by Beth Ciotta
“Quite the speech.”
“Chameleon’s my baby, Arch. I wanted an elite group that would champion the poor schmucks who get taken for their life savings. People too intimidated or embarrassed to report the crime. Or the ones who do file a complaint and fall through the cracks because their local bunko squad is overworked or the con artist is too damn slick. Instead the Agency’s been pressing me to investigate high-profile cases. Pyramid schemes, franchise frauds, managed-earning scams. Scams that target the rich or suggest corporate corruption. Now this. Since we’re on suspension—”
“Thanks to me.”
“—I chose to give priority to Mrs. Parish’s potential mix-up in a fraud rather than win back the senator’s wife’s losses through deceit.”
“Crowe wants more than that. He wants us to send Turner packing, preferably oot of the country. No cops. No press.”
“No juicy fodder to muck up Clark’s political career, present and future.”
“I dinnae like this any more than you, yeah?”
“Then why are you pushing? Not long ago, you told me if I wanted to make a difference, go freelance.”
“Aye. Still goes.”
“So?”
“So wouldn’t it be better to leave the AIA on fantastic terms? To have a politician in our pocket? Who knows when we might have need of the Agency or Clark’s help—and they’d be more inclined were we in good favor, yeah?”
Milo didn’t answer. Arch was right and they both knew it.
The Scot pulled into a long driveway that led to a sprawling two-story redbrick mansion with a Queen Anne porch. He recognized the architectural style as Second Empire, which dated the house to the mid to late 1800s. The exterior was in immaculate condition, as were the picturesque grounds. As safe houses went, it was high-class. Then again, Arch always arranged for the best. On the cruise ship he’d booked a suite, whereas Milo had ended up with an inside cabin with no view.
“Last time we worked together,” he said, thinking back on Arch’s obsession to fell a murdering hustler, “you were the one making knee-jerk decisions and I was the voice of reason.”
“Figured I owe you.”
“And Evie?”
“Definitely owe her.”
That comment bothered Milo, though he couldn’t say why. Nothing in Arch’s tone or expression to suggest gratitude beyond the obvious. The man had roped her into a sting that had curdled. Milo hadn’t witnessed the incident, but he’d certainly handled the fallout. In the chaos, Evie had been knocked around and eventually knocked out, while Simon the Fish’s lights had gone out for good.
“Grateful because her bungle presented you with an opportunity to pay back Simon—eye for an eye? Or regretful that she got hurt in the struggle?”
“Told you before—I’m not a killer.”
“But you did pull the trigger.”
“Let sleeping fish lie, Beckett. The world’s better off.”
“No argument there.” In addition to art fraud and land-investment fraud, Simon the Fish aka Simon Lamont aka David Krebs had been involved in heavy rackets. Violent. Deadly. Hell, yeah, the world was better off.
Milo pressed his fingers to his temples, pressed away the throbbing, pushed back the doubt. Better to believe the killing had been circumstantial and not premeditated. Bottom line: though not entirely reformed, over the past couple of years Arch had proven himself one of the good guys. His expertise had been invaluable in felling numerous unscrupulous scams. Let it go, he told himself, adding the team’s motto, for the greater good.
Arch parked the compact rental in between two luxury sedans—a black Mercedes and a silver Audi. Tabasco would have arranged for the expensive wheels when he’d flown in the team. A beat-up Chevy wouldn’t cut it for a hyped-up noble and his entourage.
Milo focused on the present ruse and regarded his partner with skepticism. “Northbrook, huh?”
“Ever see the movie The Prince and the Showgirl?”
“No.”
“Then never mind.”
“Northbrook got a first name?”
Arch’s mouth quirked. “Not one you’d admit to.”
Great. “You know, this scenario could have worked the other way. I could’ve posed as Twinkie’s boyfriend and you could’ve been my aide. If I didn’t know better—and I don’t—I’d think you had the Kid screw up my connecting flight so that Tabasco could get you here first. I’d think you didn’t like the idea of me getting close to Evie even though it would be for show. Which implies jealousy, which implies you care about that woman seriously, which would be a first. As far as I know.”
