.
He cursed and faltered. I spun around and smacked into, of all people, Tex. Thankfully, he didn’t teeter. In fact, he was rock solid. Not bulked up, just well toned—not that I noticed.
“We keep meetin’ like this, Sugar, one of us is gonna break somethin’. Probably me.”
I tore my gaze from his admirable torso and focused on those nasty stitches. “I owe you an apology.”
“I’ll take a dance instead.” He smiled over my shoulder at Fred. “You don’t mind, do ya, boy?”
I’m not sure if it was the “boy” that irked him or if I’d seriously injured his foot, but Fred excused himself and limped toward Ginger.
Tex, um, Vic, took me in his arms as the music changed and the tempo slowed. A ballad. Apparently, the Latin segment was over. Crap. I looked around his body at Arch, who toasted me with his scotch and smiled. Great. Apparently, being the life of the party included dancing with every Tom, Dick and Tex who got the itch.
“You ain’t gonna stomp on my foot, are ya?”
“I didn’t stomp. I…” His expression said he’d seen enough to know that I’d wanted to escape Fred. I shrugged. “He was getting a little fresh.”
“I noticed.”
“I’m married.”
“Met your husband in the infirmary, remember?”
“Actually, I’m trying to forget that entire mishap.”
“Jaw get stuck like that often?”
I blushed. “No.”
“What you need is to relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Feels like I’m dancing with a two-by-four.”
How rude of you to say so. But he was right. I’d stiffened up. Subconsciously, I suppose I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. After all, he’d seen me grinding with Fred. Although Sugar was supposed to be a free spirit and I was trying to seduce my husband, not Salsa-Fred, so it’s not as if I’d done anything wrong.
Then why did I feel so uncomfortable?
I decided it was because Tex, Vic, whoever, was half-naked and I was half-naked and even though he wasn’t my type, he wasn’t half-bad. As a dancer that is. Like Fred, I appreciate a partner with skill. Someone who moves in time and doesn’t step on my toes. What I didn’t appreciate was the way my skin tingled under his competent hands. Was I that desperate for physical intimacy? Tex’s unwavering stare bothered me, too. I’m not sure if he was sizing me up or checking me out. Either way, I felt exposed and scrutinized and it chafed. To make matters worse, the man wore a wedding band! How would his wife feel if she saw him holding me close and ogling my cleavage? I know how I felt when I’d once caught Michael ogling a model’s portfolio. Said portfolio belonging to Sasha.
This dance was over.
Before I could misstep, he spun me out of his arms. “Your husband bought me a drink. I’m thinkin’ I should get to it before the ice melts.”
An innocent enough statement, yet there was nothing innocent about Tex. He was arrogant and slick, putting me in mind of a used-car salesman. Which made me think of the gorilla suit. Which made my skin itch. Scratching my neck, I dodged three bar servers carrying loaded trays and rushed into Arch’s open arms.
“Did you see my moves, baby?” I asked a little too brightly.
“I could watch you all night, love.” He nixed my scratching by pulling me into a kiss.
By now I was used to him scrambling my thoughts, but this kiss obliterated brain cells. Aggressive. Possessive. Was it the scotch? My sexy dancing? My body trembled in answer to his unexpected and extremely public lust.
Someone cleared their throat. What was up with that? Every time we made out, someone intruded. I’m not an exhibitionist, but, hello? What did they expect? We’re newlyweds. Arch eased away and I willed my wobbly legs steady. Buster Poindexter blasted in the background. “Feeling hot, hot, hot!”
Yeah, Buster. That’s an understatement.
My bespectacled husband motioned Beau for another scotch and ordered me a Fandango. If I drank the ship’s potent special, things would get a whole lot hotter. I told myself to show some restraint, for God’s sake. Sip, don’t gulp.
Arch grinned at me, while directing his question to the bartender. “What did you think of my wife’s dancing, old boy?”
Beau smiled. “Impressive.”
“You should hear her sing.”
I knew it was part of our ruse, but Arch sounded sincerely impressed. I must’ve gotten to him with that verse of “Fever.” I filed away the knowledge, nipped his bottom lip then smiled at the bartender. “Charlie’s my biggest fan.”
Beau presented me with the tall, deadly drink. “There’s a karaoke dance party tomorrow night,” he said. “You should sign up, Mrs. Dupont.”
“Gavin said the same thing, but it wouldn’t be fair. You see, I’m a professional.”
“That right?”
