by Beth Ciotta
The basement, I assumed. Was Beckett doing laundry? But, wait. Pops had mentioned a meeting. Maybe the basement wasn’t a basement at all but a high-tech hidey-hole for Chameleon HQ. The theme from the sixties sitcom Get Smart welled in my brain along with visions of Maxwell Smart and Chief behind closed doors plotting CONTROL’s latest mission to obliterate KAOS.
The music died the moment we reached the bottom and Pops clicked on a light. Nothing high-tech about this low-ceilinged basement. Cluttered like the storage room with box upon cardboard box. The room felt damp and cool and smelled musty, although I did catch a whiff of fabric softener. My gaze followed my nose, zeroing in on a washer and dryer that, given the avocado finish, dated back to the seventies. The nearby freezer looked a decade newer, which still made it a dinosaur in appliance years. Next to that, shelves stacked with cans of assorted party snacks. I wondered how long they’d been there.
I did a visual sweep of the room. Crates of liquor and soda. A wall of tools and a carpenter’s table. Weight bench and barbells. So that’s how Beckett maintained his chiseled torso. Except he wasn’t pumping iron now. Or pounding nails. Or washing clothes.
“Pops, I…” My impatience evaporated when I whirled and caught him swinging aside a wall clock to reveal a security pad.
“Turn away,” he said.
“Why?”
“Heard you got total recall.”
My chest bloomed with pride. So Beckett hadn’t focused solely on my mishaps. He’d touted my talents, as well. This time my smile was genuine. “I don’t know about total recall, but I do have an exceptional memory when it comes to—”
“Turn away.”
“Right.” I faced the opposite wall and soon heard voices, one louder than the others and not happy. My mouth dried with excitement and nerves as Pops tapped me on the shoulder and I saw the snack shelves had slid open. A secret room. I took in the blue carpet, acoustical-tile ceiling and soundproof walls. It reminded me of a posh recording studio complete with state-of-the-art audio and visual equipment, computers and a too-cool-for-your-shoes black leather sofa and chairs. Yowza.
Parked in the center of that cushy sofa was Tabasco. Standing over his shoulder, arms crossed and hands tucked under his pits, was the Kid, the technical brains of the outfit. Looming center stage in a face-off with Milo Beckett—Gina “Hot Legs” Valente. It was the first time I’d seen her since the Simon the Fish fiasco. To say we had unresolved issues was an understatement.
Focused on one another in an intense showdown, they’d yet to notice us. I stood, silent and mesmerized, as the Angelina Jolie clone knocked the back of her hand against the government agent’s shoulder. “What are you smoking, Jazzman? Say no to the AIA director and you can say goodbye to your career.”
Beckett, who reminded me a little of George Clooney, glowered. “I didn’t sign on to act as a politician’s personal avenger.”
“No,” she shot back. “But you did sign on to dupe swindlers who feed off poor, vulnerable saps.”
“The senator’s wife is not vulnerable, nor is she poor. She’s a gambling addict. His problem. Not ours.”
“Not true,” Tabasco cut in. He planted his feet on the floor and braced his forearms on his knees. “The new boss—what’s-his-name…”
“Special Director Vincent Crowe,” said Woody.
“Crowe, whose shit list we’re on at the moment, made it our problem when he asked you a favor,” Tabasco said. “Way I see it, we win back the senator’s money, we win over two powerful men. Men who could make our lives heaven or hell. I vote for the easy life.”
“Doesn’t cost us anything but time,” Gina said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Beckett said. “I have a bad feeling about this one.”
“You’re just bent because the victims are rich and influential,” she said. “Stop focusing on the financial angle and consider the emotional damage. Guilt, shame, anxiety. I’m not ready to turn my back on a mark just because she’s privileged.”
Woody cleared his throat and pointed to me.
Gina glared. “You have got to be kidding.” Pinch-mouthed, she angled away from Beckett and planted her knockout body next to Tabasco’s.
