by Beth Ciotta
I thought about my relationship with Michael. Definitely messy. The good news was Arch and I wouldn’t be working together after this cruise. I could cool my jets for now and pursue a relationship later, except I didn’t want a relationship with Arch. I just wanted to dance with JT. Since man and beast could live in Scotland or England or Timbuktu for all I knew, I wanted to mix it up while I had the chance. How messy could it get?
Arch broke the silence. “What did you think I was going to say?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said, ‘please don’t say it.’ Say what?”
I didn’t bother lying. According to him, I stank at it. “Nice girl. I thought you were going to call me a nice girl, and that would be—”
“What?”
“Awful.”
“Why?”
“Because nice girls finish last.”
Silence greeted that statement. Even I was stunned by the bitterness in my voice. I wanted to show Michael that I could be unpredictable and wild, except things weren’t going my way. I sucked at lying. Sucked at promiscuity. Maybe I needed to hang around someone like Mata Hari—watch and learn.
“Stone really fucked with your head, yeah?”
It was the first time he’d mentioned my ex since their tense phone conversation two days before. I rolled to my side and squinted at his silhouette. Lying supine on the love seat, his feet hung over the end. He couldn’t be comfortable. Yet he hadn’t complained or blamed me for the perfume episode even once. Unshakable. “How well do you know Michael?”
“Well enough.”
“Are you friends?”
“Business associates.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all.”
I rolled my eyes. Trying to get any information out of this man was like trying to interview a reclusive celebrity. Not only was he unshakable but also a master of evasion. Did they teach those skills in spy school? Unlike him, I decided to be direct. “Are you an agent?”
“Like Stone?”
“Like Bond. James Bond.”
He laughed. “You have a vivid imagination, Sunshine.”
“I’m famous for it.” I also possessed a lesser-known stubborn streak. “So are you?”
“No.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“How would I know?”
“Exactly.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Didn’t I?”
I fell back with an oomph. “My brain hurts.”
“Then give it a rest.”
I imagined him smiling and it chafed. “I can’t,” I snapped. “There’s a lot going on in my life right now.”
“Like?”
“You mean aside from my husband dumping me?”
“Ex-husband. Yeah. Aside from that.”
“My career is on the fast road to Deadsville.”
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
He didn’t answer and I suddenly felt like an immature, self-absorbed whiner. He no doubt had problems of his own, like saving the ship from a terrorist attack or something. “My parents split up.” There. That was news to him and I even managed not to sound like a churlish kid.
“When?”
“Recently.”
“For good?”
“For a while.” I refused to think that their separation would end in divorce. Sure, they bickered, but they loved one another. They belonged together. This was just a temporary glitch. “My brother said he’d patch things up.”
“You’re worried he’ll fail?”
I snorted. “Christopher accomplishes everything he sets his mind to. He’s smart and successful, always makes the right choices.”
“You sound resentful.”
“Envious.” I squinted up into the darkness, conjured an image of my brother chained to a regimented job and bossy wife. “Wait. That’s not true. I don’t want his life. He works a high-pressure nine-to-five and married a stuck-up conniver who came with two bratty kids, compliments of her first marriage. Unfortunately, Sandy and her demon offspring are now part of my family so I have to be civil. Family is family, even if they’re not blood, right?”
“Tricky stuff, that.”
“What?”
“Family.”
“I’ll say. Anyway, at least I don’t live in Indiana anymore.”
“That’s where you’re from, yeah?”
“Born and raised.”
“Ah, a nice Midwestern girl.”
I flipped over and punched my pillow. “I’m not nice.”
“If you say so.”
“Enough about me. What about your family?”
“Not as interesting as yours.”
That statement roused me like a bucket of cold water. “I doubt that.” I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest. It was that or sail across the room and pummel him with my pillow. “Give it up, Arch.” I was so over his aloofness.
“What?”
“Something. Anything.” I focused on his relaxed silhouette, bristled at his blasé tone. Good grief, was he falling asleep? “You’re right. I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you. Including whether or not you’re trustworthy. How do I even know you’re going to pay me at the end of this gig?” Okay. That wasn’t my biggest concern, but it’s what came out in the moment’s heat.
“Don’t insult me, Evie.”
“For the greater good. Whose good? Your good? The country’s good? What country? You won’t even own up to your birth nation.”
“Scotland.”
“What?”
“I’m a Scot.”
I noted the strained revelation, wondered why it had cost him so much to share so little. “But you sort of sound…the words you use…sometimes you sound British.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in England.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know where to steer the conversation. There was so much I wanted to know and yet I instinctively knew deeper questioning at this point would prove fruitless. Even though Arch was easy to talk to, even though we had entered swiftly and easily into what suspiciously felt like a friendship, the man himself was a closed book. A mystery. An enigma. Which, truth told, was probably a huge part of his appeal. Well, aside from the obvious physical aspect.
“So what’s on tomorrow’s agenda?” I asked.
His head lolled sideways and, because of an exceptionally well-directed moonbeam, I made out his perplexed expression. He blinked. “Sorry?”
