by Beth Ciotta
Instead Mom, who was abnormally chatty, revealed her hand. “I can see you’re uncomfortable, Evelyn. Don’t be. Baron Duvall—or is it Baron Archibald—”
“Just Arch,” he said.
“—explained the circumstances. Normally I don’t approve of lying, but I understand his immediate need to keep your relationship secret. Scottish nobility and an American entertainer.” She snorted in a knowing manner. “The press would have a field day. And considering his charity work, well…” She fluttered a hand, leaving off the rest of Arch’s tale.
Okay. Never mind that she’d just suggested I was worthy of a scandal sheet simply because I’d chosen the stage over scholastics. But what the heck? Arch had passed himself off as a privileged noble and us an item? For what purpose? And how did he know we’d be here? I didn’t know about Beckett, but my head hurt.
Arch graced my mom with one of his knee-buckling smiles—at least that’s how they affected me. “Again, Marilyn, I appreciate your cooperation in this delicate matter. Your daughter and I aren’t hiding our relationship, but we are keeping a low profile. I wanted to meet her family withoot the interference of the paparazzi. You know how intrusive they can be, yeah?”
“Monsters,” she said with a scowl. “Look at how they hounded poor Princess Diana and Dodi, and we all know how that turned out.”
I dipped my chin and massaged my temple when I really wanted to roll my eyes. Mom—logical, grounded Marilyn Parish—had fallen for Arch’s cock-and-bull fairy tale like a gullible kid.
Beckett stood beside me, hands stuffed in the pockets of his Dockers, expressionless, silent. I imagine he was doing the same as me: trying to assess the situation. It was like walking in on the middle of a movie.
Eureka!
“The Prince and the Showgirl,” I mouthed and Arch winked at me. Yeah, boy, he’d ripped this scenario out of the 1957 movie starring Laurence Olivier and Marilyn Monroe. Considering he’d fashioned our last aliases after characters from another Monroe classic, Some Like it Hot, he probably thought I’d get a kick out of it. An inside joke, except I didn’t get it. Why the charade?
“A driver dropped me aboot twenty minutes ago. I didnae expect to arrive ahead of you,” he said, at last addressing his partner.
“Missed our connection in Cleveland,” Beckett said, folding his arms over his maroon polo shirt. Unlike Arch, his attire was casual. Unlike Arch, he’d blend in here. “Tried to reach you on your cell,” he continued. “Couldn’t get through.”
I didn’t know if he was telling the truth or playing along. My patience thinned by the minute.
“Between our time in the air and spotty reception, I assumed as much.” Arch wrapped an arm about my waist, kissed the top of my head. “If she were under anyone else’s protection, I would’ve worried, yeah? Dinnae know what I’d do withoot you, Northbrook.”
Northbrook. A character name from The Prince and the Showgirl. Only Beckett wouldn’t know that since he wasn’t a movie buff like Arch and me. Still, he didn’t flinch.
“Just doing my job,” he said, and I remembered that Mom had referred to him as the baron’s personal aide. Either the man was quick on his feet or he’d planned this with Arch ahead of time, although how could that be when I’d presented him with my family crisis last-minute?
“Mr. Northbrook,” Mom said as if suddenly aware of his presence. “You must be fatigued from the drive. Would you like some water? Tea? Coffee? What about lunch? You must know the baron’s likes and dislikes. Join me in the kitchen while these two lovebirds say a proper hello. Tell me,” she said at a lower volume as she ushered him into the dining room, “is personal aide code for bodyguard? The baron mentioned you’re former military.”
Number one: I’ve never known Mom to be so animated and gossipy. Two: I’ve never heard her utter the term lovebirds. And three: proper hello intimated intimacy. I’m positive she’s never championed displays of affection. She didn’t even hug me at the front door, for crying out loud! Yet here she was encouraging whoopee between me and a man she didn’t know. Although he was—cough—nobility. Why did I get the sinking feeling that she was doing an internal happy dance, thinking, after years of struggling in the fickle, unstable entertainment world, I’d finally wised up and secured my future by landing an aristocrat.
