by Beth Ciotta
Arch readjusted his hat and slid on his glasses, effectively ending the discussion.
I stepped into my Keds, wanting him to know that his faith in me had paid off. Jazzed, I pushed for one more bit of information. “How will we know when he’s hooked?”
“When he offers us the chance of a lifetime.”
THE PLAN FOR THE MORNING was basic and I felt inspired simply because Arch, who I now knew was absolutely not in entertainment but most probably in espionage, had trusted me with a few details of our mission.
We divided our morning efforts for maximum coverage. Pad and pen in hand, Charles visited various lounges under the guise of outlining a new book. Mostly he sat at the bar, drank scotch, conversed with bartenders, servers and featured musicians, while intermittently jotting notes in a leather journal. I participated in midmorning fun and games, bouncing in from time to time to report my adventures and to torture him with playful kisses. Perfectly legit. I was Sugar, not me.
As Sugar, I socialized and frolicked on a grand scale. A Ping-Pong tournament, a five-minute makeover. I even braved a Bachata dance lesson with Fred and Ginger. Our mark was in hospitality or entertainment, Fred’s area, and Fred was definitely slimy.
Knowing what I knew now, which wasn’t much, I regretted cutting him off last night when he suggested a rendezvous. What if he was our man? What if he was going to seduce me and pitch the deal of a lifetime?
Unfortunately, Fred regarded me with wary eyes, pairing me with bowlegged Mr. Pachinko, whose wife had opted for a game of canasta. Still, I blessed the smarmy dance instructor with a few flirty smiles and by lesson’s end he’d promised me a dance at the karaoke party. I wasn’t sure if we’d be back in time for the party, as we were going ashore to do some sightseeing in San Juan. But maybe I’d run into him after.
Martha-of-the-two-left-feet, who’d somehow hooked up with a much younger man—and I mean like thirty years younger—informed me that she’d be at the party. She’d been practicing her disco steps. Burn, blue-hair, burn.
Speaking of infernos, an inextinguishable fire raged inside of me all day, fueling boundless energy and enthusiasm. It wasn’t because I’d finally gotten some, well, a little, after a year in the no-man zone—although I’m sure that put some spring in my step. No, this was different. Purpose, I guess. My country, or let’s just say, “the good guys” since this was for the greater good, needed me. My acting and singing talents were in demand. I was a valuable asset. No one cared that I was over forty. No one treated me like an over-the-hill has-been.
Then again, I wasn’t acting or thinking like an over-the-hill has-been. Sugar wasn’t insecure or cynical. She lived life to the fullest, and damn anyone who found fault with her quirky exuberance—not that anyone did.
Throughout the day, my mind bounced from one concern to another, processing, assessing. Midday, just after changing into suitable clothes for the shore excursion, I slipped away from Arch and into the Internet Lounge. No update from my brother, though that didn’t come as a shock. I could almost hear him. Chill, Evie. I’m handling it.
Okay. Sure. Whatever.
With my family it was always one thing or another. My parents’ separation, I decided for the sake of my sanity and TMJ, was just another, and Christopher would handle it because Christopher was a problem solver. I massaged my jaw and clicked on an e-mail from Jayne.
Atomic kisses with muscled, tattooed dude? OMG! So, like, tongue and everything, right?
Moving on to your gorilla and breast question…this is just one school of thought, but if you’re dreaming about apes then beware of a mischief maker in your business or social circle. Unless the gorilla was docile. Then the dream is forecasting a new and unusual friend.
Really, Evie. I need more details.
Anyhoo, let’s talk breasts. Did the dream involve someone laying their head on your breast? If so, this means you’re primed to meet a new, valuable friend. I’m seeing a theme here. Otherwise, dreaming about boobs in general is a good omen.
I reread Jayne’s analysis, my already awesome mood brightening. Anyone looking at me surely needed sunglasses. Obviously, Arch was the new and unusual friend. The good omen thing was a surprise. If one put stock in dream interpretation, which I sort of did, then I had every reason to believe good things were in my future. I very badly needed to believe that. So I memorized Jayne’s e-mail and stroked her ring for good measure. Trust in the chrysoprase. It attracts abundance and promotes successful new ventures.