She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to. I could read the disapproval in her kohl-lined eyes. She didn’t like that I was in this room. Didn’t like that, because of Beckett, I now circulated in her professional world. Basically, she didn’t like me, although I had never understood why. Mostly everybody likes me. I’m a likable kind of girl.
Tabasco smiled at me in a way that probably caused most women to swoon. All I felt was the urge to roll my eyes. Gina elbowed him in the ribs.
Woody backed away when Pops nudged me deeper into the room. The Kid probably doubted my mental stability. Based on our interaction thus far, I couldn’t blame him.
Beckett turned. “What’s this about a family emergency?”
He didn’t look any happier than Gina. My anxiety skyrocketed. I didn’t want to blow my job with Chameleon. I loved this job that I hadn’t even started. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t, ignore the troubles on the home front. Still, I didn’t want to discuss my parents’ behavior in front of the entire team. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—my timing stinks,” I blurted.
Gina grunted. “What else is new?”
Beckett shot her a look, then approached me. “Spill.”
His tone was no-nonsense, but when he moved closer, I realized concern shone in his gaze. My gut said he’d understand. “Something’s wrong with my mom.”
“Is she sick?”
“She’s…not herself.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Right away,” I said, grateful when he didn’t press for details. “I don’t have a flight yet, but—”
“Tabasco can fly you. He owns a plane.”
“What kind of plane? One of those little propeller jobs?”
“Not so little,” said the pilot. “Single-engine Cessna. Seats six to eight, depending on cargo.”
“Propeller?” I pressed.
“Yes,” the team answered as one.
“Thanks, but no, thanks.”
“Motion sickness,” Beckett explained, and though he probably thought he was being helpful, he’d made me look weak in the others’ eyes.
Feeling defensive, I looked around his shoulder to Tabasco. “I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn’t want to pull you away from the senator’s case.”
“About that,” Beckett interrupted. “What’s said between these walls—”
“Stays within these walls. Understood.” I pantomimed zipping my lip and throwing away the key. Not that I even knew who they were speaking of specifically. Still, I could keep a secret. My diary was full of them.
There was an awkward silence. I’m accustomed to being the center of attention. I’d made a decent living in the spotlight for more than twenty-five years. But this was different. This was personal. I scratched my neck.
“Commercial flight will cost her a fortune,” Pops said, “considering she’s booking last-minute. Why don’t you have the Kid work some of his magic?”
“Good idea,” Beckett said.
I was stunned by Pops’s lengthy sentences as much as his thoughtfulness. As he’d said, a last-minute ticket wouldn’t be cheap. If Woody could help…“Is it illegal?”
Beckett’s mouth curved. “We call it creative.” He turned to Woody. “Round trip. Philadelphia to Indianapolis.”
“Return date?” Woody asked.
Beckett looked at me and my insides churned. “I don’t know. I…you see…” What the heck. I blurted a condensed version of my brother’s story, bracing myself for snorts and scoffing when I summed up with, “I’m worried someone’s swindling my mom.”
“Sweetheart scam?” Tabasco said.
Gina shrugged. “Maybe she’s just letting her hair down.”
“Let’s find out.” Beckett looked at Woody. “Book two one-way flights, plus a rental car.”
&
nbsp; “I’ll ready your suitcase,” Pops said, and limped from the room.
Gina stood. “Hold up, Jazzman. What about the senator?”
Beckett rocked back on his heels, considered. “He lives just outside of Hammond. How far is that from your hometown, Twinkie?”
I blinked. “Hammond, Indiana? We’re talking about a senator from my home state?”
“Yes and yes. How far?”
“Two, maybe two and a half hours.”
He looked at his team. “I’ll drive up and interview the senator’s wife in person.”
“So we’re taking the case,” Gina said. “Because if we don’t, seems to me we’re facing something more permanent than suspension.”
Beckett didn’t comment. Either he didn’t care or he wasn’t concerned.