As soon as they were out of the room, I wiggled out of Arch’s arms. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping my partner from ruining his career.”
It wasn’t the answer I’d expected. I wanted him to be here for me. The disappointment was crushing. “I assume you’re speaking of the senator’s case,” I whispered.
“Aye.”
“I didn’t ask Beckett to do this.”
“I know.”
“How do you…?” I narrowed my eyes. “Someone on the team contacted you.”
“Aye.”
“But you were in London, weren’t you? How did you get here before us? How long have you been here?” I paced to work off rising steam, fought to keep my voice to a frustrated whisper. “I came here because my family needs me.”
“I know.”
“I guess you heard that from Gina or Tabasco, too.”
“I didn’t hear it from you.”
A sarcastic statement delivered without sarcasm. How very Arch. I stopped in front of him, hands balled at my side. “Well, I would have told you if you would’ve answered the phone.”
“You could’ve left a message, yeah?”
“Yes, well…”
“We dinnae have time for this, Sunshine.” He nabbed my wrist and pulled me against his hunky body. “Listen and focus.”
At times like this it was impossible to think of myself as six years his senior. He made me feel like a besotted teen, all hormones and giggles. I blinked up into those devastating gray-green eyes, my mind and limbs mush. The use of my pet name had been enough to burn off my temper, but it was the feel of his arms around me—strong and comforting—that unraveled the bulk of my anxiety knots.
“Do you want to reunite your parents? Do you want to appear successful in their eyes and in the eyes of your school chums?” He smoothed a hand down my back and I realized I was trembling. “Do you want to prove to Beckett and the rest of Chameleon that you’ve got the right stuff?”
I almost fell for it. Almost believed that he wanted to make my professional dream come true. Except I remembered his reaction—or lack thereof—when I’d told him Beckett had hired me and then…my blood boiled just thinking about it. “You don’t want me to prove I’ve got the right stuff. You convinced Beckett to use me as a singer instead of an active player. And now you show up here and…what? What are you playing at, Ace?”
“Things have changed,” is all he said. “Just know I’m here for the greater good.”
Not a perfect explanation but one that appealed to my sense of decency. Which, of course, the manipulative bastard knew. “I thought you were here because of Beckett.”
“I am. But I’m here for you, too.”
My traitorous heart thumped.
“Friends in need, yeah?”
Friends. Right.
“We need to work this nobility angle, Sunshine.”
My brain scrambled to break down his intent. Even though he said he wanted to keep his bogus title and our equally bogus relationship low-profile, surely he understood the power and speed of small-town gossip. Two days, tops, and the headline of the Greenville Tribune would read: European Nobility Romances Drama Queen. Mrs. Grable and my drama-club buddies would view me as a modern-day Grace Kelly. Who needs to perform when you’ve got a castle to keep? My family, specifically my Dad, would stop fretting that I was alone and floundering. He could give up the tavern and Mom could give up her shenanigans and all would be right in their world.
As for Beckett…My objective all along had been to dazzle him with my tap-dancing abilities, thereby earning my place in the field. If I could con an entire town—people who knew me—into thinking I was dating a noble
, I could dupe a run-of-the-mill scum artist into believing anything.
Determination pumped through me, obliterating my concerns regarding Arch’s motives. For now, anyway. “What’s our story?”
He smiled. “That’s my girl.”
Only I wasn’t his girl, not in reality. He didn’t do relationships—his policy. I didn’t mix business with pleasure—Beckett’s policy. I’d puzzle on that later. One brain buster at a time.
A teakettle whistled, prompting him to launch into a succinct profile. “You’re you.”
“Whoopee.”
“I’m Archibald Robert Duvall of Broxley, Baron of Broxley.”
“Robert Duvall?”
“My ma took a fierce liking to the chap when she met him, yeah?”
“Are we talking about the same Robert Duvall? The American actor?”
“Aye. And, no, we’re not blood. Last name’s coincidence.”