Arch unbuckled his seat belt, popped the trunk, then stepped out. By the time Milo rounded the car the man had hoisted his suitcase from the trunk. Milo nabbed his laptop satchel.
“Jealousy had nothing to do with it,” Arch said as they walked toward the house. “It boils down to which one of us would make the more convincing baron. No offense, but your Scottish accent sucks.”
“And why does Evie have to be mixed up with a Scottish baron?”
“Because it’s going to be beneficial in getting us invited to that private poker game.”
“Turner will do a background search, as will anyone who’s interested in digging up dirt on the Baron of Broxley. I assume you backed up this guy’s existence.”
“He’s the real deal.”
“Sounds like you’ve got everything worked out.”
Now came that cocksure grin. “Dinnae I always?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’VE BEEN IN TIGHT jams before, but this was ridiculous. I shimmied. I wiggled. But to no avail. I was stuck. I had more upper mobility than lower and, luckily, was able to reach around and snag my cell from the zippered pocket of the backpack I’d rooted out of my bedroom closet.
I checked the screen. Three-quarters charged but only two bars. I dialed Arch, praying that wherever he was, he had signal. If not, I’d call Beckett. Only I was still smarting from the Midol debacle. Exposing him to another one of my bonehead dilemmas didn’t seem wise since I wanted to be taken seriously. Arch already considered me accident-prone. Besides, the sooner he got here, the sooner I could pick his brain about Mom’s situation. “Please answer. Please answer.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank God.”
“You dinnae sound good, Sunshine.”
“I feel worse.”
“Are you sick?”
“Stuck.”
“Your jaw?”
He knew about my TMJ. Had witnessed an episode. A mortifying memory with a sweet ending. His calm demeanor and sharp wit had worked better than Tylenol and an ice pack. “No, not my jaw.”
“Did your ma press you on a point you’re not sure of? I gave you plenty to work with when she grilled me on my background over lunch.”
“She didn’t press me on anything. She blew me off five minutes after you and Beckett left. I didn’t get to talk to her about Dad or her new look or…anything. She said she had a dance lesson and she couldn’t miss it or she’d fall behind. I asked if I could go with her. She said no. Said I’d make her nervous.”
“That’s understandable, yeah? You’re a pro and she’s just learning.”
“I guess. But then I asked if I could meet up with her after and she said she had another engagement and wouldn’t be finished before you came to pick me up.”
“So?”
“So what if her engagement is with him?”
“Who?”
“Him. The man who’s putting the spring in her step. The man who influenced her radical makeover and sweet-talked her into cashing in two war bonds. Didn’t Beckett bring you up to speed?”
“He said your brother put an idea in your head aboot an affair and Tabasco flamed it with mention of a Sweetheart scam. I’m not saying it’s impossible, yeah? But let’s take it slow. Get the facts. If someone’s taking advantage of your ma, we dinnae want to scare him off. There’s a chance we could recoup her funds. Control your imagina
tion and dinnae act rashly.”
“Too late.” I shimmied some more, and instead of improving my situation, I wedged myself tighter. Plus the strap of my backpack was snagged. Now I was really sweating. “I need help, Arch.”
“I’m already en route to your house. Stay put and—”
“I’m not going anywhere. But I’m not at home.”
“Where are you?”
“Up a tree without a paddle.”
“What?”
“Don’t ask. Just drive.”
I rattled off detailed directions, calculated his arrival time at fifteen minutes—that’s if he broke the speed limit, and he promised he would—and told him to look for the massive oak tree with a gazillion initials carved in the trunk and one pair of binoculars lying at its base.
I JERKED AWAKE AT THE sound of my cell phone. Not wanting to panic, I’d forced myself to relax by using a visualization technique taught to me by Jayne. Between the afternoon sun, the tranquil rustling of the leaves and exhaustion, I must’ve nodded off. “Arch?”
“No—Nic. I thought you broke up with Arch.”
Fuzzy-headed, it took me a second to focus. “I did. I just…long story.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Not a good time.”