His silence triggered hard stares and confrontational body language. I wasn’t sure what I’d stepped into, but I hoped it worked itself out before I returned.
“You can’t come with me, Beckett,” I said. “How would I explain you to my family? Chameleon’s covert and you’re a Fed. What if I’m wrong? What if there’s no swindle? What if my mom is having an affair?” I clamped my hand over my mouth as soon as the words flew out. Crazy talk.
“Didn’t you say something about a high-school reunion?” Beckett asked.
“A civic theater benefit with high-school alumni. Yes, but—”
“Will the others bring their husbands?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Pops asked.
I thought about Arch, looked at Beckett. I forced my fingers not to scratch. “No.”
He smiled. “You do now.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MILO STARED DOWN the rental-car representative—a pale, thin-lipped kid with slicked-over hair. Pee-wee Herman’s younger brother. “What do you mean there are no available cars? I have a reservation.”
“You had a reservation, sir. You canceled it.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.” Pee-wee passed him a computer-generated form. “Says so right here.”
“No one has luck this bad,” Evie grumbled from behind. “Not even me.”
Nonstop flights had been sold out, doubling travel time to four and a half hours. To aggravate matters, due to misinformation, they’d missed their connecting flight. Stranded at the Cleveland airport for what seemed like days. Now this. Milo glanced down at the sheet, glanced up at the representative. “My girlfriend and I have been traveling for—” he checked his temper and his watch “—ten hours. We’re exhausted, we’re frustrated and we’re expected. I need a car. Stick. Automatic. Compact or luxury. Whatever you’ve got.”
“But I don’t have anything, sir. There are several conventions in town. Good for us, bad for you.” He passed Milo back his credit card. “Sorry.”
“Unbelievable,” he said to himself as he turned to Evie. Only she wasn’t there. She was standing across the way, talking on her cell phone. He wondered if she was talking to Arch—or, rather, to his voice mail. The Scot had mentioned dodging her calls, hoping to cool any lingering heat. Although that had been before the whiskey/Midol incident.
After driving Evie home and seeing her settled, he’d called Arch to disabuse him of the notion that he’d made a pass. Allowing him to believe otherwise, using Evie to somehow manipulate him, didn’t sit right. Granted, he’d considered it, but he couldn’t do it. To Arch, yes. To Evie, no. “You know me better than that,” he’d said.
“Dinnae mistake my concern for anything beyond friendship,” had been Arch’s reply.
They’d left it at that, and Milo decided, whether the Scot was in love or not, he was sticking to his personal code, distancing himself so, if the need arose, he could walk away from Evie without a second thought. It made Milo feel less uncomfortable about his own interest in the woman.
His mouth curved when she turned around and he got another look at her Mighty Mouse T-shirt. It didn’t matter that she was over forty; like Goldie Hawn, she was perpetually cute. He wondered if she’d appreciate the observation. Probably not, given her dislike of her moniker. Twinkie. Not degrading, he thought, fitting.
She closed her eyes and massaged her jaw and he felt a stab of guilt. She was worried and tired, and here he stood admiring the curves even her cargo pants couldn’t disguise. He wheeled over her beet-red suitcase along with his beat-up Samsonite just as she disconnected.
“I booked us a room at the Airport Ramada.”
So she hadn’t been talking to Arch. This day was looking up. “Why? Your parents live ninety minutes north.”
“Except we don’t have a car.”
“We’ll try another agency.”
“Even if we snag wheels,” she rasped, “by the time we fill out the paperwork, load the luggage and get on the road, we won’t hit Greenville until one in the morning.” Between exhaustion and her lingering cold, she barely had a voice. “I’m fried, Beckett. I need a clear head to focus on our ruse. I need energy to deal with whatever’s happening at home.”
He could use some downtime himself. He’d volunteered for this unofficial mission on a whim. She’d walked in, Miss Damsel in Distress, and he’d jumped on his white charger.
I’ll save you.
My hero.