Forget the last name. I bounced back to the first. “Archibald?” It made sense, of course. Arch would be short for Archibald, but jeez. Who names their kid Archibald?
He raised a brow. “Time’s ticking, Sunshine.”
“All right. But wait. When word gets around—and it will—people are going to want the scoop on you. A titled Scot in Greenville? That’s huge. They’re going to Google the Baron of Broxley. Internet connection may be splotchy in these parts, but we are indeed connected to the cyber world.”
“Then my Web site should garner several hits, yeah?”
I scrunched my brow. “You have a Web site?”
“The Baron of Broxley has a Web site. Mostly it’s devoted to the town and people of Broxley. The history. Local events, you know?”
“You created a phony Web site?” What was I saying? He’d forged a passport. An official government document. Anyone with the software, a server and know-how could launch a Web site.
“Aside from occasional online tabloid mentions and brief interviews, I am now also, thanks to Woody, included in Wikipedia.”
I smirked. “You mean, the baron.”
He grinned. “The man is, like me, guarded about his life, but there’s enough information out there to support his existence.”
My mind cramped wondering what laws he’d broken or bent to bring the Baron of Broxley to life. “Hurry up and give me the rundown before my brain explodes. Mom and Northbrook will be back any minute.”
“We met three weeks ago on a Caribbean cruise, fell into a heated affair and have been inseparable since.”
I swallowed hard. “That’s pretty much true.” Except he’d left out the breaking-up-in-London part.
“In this instance, the closer we stick to the truth, the less room for error.”
“Beckett said something similar.”
“Taught him everything I know, yeah?”
He stroked my long bangs out of my eyes, and I flashed on all the times he’d performed a similar gesture in the midst of heated sex. Then my mind jumped to the vision of Beckett, first fresh out of the shower, half-naked, then later, when he’d lifted me into his arms and carried me to the sofa. “Everything?” I croaked.
“Professionally speaking.”
My gaze slid to his mouth and the warning bells clanged. “I swore to Beckett that you and I…that this thing…”
“This is business, lass.”
“Right.”
I heard Mom’s voice, knew she and Northbrook were rounding the corner. I felt the erotic pressure of Arch’s hands on my backside as his face dropped closer to mine, and suddenly I was a blushing, hormonal teen cuddling in my parents’ living room with the quintessential bad boy. “You’re going to kiss me, aren’t you?”
His devilish eyes twinkled. “Just a proper hello.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MILO CHECKED HIS temper as Arch said his goodbyes to Twinkie and her mom. He leaned back against the rental car, a blue midsize Ford, and mentally reviewed what would have been a clusterfuck if not for his extensive law-enforcement training and years of experience wading through grifter bullshit.
As for Evie—she’d played the scene perfectly, even though, like Milo, she’d had to play it cold. At this point he assumed she knew more than he did, as she’d been alone with Arch while he’d been trapped in the kitchen with her mother. He’d survived Mrs. Parish’s interrogation by copping a client-confidentiality plea. Privileged information and I’m not at liberty to discuss that covered a lot of ground when fielding questions about a so-called person of title. He’d had to resort to double-talk when she’d asked the specific location of the man’s barony and if he lived in a manor or a castle, because how the hell would he know? Although Arch—or, rather, the baron—had cleared that up over lunch.
The way he figured it, after overhearing Twinkie’s looped talk about getting naked in his apartment, Arch had booked a flight from London to Philly ASAP. Didn’t matter that Milo had called with a rational explanation. The man had been motivated by jealousy. That he was here in Indiana indicated he’d touched base with a team member while en route. Must have gone over big when he’d learned Milo was escorting Evie to her hometown under the guise of being her boyfriend. Details were murky, but the result was clear: the Scot had screwed Milo out of the role of Twinkie’s knight in shining armor. Not to mention a kiss.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to show you the way?” he heard Evie ask. No doubt she wanted extended privacy with Arch to grill him on his alias and intent. Milo related. Or maybe she just didn’t want to be left alone with her mom. The tension between those two was tangible.