I grinned, pleased that I’d tipped his infuriating balance. “The ship’s docking in San Juan. Are we going ashore? Or staying aboard? Where do you think our…what would you call the person we’re trying to dupe? Our victim?”
“Mark.”
The term was familiar. I’d once worked a two-week stint as a magician’s assistant. My friend, known as Marko the Magnificent in theatrical circles, had referred to an audience member we were about to play a trick on as a mark. Not that I thought Arch was a conventional magician. More like a charming trickster—smoke and mirrors. “Where do you think our mark will be?” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, gripped the mattress to keep myself rooted. It was that or pace off my nervous energy. Since I’d been rolling in the sheets I probably smelled like jasmine again. The last thing I wanted to do was to stir up scents and set off another allergy attack.
Sit tight and talk it off, I told myself when he failed to answer my question. “How can you not know whether or not I’ve met the mark? Don’t you know who we’re after? Who we’re trying to fool? Is that why you said the world is our stage? Because this guy could be anywhere, so we’re, like, what? Trying to smoke him out?”
“Go to sleep, Evie.”
“Is he even a he? Or are we dealing with a she?” Mata Hari sprang to mind.
“He’s a he. A crew member. Hospitality or entertainment.”
“One of my people? Is that why I’m here? Like attracts like?”
/>
He sighed, an unusual show of exasperation. “You’re here because you were in the right place at the wrong time.”
“You mean right place at the right time.”
“No, I don’t.”
I skated over that, circled around the mysterious crew member. The faster my mind churned the tighter my hold on the mattress. “What did he do? Why is he dangerous? You know, I could be more effective if I were better informed.”
“Need-to-know basis, Sunshine.”
“And that’s all I need to know?” My heart raced, my voice jumped an octave. “That we’re trying to fool some man, some member of this crew, someone like, well, like me, into, what? Into believing we’re happily married and…rich. The money thing. That must be key because we’ve spent a boatload. No pun intended. And…” I chewed my bottom lip, processed conversations we’d had throughout the two days in front of various crew members. “And we want him to think that I’m bored in Connecticut and happy as a pig in mud on this floating party. And there’s the expendable income thing.” I snapped my fingers. “To Catch a Thief.”
“What?”
“Hitchcock classic. 1955. Cary Grant and Grace Kelly.”
“Evie—”
“Grant pretends to be someone he’s not, utilizing rich eye candy Kelly, to catch a thief. So, what? Does this guy sneak into passenger’s rooms when they go ashore? Steal their jewels? Their money?” I slapped a hand to my pounding chest. “Or worse. Personal information so that he can rob them later. Identity theft. That’s, like, a huge thing now, right? I—”
I gasped as he hauled me to my feet and into his arms. When had he crossed the room? Why was he holding me? “What are you doing?”
“Giving you something else to think aboot.” He crushed his lips against mine.
Who could think? Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Heaven. No, hell. This was hell. Hot. Sinful. Wicked. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on for dear life as he kissed me dizzy. My knees quaked as he claimed and conquered. Tongue. Lips. Teeth. One hand cradled the back of my head. The other, holy…down my pants. Fingers. Touching me…there. Holy…Cripes. Friction. Intense. Erotic. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.
My sexually deprived body exploded with decadent sensations as he kissed and stroked me to a mind-blowing, limb-melting climax.
My knees buckled. I moaned into his mouth and sagged against his body. He laid me on the bed, stifled a sneeze and I knew it would go no further. I couldn’t dredge up the energy to be upset. I knew, deep down in my fibrillating heart, this was only a teaser.
So much for not mixing business with pleasure.
He disappeared into the bathroom and my warped brain cells fired up a medley of Bond theme songs—“Goldfinger”—Ha!—followed by “Nobody Does It Better,” and “All Time High.”
Exhausted and deliciously sated, I closed my eyes and gave over to thoughts of Pussy Galore, Operation Grand Slam and a spy with a license to thrill.
Dear Diary, My life doesn’t suck.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DAY THREE OF THE CRUISE. Four days after meeting Arch. Life was looking up.
Viva la orgasm.
I woke up feeling refreshed. Energized. Optimistic. I’d slept better than I had in months. If I dreamed, I don’t remember. I think Arch melted my brain with that white-hot sex.
We didn’t speak of it. The orgasm, that is. Arch, I assumed, was being a gentleman. Or maybe he was kicking himself. He’d broken his policy, mixed business with pleasure. As for me, even though I was ecstatic, my old-fashioned upbringing kept me from verbalizing my reawakened appreciation for foreplay.
But I thought about it.
A lot.
I tried not to obsess. But, hey. Come on. Arch was hot. Getting pawed by Arch, a wham, bam, third-base slam in the middle of the night, was hot. I’m pretty sure the sexy episode was on his mind, too, because I caught him looking at me five or ten times while we readied for the day.
One of us, I decided while tying the laces of my Keds, was going to have to break the tension. I voted for me. It had been a long time since I’d felt this vibrant and motivated. Taking charge would only enhance the rush. I steeled myself when he stepped out of the bathroom in full Charles regalia sans the tinted glasses. I could do this, especially dressed as Sugar. This morning our united energy and optimism bubbled through my system like expensive champagne.