But it was more than an opportunity to bring his fantasy to life that had prompted him to offer himself up as her boyfriend. He knew she’d been nervous about compromising her job with Chameleon by taking a leave of absence before she’d even started. That she’d set aside her own ambitions to race to her family’s rescue stirred him. Yes, he was physically attracted to Evie, but he also felt genuine affection.
Mixing business with pleasure suddenly seemed like a kick-ass idea. This trip to Small Town, USA, provided him with a chance to get to know Evie away from Arch, away from Chameleon. Some quiet time to reevaluate his life. Even though he’d assured the team he’d look into Crowe’s unofficial directive, that didn’t mean he’d take on the job. He hadn’t signed up with the Agency to bail rich politicians out of financial jams. He’d signed up to burn low-life grifters who scammed naive marks out of their life savings. Specifically the scum artists, as Arch called them, who targeted the needy, preyed on the vulnerable and naive. Everyday Joes like Mrs. Parish. Not that he was convinced the woman was being scammed.
Twinkie, on the other hand, was certain her mom had fallen victim to everything from a Sweetheart swindle to a Nigerian scam. While he’d tried to unsnarl the travel knot in Cleveland, she’d had her nose stuck in a research book she’d purchased online. The more she read, the greater her fears. Like a hypochondriac perusing a medical encyclopedia.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll call it a night. Want to call and give your mom an update?”
“The only one who knows I’m coming is my brother, and he’s not expecting me until tomorrow or the day after.”
On the flight, he’d asked her about her family. She’d confessed they weren’t close, but she loved them and assumed they loved her, even though they’d never said the words out loud. Having grown up in a repressed environment, he marveled at her natural vitality and warmth, although she had called herself the black sheep of the family.
He was beginning to feel the same way about himself and the AIA.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Just tired,” he said, fighting the urge to confess his career crisis. Even though he knew she’d empathize, she had enough on her mind. And, besides, he’d figure it out. He always did. “Good thinking. The room,” he clarified while hauling their bags toward the signs marked Taxi Service.
“Luckily, there were some cancellations so I booked two.” She hurried alongside. “I know we’re supposed to be sleeping together. I know we’ll have to put on a show once we get there. But until then—”
“Got it, Twinkie.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“I know.” Smiling, he loaded their bags into a cab parked curbside, helpe
d her into the backseat and gave the driver their destination. It was late. Dark. He couldn’t see her expression, but he could feel the tension radiating from her compact body. “Whatever’s wrong,” he said, “we’ll fix it.”
“I appreciate this, Beckett.”
“Milo. Starting tomorrow, we’ll be a couple. Beckett won’t cut it.”
“Got it.”
He frowned at her weary tone, instinctually wrapped his arm around her shoulders, offering comfort. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t relax against him, either. “You all right with this, Twinkie? Sure you’ll be able to convince your family and friends you’re crazy about me?”
“Absolutely,” she said with a smile in her voice that inspired hope for the better man. “I’m a damn good actress.”
DEAR DIARY, I FELT another snap.
Hunched over the cheap desk of my standard, generic hotel room, I scribbled in my diary. Two pages of purple-penned rant.
The first snap had been three weeks ago. The audition from hell. That snap had been loud and proud, felt by me, witnessed by a dozen or so bystanders. This snap had happened tonight, when Beckett put his arm around me. A quiet but worrisome snap. And, because of my superb acting skills, no one knew about it but me. And my diary.
I like Beckett. A lot.
He didn’t make my heart flutter, like Arch. He didn’t summon my inner bad girl. I didn’t want to jump his bones, but I did want to take comfort in his arms.
Would my heart flutter if he kissed me?
On the cruise ship, we’d engaged in a brief couple’s dance. A slow dance. I remember he had good rhythm. I’d been impressed. I remember my skin tingled. I’d been unsettled. I’d told myself I wasn’t actually attracted to him, but he was an attractive man and I was desperate for physical intimacy.