“Why are you whispering? Is your cold worse?”
“I’m feeling much better, actually. I just don’t want to be overheard.”
“By who? Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Then why aren’t you answering the door? I’ve been knocking for five minutes.”
“Home, home. Indiana.”
Silence.
“There was a family crisis. Of sorts.” Crap. I couldn’t tell her my mom was possibly being swindled or, worse, having an affair. Well, I could. It’s not as if I didn’t trust her. I did. But I didn’t know anything for sure. And I certainly couldn’t tell her about Arch and Beckett being here. The why would involve mentioning Chameleon. Double crap.
Her tone softened. “Is it your mom? Your dad? Is one of them in the hospital or…worse?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. Physically, everyone’s fine.” Thank God. Well, except for me. But I wasn’t about to explain my current predicament. “It’s complicated,” I went on. “I really can’t talk about it right now. Humor me. Please.”
“Evie? It’s Jayne. What’s wrong with your mom and dad?”
Obviously she was with Nic and had commandeered the phone. I repeated my explanation.
“Complicated, huh?” She blew out a breath. “How long will you be out there?”
“I have no idea.”
“You’ll call us if you need us, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right,” she said, but she didn’t sound happy. “Your horoscope was a little on the bleak side this morning. Warned of a potential scandal.”
I thought about the senator’s wife, my mom and Fancy Feet, my infatuation with Arch and awareness of Beckett. Lots of potential. “Good thing I don’t put stock in astrology.”
“But I do,” Jayne said.
“Give me the phone, Miss Doom and Gloom,” I heard in the background, then a loud and clear, “Do you need us to do anything for you while you’re away?”
Nic again.
“No, I don’t think so.” I swatted away a gnat. “Except maybe bring in my mail.”
“Done.” Pause. “Sure you’re not the one having the crisis? This isn’t some sort of delayed freak-out because of Michael and Sasha, is it?”
“I haven’t given them a second thought,” I said honestly. Which proved I really was over the man. Hallelujah. I heard another voice, distant but approaching the tree. “I have to go,” I whispered.
“All right, but take care and call if—”
“I will.” I disconnected and my stomach soured. For the past month I’d been lying to my two best friends. Well, not lying but certainly tap-dancing to beat the band. Or something like that. At some point soon I needed to have that talk with Beckett about what I could and couldn’t reveal to Nic and Jayne. And ultimately, when this immediate crisis passed, to my family. “For the greater good,” I told myself, because somehow that made the ruse feel less deceitful.
I angled my body as best I could to see who was coming. Arch! He was talking on his cell. “Just see what you can do, yeah? Thanks, mate.” He disconnected and tucked away the palm-size mobile. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked different from the phone he’d been using the last couple of weeks. Probably an upgrade. Men and gadgets. Jeez.
Three more steps and he was directly beneath me. Even from way up here and through the obstruction of leafy branches, I could see that he’d chucked the tie and opened his collar. I could see a hint of dark chest hair and that part of his neck where I liked to bury my face when we snuggled. Sigh. He picked up my dad’s bird-watching binoculars, looked around.
“Up here,” I called down in a stage whisper, which is louder than a real whisper but not loud enough to be heard across the lawn. “I’m right above you.”
He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and peered up into the thick foliage. “You weren’t kidding. You’re up a tree. Are you mental?” he asked when he finally saw me. “Climb down before you have a tumble.”
“I can’t. I told you—I’m stuck. You’re going to have to come up and help me out. But be discreet. I don’t want anyone to know I’m up here.” Not that I’d seen anybody walk by in the past hour. The oak was situated in the back side of the civic center. Most of the comings and goings were on the other side.
“Discreet,” he mumbled, then laid aside the binoculars and shucked his jacket and shoes.
It didn’t take him long to reach me. The branches were strong and plentiful, easy to climb. As a kid I’d hung out up here after school, singing songs to the birds and concocting whimsical stories. A place to hide away and be fanciful me. I knew this tree well. Now I knew it intimately as I swore one of it slimmer twigs had wedged down the back of my Wranglers.