An abundance of orgasms would be nice, especially with Arch. As for the new venture, maybe I had a shot at this spy thing. What? Kate Jackson made an incredible transition in Scarecrow and Mrs. King. A secret agent accidentally involved the divorced housewife in one of his covert missions. She proved herself valuable and by the end of the series she was a full-fledged agent. Yes, I know that was television. But who says life can’t imitate art?
The loudspeaker jerked me out of my daydream, alerting those going ashore to report to their designated meeting place. Not wanting to be harried and late—been there, done that with the lifeboat drill—I whipped off a quick response to Jayne. Then I clicked on an e-mail from Nicole.
So did you boink him yet?
God, I love my friends.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MILO WATCHED ARCH limp toward the theater. He knew what was coming. Did Evie? Did she know Arch was going to fake a fall? Beg off the tour due to aggravating his wrenched ankle? Did he rehearse her reaction or was he trusting her instincts? What did they talk about when they were alone? How much had Arch revealed? What had he asked of her? What had been his come-on? More importantly, what had he promised in return?
For a man who normally played by the book, his partner was playing loose. A source of curiosity and frustration for Milo. Once ashore, he’d contact Woody and enlist his computer skills. He wanted answers.
Top of the list: Who exactly was Evie?
He ignored a hitch in his breath when she laughed in response to something Arch said. Bottling and selling that kind of infectious cheer could fund his retirement. He ignored the way her skintight, knee-length pants and red-and-pink T-shirt accentuated her kick-ass curves. And were those…? Hell, yeah, they were. Flowered sneakers. He ignored them, too, because they were surprisingly cute.
Even though Arch had claimed Evie was a last-minute snarl, Milo was still pissed that he’d involved an unsanctioned player. But as always, the man had lucked out. In spite of her inexperience, she made a great shill. Like Gina, she could easily distract a mark while another team member worked his magic. Only Evie was Gina’s flipside. Adorable versus siren. A valuable asset. Not that Chameleon needed another full-time team member. But maybe as an extra…
Stop thinking with your dick, Beckett.
At least Mr. Happy wasn’t broken.
He adjusted his cargo shorts, backed deeper into the Fiesta Theater. He had a clear view of the oncoming mismatched couple through the propped-open doors. Evie had yet to notice him because she was staring up adoringly at Charles. If she was acting, then she was as good as Arch claimed. If she had genuine feelings for the cagey Scot then she was screwed, and not in a good way. Arch didn’t do long term.
Never attach yourself to anyone that you can’t walk away from in a split second.
Gina knew Arch’s creed. So why was her nose out of joint? Did she think she was different? Did she think she could change him? No. She was smarter than that. She knew the psychological makeup of a grifter. Even though Arch now worked the right side of the law, the man was not reformed. To reform one must admit to behaving badly in the first place. Career con artists were basically amoral. They felt no remorse. They could sleep at night because they believed the weak and gullible deserved what they got.
Ten to one, Arch slept like a rock last night.
Milo slept like hell.
After a premeditated R-rated swim with his wife, he’d retired to his cabin, his own bed, silently cursing the Scot for complicating
his already knotty life. He’d mentally reviewed the Benson case and his conversations with Arch, trying to connect the dots.
Somewhere, somehow Lamont had crossed Arch or someone he cared about. Since the man kept the more intimate aspects of his life under wraps, the personal angle eluded Milo. Rolling a kink out of his neck, he tamped down his musing and focused on the unfolding drama.
With Sugar in tow, Charles Dupont cleared the threshold of the theater, the meeting place of those going ashore to tour San Juan, Puerto Rico. Gina stood a few feet away amongst the throng, obtaining the numbered sticker that corresponded with the number of their tour bus. At some point today, the roper might approach them with the same bull he’d shoveled Stokes. The bait: “How would you like to ‘live’on a six-star cruise ship and travel the world? I know this guy, this deal. Very hush-hush…” And so on.
Or maybe he’d make his move tomorrow. The most he and Gina could do was perpetuate the ruse. Patience was vital.