Giddy with bravado, I locked gazes with Arch. “About last night,” we said at the same time. We laughed, the ice broken, then proceeded to step on each other’s lines.
“It was—”
“—a mistake,” he said.
“—amazing,” I said.
Pregnant pause.
We took stock of each other and our conflicting attitudes. The mood shifted from awkward to jovial to tense in ten seconds flat.
“This is complicated enough without making it personal, Sunshine.”
“It would be less complicated if you cleared some things up for me.” Suddenly I was thinking less about the mind-blowing orgasm and more about this mind-boggling gig. Arch’s tight-lipped expression prompted me to fight fire with fire. I folded my arms under my pumped-up cleavage. “Okay. You want to keep things strictly business? Then I want some professional courtesy.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m not leaving this room unless you shed some light on this gig. I hate being uninformed. Not knowing what’s expected of me.”
If Michael had been more communicative, maybe I could have changed my ways, my appearance, sought marriage counseling. Some honesty, some direction would’ve been nice. I never suspected he was falling out of love with me. Never saw the signs of an affair. God, I was naive. Or dense. Maybe both.
“I cannae—”
“Basics. That’s all I’m asking for. I don’t need names. You don’t have to divulge any secrets of national importance.”
He pressed his lips together to suppress a smile or a curse. I didn’t know which nor did I care.
I palmed my forehead, closed my eyes and groaned. “I feel an excruciating headache coming on. You’ll have to make merry yourself today.” I peered at him through thick, lowered lashes, my lips curled in a taunting grin. “Except Charles wouldn’t leave Sugar suffering alone in the cabin, now would he?”
“You’re bluffing.”
I plopped my butt on the bed, toed off my Keds. “It’s not like we have a contract. I didn’t sign anything. We’re operating on faith and it’s been pretty one-sided. Time for you to even out the percentage, Arch. Trust me when I say, the more I know about a part, a client, the better my performance.”
He braced his hands on his hips. “The more you know about this job, the higher your stress level, the greater the chances you’ll crack out of turn.”
“What?”
“Miss a cue.”
My back went up. “I’ve never missed a cue in my life.”
“Never?”
I pursed my lips, scanned my memory. “Well, maybe once. During a performance in regional theater. But I had a high fever and the heat from the par cans only heightened my delirium.”
He grinned and suddenly the air crackled with another kind of tension. Sexy, sizzling tension that fried my brain cells and melted my bones.
“You’re cute when you’re cocky, Sunshine.”
I raised a brow. “If you think you’re going to charm me into leaving this room without some specifics, you’re in for a big disappointment, buster.”
The grin widened and his gorgeous eyes danced with amusement.
I applauded myself for not sliding off the bed in a pool of wanton lust.
“The person I need to hook just now is a small fish,” he said, knocking me off balance with the unexpected revelation. “He’ll lead me to my primary mark, a vicious shark who preys on the gullible, especially the elderly.”
People like Martha and her cronies. “Bastard.”
“Aye.”
“And you’re going to blow him out of the water.”
“Something like that.”
“The greater good.” I hopped to my bare feet and paced, my senses vibrating with curiosity and excitement. “Okay. So how are we going to hook this small fish?”
“By making him believe that we’re rich and gullible.” He pushed up the brim of his Panama hat and calmly watched as I wore a path in the carpet. “You were bang on last night, Sunshine. I want him to think that you’re bored in Connecticut and happy as a pig in mud on this floating party.”
I pumped my fist in the air. “Yes!” Okay. That was smug. But I couldn’t help it. I was proud of myself for making at least one correct deduction. Besides, there was that whole cute-when-cocky thing. Maybe I was turning him on a little. He’d certainly revved my engine by confiding in me. Every revelation stimulated my brain and body and ratcheted up my confidence.
“I want him to believe,” Arch went on, “that I’m so smitten, I’d do anything, spend a fortune if need be, to keep you content.”
Hence the public affection. I absorbed that information, nodded, trying my best to keep my mind on business, not pleasure. It’s the first time he’d been forthcoming with details and I wanted to milk his generous mood. “About this small fish. You mentioned he’s in hospitality or entertainment. Have you narrowed it down at all?”
He worked his jaw and I knew I’d gotten just about all of the specifics I was going to get. For now. “The shore excursion director is a likely suspect,” he said. “And Beau.”
“The bartender? But he seems so nice.”
“Being nice is a brilliant way to win someone’s confidence, yeah?”
My cheeks flushed and I cursed my naiveté. “Anyone else?”
“The assistant cruise director.”
“Gavin?” I swallowed my disbelief. Neither Beau nor Gavin struck me as disreputable. I hadn’t had much contact with the shore excursion guy. Easier to believe he was the stinky small fish. “Anyone else?”
“Sure. The dance instructor who couldn’t keep his hands off of you. The pianist who knows four bars of any song ever written. The chatty steward who replenishes the fruit basket in our room every day or any one of the several bartenders or waiters or…” He angled his head. “You get the picture, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I rolled my eyes. “So much for narrowing it down.”