“Are you all right?” he asked, skimming his hands over me.
“Keep touching me like that and I’ll be over the moon.”
He smirked. “You’re fine.”
“I’m stuck.”
“So you said.” He shifted and examined my predicament. “How’d you get wedged in this nook?”
“I was staked out on that branch.” I pointed up. “Had a prime view, but then I bobbled the binoculars. I made a grab and lost my balance. Ended up here. Wasn’t much of a drop—I mean, I caught myself, but I guess…” I trailed off, recognizing his controlled expression. Uh-oh.
“You could’ve broken your neck, for fuck’s sake.”
“You’re not going to snap it, are you?” I asked with a teasing grin.
“I’m glad you think this is funny.”
I indicated the two of us, the tree. “Well, come on.”
He unsnagged my britches and the straps of my backpack, tugged and finessed my body and—ta-da!—freedom. Seems I should’ve been able to free myself, but I’d been wedged at an odd angle, unable to gain the right leverage—and, sure, I’m limber, but I have puny muscles. I, unlike Arch, did not work out every day. If I wanted to be a true member of Chameleon, I should probably be in top form. Mental note: take up jogging.
My muscles ached as I shifted to another branch. Rain check on the jogging. I didn’t complain about my smarting hips or what suspiciously felt like a saucer-size bruise on my thigh. I didn’t want Arch to think I was a baby, plus my relief was too immense. I was beginning to worry we might have to call the fire department. Sex kitten treed. News at eleven. Not that there was anything sexy about faded jeans and high-top sneakers, but I was wearing a Felix the Cat T-shirt. Any reporter worth his salt would spin that.
Arch settled on a fat, sturdy branch, his back against the trunk as he rolled up his shirtsleeves.
I hunkered down across from him, gaze riveted on his sinewy arms. I thought about the Celtic tattoo banded around h
is bicep, tamped down an erotic shiver and focused on his gorgeous profile. The man was definitely peeved—or anxious or bored. Hard to tell with Arch. “Why are you breathing hard? You do fifty push-ups without breaking a sweat. Don’t tell me you’re tuckered from climbing a tree.”
“Waiting for my temper to settle, yeah?” He cast me a fiery glare. “Why the bloody hell were you up here with binoculars?”
He was worried about me? My heart fluttered. I told it to stop. “That’s the civic center. The dance studio is on the second floor.”
“You were spying on your ma?”
“Don’t look at me that way. She’s not herself and I’m worried someone’s taking advantage. My brother thinks it’s the dance instructor. Possible he’s right. The man’s fortyish, handsome. Reminds me of a young George Hamilton. Dark tan, bright teeth. Slick.”
“His hair?”
“His personality. I’m talking smooooth. A real ladies’ man. In fact, women accounted for seventy-five percent of his class. Probably why he focused more on the Cotton-Eyed Joe than the two-step. Group dance as opposed to couple dance,” I clarified. “Some of the men appeared to be having fun. The others looked leery. I’m thinking it’s because their wives are crushing on the instructor.”
“You surmised all that through binoculars.”
I shrugged. “Years of studying human nature when researching character roles, not to mention all of the crazy stuff I witnessed while performing on stage, sharpened my observation skills. What can I say? I’m good.”
The left side of his mouth kicked up and he studied me in a way that made my hoo-ha ache for his wa-hoo. “You’re cute when you’re cheeky, Sunshine.”
He’d made that observation in the past, once or twice, and each time it had led to a kiss—or more. Uh-oh. I squeezed my thighs together and mentally listed my turnoffs. Intolerance. Litterbugs. Know-it-alls. Women who squat in public toilets and end up tinkling on the seat and not wiping it clean.
“Anyway,” I said, satisfied I’d cooled my horny jets, “Mom was partnered with some man for the two-step—a man closer to her age, mind you. She was doing pretty well, actually. A little stiff, maybe. But then things took a suspicious turn.” I leaned forward, eyes narrowed, voice low. “The instructor kept cutting in, using her to demonstrate certain moves. With him she was loose, fluid. A regular Ginger Rogers.”