Milo made eye contact with Arch, touched the brim of his Stetson in greeting.
The conservatively dressed man raised his cane in response and—BAM!—there it was. He faltered and went down hard.
Evie yelped and fell to her knees beside him. “Charlie, baby, honey. Are you okay?”
Her shock and concern seemed genuine. If she was acting, Milo thought as he joined in the ruse, she was damned good. “Hell’s fire, Twinkie,” he joked, while helping Arch to his feet. “Wherever you go, men fall at your feet.”
“Only not in the way a girl hopes,” some woman added.
Curious onlookers chuckled.
Evie’s face turned as crimson as her sexy lipstick.
Arch winced for show when he tried to stand on his own. “Wretched ankle,” he complained in his concocted blue-blood accent, leaning against Milo for support.
Lucas, the golden-tongued shore excursion director, elbowed his way through the gawkers. “Should I call Doctor Drake, Mr. Dupont?”
“No need, old boy. However, I’m afraid I won’t be able to go ashore. Damned disappointing, but the less I walk today, the better.”
“I’ll call for a wheelchair,” Lucas said. “Please don’t try to make it back to the cabin on your own. I insist,” he added, when Arch looked as though he might argue. He scrambled for the house phone as fellow passengers voiced their concern and Sugar fussed over Charles.
Milo squelched an eye roll as Arch lapped up the attention.
Gina joined them and he prayed she wouldn’t crack out of turn while battling the green-eyed monster.
“I heard what you said about not going ashore, Charles. Don’t worry,” she said, her voice a husky contralto, “we’ll look after Sugar.”
Shit. “Hell, yeah,” Milo said—as if he had a choice. “No reason the little lady should have to miss out on the fun while you’re icing that ankle.”
“We can shop till we drop,” Gina added.
“Good of you to offer,” Arch said with an easy smile. “I’ll leave it up to Sugar.”
Twinkie blinked a couple of times then chirped, “Don’t be silly, baby. I’m not going anywhere without you.” She quirked a coy grin. “We’ll make our own fun.”
Good girl, Milo thought.
“Isn’t that sweet,” Gina said.
“All ashore that’s going ashore,” someone announced.
The crowd clamored toward the door just as Lucas greeted a steward pushing a wheelchair.
“Where’s your cane, Charles?” Gina asked in her husky Carol voice.
“I believe it rolled down that aisle,” he said, gesturing behind him.
“I’ll get it,” she said, just as Evie announced she’d grab the wheelchair.
The level of noise and activity among passengers accelerated and for a moment chaos reigned.
Arch turned to retrieve his cane from Gina, and Milo watched, amazed, as Evie tripped over someone or something and plowed into the shore excursion director.
What a frickin’ klutz, he thought, as she faltered and flung her arms around Lucas, grabbing hold of the man’s ass. The pair babbled apologies while catching their balance and righting themselves.
Her execution was almost flawless. If Milo didn’t have a trained eye, he, like everyone else in the theater, would’ve missed it. He clamped down on his cigar so his mouth wouldn’t fall open.
I’ll be damned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“YOU’RE A NATURAL.”
“You’re a bastard.” Heart pounding, I double-checked that we hadn’t been followed, then locked the cabin door behind us. My adrenaline pumped for all kinds of reasons and it spiked when Arch sprang out of the wheelchair. I tossed my Lucy tote on the bed and slugged him in the arm. Hard.
With the exception of thirty years ago when I lost it and pummeled my know-it-all brother—much like Ralphie whaled on the bully in A Christmas Story—I’ve never retaliated physically. Violence is wrong. Thing was, lately my inner bad girl refused to play nice.
Annoyingly amused, Arch rolled back his offended shoulder. “And that was for…”
“Throwing me to the wolves.”
“I didnae—”
“You could have told me that we weren’t going ashore, that you planned to fake an injury. Do you have any idea how I felt when you crumpled to the floor? I thought you were hurt for real.”
“Evie—”
“And then Tex—”
“Who?”