I frowned at the sound of Tex’s voice. Unlike the overly friendly Iversons, he hadn’t moseyed off to mingle with the entertainment staff. Nope. Just my luck. He was still here and invading my personal space. Could the officious redneck stand any closer? I glanced from his smirking mug to his mug of beer. Thinkin’I should get to it before the ice melts.
“A professional singer,” I clarified, with a calculated friendly smile. “By the by, Mr. Parker, there’s no ice in your beer.”
“Call me Vic, and, by the by, I wasn’t talking about my beer.”
So he was talking about me? He’d compared me to a two-by-four. A piece of wood. As in rigid. Frigid. Cold. Only his bold appraisal had ignited my temper and triggered a meltdown. I’d planned to accidentally stomp on his toes, but he’d spun me away in the nick of time. He’d read me like a book, seen through Sugar’s carefree persona. That worried me. And bugged me. I decided I didn’t like Vic any more than Ms. Tall, Dark and Beautiful.
“I say, Beau, I think you’re right,” Charles piped in. “Sugar should perform a number at that party.”
“I should?”
Something clicked. Yes, we’d been on all day, whenever in public. But this moment I felt like Arch and I had taken center stage. This was it. This was real. A premium performance was crucial. Just like that, Evie and Arch were no more.
“She misses the spotlight,” Charles said to the other men. “Won’t admit it, but, at times, I do believe she’s bored to tears on the estate.”
“I’m not! You take that back,” I said, fussing with his ascot. “I can’t think of anything more thrilling than being Mrs. Charles Dupont!”
“Chucked your career for marriage, did ya?” Vic asked while gnawing on a swizzle stick. At least it was better than those nasty cigars.
“I didn’t chuck anything, Mr. Parker. I happily walked away. Showbiz is fickle and unstable. Contracts aren’t worth the paper you sign on and most of the casinos stopped investing in new sound equipment in 1981. Trust me, there is no joy in singing over an inferior audio system.”
“Where did you perform, Mrs. Dupont?” Beau asked. “Vegas? Reno? Atlan—”
“Vegas,” Charles said.
“It’s where we met,” I said. “Love at first sight.”
“Married a week later.”
“This is our one-month anniversary.”
“Ain’t that something?” Vic said. “The little woman and I are celebrating our anniversary, too. Fifteen years.”
“Spectacular,” Charles said. “Pour this man another ale, Beau. On me.”
“Decent of you, Dupont. Figure I can down one more while I’m waiting on Carol. We aim on making use of that pool while everyone else dines.” He grinned, winked. “The wife’s fond of underwater sports, if you catch my drift.”
Oh, brother. “So where are you and Mrs. Parker from?” I asked, craving a hot shower and disinfecting soap.
“We’ve got a spread outside of Dallas. You
?”
“Born in Brooklyn. Transplanted to Vegas. Now I’m in Connecticut with Charlie.”
Vic sipped out of his replenished mug. “On an estate, you said.”
“A lovely place with loads of privacy and a view of Long Island Sound.” My voice vibrated with excitement as I embraced the fantasy. “Katharine Hepburn owned a home nearby. Sometimes I step outside and breathe deep, hoping to absorb some of her creative energy.”
“The Katharine Hepburn?” Beau glanced over while loading up a server’s tray with various drinks. “The movie star?”
I nodded. “Rest her soul.”
“Impressive,” Vic said, toasting Charlie. “What do you do for a living, Dupont?”
I beamed with pride and answered for him. He was, after all, painfully private about his literary pursuits. “He’s a writer.”
“Must be a bestseller, one of them Tom Clancy types, if you’re livin’ next to a celebrity.”
I bristled. Vic was crass, although Charles didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he noticed, but didn’t care.
“Alas, I am not a bestseller. I inherited my father’s fortune and invested wisely.”
“Got an eye for investments myself,” Vic said.
When he didn’t elaborate, I asked, “What business are you in…Vic?”
“Oil.”
“Oil?”
“Oil.”
TV junkie that I am, I flashed back to the soap of all nighttime soaps: Dallas. Was Vic Parker a living, breathing J. R. Ewing? A vain, conniving oil baron? A man who engineered intricate business deals using cloak-and-dagger methods, employing that same sneaky mentality to cheat on his wife?
More likely, he was a grease monkey at Jiffy Lube. Still…I sipped my Fandango, deciding, either way, the man was a slippery jerk.
“Carol and I are set for life,” he bragged. “Speakin’ of, here comes the little lady now.”
I turned and choked on my drink when I locked eyes on a lean, mean brunette in an itty-bitty bikini. The brunette. Ms. Tall, Dark and Beautiful. What were the chances? Tex Aloha and Mata Hari were a couple!