“I’m sure, lass. I’ll be back to pick you up, as discussed, and you can give me a tour of this charming village, yeah?” Arch brushed his lips across her knuckles—nice touch—then nodded to Mrs. Parish. “Thank you again for extending the invitation to dine tomorrow evening and for humoring my peculiar request. I look forward to an authentic American cookout. Until then….”
The screen door closed and the suited Scot approached the car at an easy pace. Milo expected a cocksure grin as he neared, but instead Arch pulled a poker face. “I’ll drive, mate,” he said. “I know the way.”
Milo tossed him the keys. “You’re the boss.”
“Someone had to take charge.”
“Meaning?”
“Let’s postpone this discussion until we’re oot of view, yeah?”
Checking his annoyance, Milo climbed in the passenger side.
They buckled up and a few seconds later drove north on Main, away from the center of town. Arch spoke first. “Are you mental? Questioning a direct assignment? What the fuck?”
“Not a direct assignment, an unofficial directive.”
“A favor.”
Milo grunted.
“Considering who the request came from and who it’s for, same difference, yeah?”
Milo regarded his partner with a raised brow. “You flew all the way here to bust my hump about a case?”
“A case that could boost or break your career with the AIA.”
“Since when do you care about my career?”
“Since you roped me into Chameleon. What affects you affects all of us, yeah?”
“Let me rephrase. Since when do you care about Chameleon? We both know the only reason you partnered with me was to keep your ass out of jail.”
“I have other reasons now.”
“That reason have anything to do with the blonde in the cartoon T-shirt?”
“It has to do with the likes of Simon the Fish.”
Milo gave the man credit. If he had Evie on the brain, he wasn’t letting on. “Simon’s dead.”
“World’s crawling with his kind.”
“Developing a conscience, are you?”
“Nothing so profound.” Arch steered the car onto a back road, and just like that they were in the country, surrounded by sporadic green knolls, plowed fields and patches of dense woods. He didn’t consult directions or a map. Wherever they were going, he’d been there before.
“So…what? This is an intervention? You’re taking me to a safe house? Let me guess—Gina and Tabasco are waiting and they, along with you, will badger me until I see the error of my ways.”
“Something like that.”
“I knew they questioned my hesitation regarding this case, but I didn’t think they’d come crying to you.”
“Pops called me.”
That stung. Samuel Vine was the one man he trusted without question. Wasn’t like the old man to go behind his back. “Odd. He seemed sympathetic to Evie and her family crisis.”
“He is. But he’s also worried aboot you. He figured I could investigate Evie’s troubles, allowing you to focus on the senator.”
“I don’t want to focus on powerhouses like Senator Clark. I don’t want to recover the money his wife gambled away. He can afford to lose it, trust me. If he doesn’t want to lose any more, he needs to have a talk with Mrs. Clark. Instead of courting Chameleon, he should be contacting Gamblers Anonymous.”
“But you’re going to look into it.”
“I said I would.”
Arch slid on his sunglasses as they swung around the bend and drove into the midmorning rays. “I spoke with the Kid. According to the file he typed up per your briefing, Mrs. Clark swears she was cheated.”
“Lots of gamblers call foul when the cards don’t go their way,” Beckett said, shoving on his own mirrored aviators.
“An invitation-only poker game taking place in a private room of a new local hot spot owned by Frank ‘Mad Dog’ Turner, a former pro athlete turned restaurateur. Mrs. Clark learned aboot the exclusive game through a dealer at a nearby riverboat casino. Possible the dealer and Turner are in collusion, yeah? Possible the game’s crooked.”
“Possible.” He slid Arch an annoyed look. “The only people invited to that game are hard-core players with deep pockets. The greedy who crave higher stakes. The arrogant who think they can beat the odds. The foolish who think they’re too smart to be taken for a ride. The ideal sucker. Your mark of choice when you were still hustling. Wasn’t it you who told me they got what they deserved?”