“—Vic implied I’m a dangerous klutz and called me Twinkie! I hate it when he calls me that. It makes me sound fluffy. Sweet.”
Arch placed his glasses and Panama hat on the vanity. “In his defense—”
“I’m not sweet.”
“If you say so.”
“I used to be sweet, before people, including my own husband, started rejecting me based on age. Now I’m bitter. Cynical, shifty and violent.”
I stopped in my heated tracks, slumped back against the wall. “I just hit you. I can’t believe I slugged you. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe I’m premenopausal. Mood swings. Anxiety.” I slapped a hand to my clammy brow, wondering if I was having a hot flash. “Great. What’s next? Wild chin hairs?”
Arch unbuttoned his shirt, unstrapped the fake gut. “What is it aboot you and your age? So you’re forty-one. Big fuckin’ deal. Stone didn’t know a good thing when he had it and the casinos are missing oot on a brilliant talent.”
That prodded a tiny smile out of me. He scored points for validating my worth on both the personal and professional front. Still…“If you think I’m a brilliant talent, why didn’t you prep me for your pratfall and plans to bail on San Juan? And don’t you dare give me that crack-out-of-turn excuse.”
“I wanted a real moment, yeah?”
I willed the top of my head not to blow off. “What?”
“This morning you asked for a show of faith. I dinnae trust easily, but I do believe in your caring nature. I knew you’d react strongly and with genuine concern when I fell. I wanted a real moment and I got it.” He toed off his loafers and padded into the bathroom.
I followed him, my heart thudding in my ears. “Yes, but after the initial fall, I knew that you were faking. I ended up acting my butt off, improvising my butt off because you didn’t clue me in. I didn’t know if you wanted me to go ashore, you know, split our efforts, or stay on board, status quo.” I twirled my ring, focused on the cheery sneakers. “I didn’t want to make the wrong decision. But then I thought about Sugar’s profile. She wouldn’t abandon Charlie, leaving him to nurse his injury alone. She’d stay on board and fuss over him, keep him entertained. Sugar can have fun anywhere.”
“Like I said. You’re a natural.” He looked over his shoulder. “That’s a good thing, yeah?”
In other words, he’d just paid me a compliment. I mumbled a begrudging, “Thank you.” I was angry, not rude.
I leaned against the doorjamb, watched as he began to remove the foam latex appliances from his face. I tried not to ogle his half-naked bo
dy. No easy feat. His sculpted shoulders and tapered back were droolworthy. His arms were to-die-for ripped and that Celtic band around his bicep killed me. Amazing that I could be ticked off and turned-on at the same time. Swear to heaven, if he got in the shower, I’d join him. Best-case scenario, we’d have sex. Worst case, we’d almost have sex.
I blew out a tense breath. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
“Hate to break it to you, but your punch lacks power, Sunshine.”
“That’s not the point. I lost my temper.”
“But not in public, yeah? Not where it counted. I couldn’t have scripted it better.”
“Let’s not go there, huh?” I watched him dip a brush in a tiny jar, transfixed and transported back to the days when I shared a dressing room with a dozen other strolling entertainers. Stilt walkers, mimes, clowns, magicians and character actors like me. Swapping makeup tips was a daily ritual. “So what do you use to make the latex adhere? Spirit gum?”
“Aye.” He loosened one edge of his faux jowls, swabbed underneath.
“So, the gook on the brush. Spirit gum remover?”
“Uh-huh.”
I watched, fascinated as he repeated the brush and peel process, gently loosening the latex appliance bit by bit. “I read somewhere that it takes hours to apply prosthetics. I know you get up early to get a head start, but you’re never in the bathroom for more than ninety minutes tops.”
“I wear the tinted glasses so I dinnae have to screw with crow’s feet or under-eye bags. Jowls and a wrinkled forehead? Pretty basic. Plus, I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Where’d you learn how to do this?”
“Someone in the biz.”
“Someone in TCC? What does that stand for, anyway? The Covert Connection? The Counterintelligence Council?”
He caught my gaze in the mirror and winked. “Nice try.”
I smirked. “So, what? If you told me, you’d have to shoot me?”