by Beth Ciotta
His chest constricted when he thought about the way she’d come to him and begged for his help. He’d been ready to follow through with her wishes even though he didn’t fully agree with her method, but then he’d thought about what Arch had said about tainting that purity. He was certain if she detached and looked at the bigger picture, she wouldn’t want to dispense with Gish so rashly. He’d been right. But then she’d broken down and he’d felt like shit.
He still felt like shit.
He’d wanted to kiss away those tears. But she hadn’t moved into his arms, he’d pulled her against his body. His initiative, not hers. He’d settled for comforting her, but then—goddamn—she’d vocalized the chemistry between them. It made it worse. Mainly because she wanted to ignore it. Which meant he had to ignore it.
Unless she changed her mind.
His exchange with Arch had been brief. Nothing happened. Wish I could say different. She was upset and I just happened to be the convenient shoulder.
You sound suitably disappointed. Warms my heart, yeah?
Fuck you.
Bugger off.
The dance.
In truth, nothing had happened. Except she’d made it clear her heart was with Arch.
Milo flexed his fingers on the wheel. He needed to get his head out of his pants and back in the game. He needed a distraction. Just now, the best he could do was Nicole.
He turned onto the gravel road, glanced at the woman in the passenger seat. Moonlight accentuated her exotic beauty. This was a woman who got recognized for her looks first and everything else, like her talent and wit, after. Ten to one she’d been used and abused more than once. I learned the hard way. That accounted for her tough outer shell. Maybe if he softened toward her, she’d soften toward him. A truce, at least, would be nice. “What’d you do with that memory card?” he blurted for lack of something to say. In truth, he was curious.
“Destroyed it.”
“Smart.”
“I thought so.”
“How long have you been an actress?”
“A long time.”
“You’re good.”
“Thanks.”
“When Mrs. Parish asked how we met, you had me believing in love at first sight.”
“Like you said, I’m good.”
“So you don’t actually believe in love at first sight.”
She rolled her eyes, then looked out the side window. As if there was anything to see except rain-drenched plowed fields.
Milo wasn’t big on small talk, but her silence irritated him, especially after she’d been so sociable with the Parishes. Mostly he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. “Your other friend, Jayne—is she a realist like you? Or a dreamer like Evie?”
“Jayne is like no one you’ve ever met.” She shifted in her seat. “Is there something on your mind, Slick?”
The moniker grated, but only because it sounded like an insult coming from her. Was that how Evie felt when he called her Twinkie? “Why do you ask?”
“Because you suck at chitchat. Tells me it’s not something you normally engage in. So why now?”
Because he didn’t want to think about Evie. Evie and Arch. Evie and Arch in bed.
She blew out a breath. “Does she know?”
“Does who know what?”
“Does Evie know you’re in love with her?”
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, schooled his expression. “If that’s what you think—”
“It’s in your eyes, Slick. I know that look. Subtle but present. The look of lerve,” she teased. “I caught it this morning at breakfast, then at the jailhouse when you passed her the aspirin, then later, coming out of the office.” She whistled low. “L-O-V-E or something damn close.”
“I can’t decide if you’re full of shit, a pain in the ass or both.” Milo could feel his blood pressure rising, but he played it cool. “What I do know is that you’re off base.”
“I’m not the only one who noticed,” she said, blowing over his denial. “Arch sees it. He’s just better at hiding his jealousy than most men. Listen, I get it,” she rushed on, and Milo cursed himself for opening the floodgates. “Everybody loves Evie. She’s sweet and funny, kind and generous, smart and talented, a little on the whimsical side. Hell, I love Evie. Jayne loves Evie. The kid who delivers her Chinese food loves Evie. The only one who doesn’t is that bastard ex of hers who eloped with his pregnant girlfriend.”
Milo glommed on to that last part as he pulled into the drive of the Appleseed B and B and parked beside the Mercedes. “Stone eloped?”
“He didn’t even have the courtesy to tell Evie. Didn’t tell her about knocking up Sasha, either. I got the honor on both counts. Lucky me.”
He keyed off the ignition, processed.
She blew out a breath. “Look, Evie’s been through a lot these past couple of years. She’s trying to find new direction, happiness, and she thinks those things lie with Chameleon. I’m not happy about that, in case you haven’t noticed, but it’s her life. Unfortunately she’s fallen in love with rebel boy—hope that doesn’t come as a shock to you—and I’m not sure he’s the best man for her. Not sure you’re that man, either,” she said as she opened the car door, “but, of the two, you are certainly the most trustworthy.”
She swung her long legs out of the car. Before he could rebut, she got in the last word. “Hurt her, Milo, and I will become your worst nightmare.”
She slammed shut the door and he sat there, stunned. “Well, hell.” He wasn’t sure what to make of her observation. Wasn’t sure what to make of her. He’d flown out here hoping to clear his head, to make some decisions, except he was more confused now than when he’d left Atlantic City.
One thing was certain—he didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to. No good could come from being cooped up under the same roof with Miss Tell It Like It Is and Arch and Evie, who were probably in bed together. His life had turned into a frickin’ soap opera. It smacked of the triangle debacle he’d gone through with his ex-wife. Only, instead of the injured party, this time he felt like the fucking “other man”—and he hadn’t even done anything. “Fuck!”
He pushed out of the car, sloshing around the muddy fricking yard, holding out his cell phone and looking for a goddamn fricking signal. At last, two bars. He phoned Woody for the second time in three hours. “What’d you get on Randolph Gish?”
Five minutes later he entered the house, surprised to find Arch sitting in the dark on the living-room sofa, nursing a glass of scotch and watching a black-and-white movie on the nineteen-inch TV. “Where’s Evie?” he asked while shucking his muddy shoes.
“In her room.”
“Nicole?”
“Marched straight upstairs, yeah? Not sure if she’s in her room or Evie’s.” He polished off his drink. “You two have words?”
“She certainly spoke her mind.” Milo slipped into the dining room and grabbed his stashed laptop. He came back, placed the computer on the coffee table and sat next to Arch. “Woody e-mailed something you’re going to want to see.”
“Something on the senator or Turner?”
“Something on Gish.”
Just like that it was no longer personal but professional. United purpose. The warped camaraderie. He motioned to the liquor bottle. “Grab another glass, will you?”
By the time Arch came back from the kitchen he’d fired up the computer and was signing on to the Internet. “Goddamn dial-up,” he complained as the other man poured and handed him a glass of scotch—two fingers, neat. He pointed to the TV. “What are you watching?”
“All About Eve.”
“Are you serious?”
“Ever seen it?”
“Don’t think so.” Milo squinted at the actress on screen. “Who’s that?”
“Fucking Anne Baxter. How can you not know Anne Baxter?”
He glanced from the TV to the laptop—still connecting—and back. “Is that a young Marilyn Monroe?”
/> Arch grunted. “Her you know.”
Milo took a hit off his scotch. “What’s it about?”
“An aging actress and her theater friends.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Lot of memorable quotes in this flick, yeah?”
“Hit me.”
“‘We’re a breed apart. We’re the original displaced persons.’”
“Huh. Don’t recognize it, but I like it. Could apply to our kind, as well as Evie’s.” He sipped more scotch, keyed in his password when the screen popped up. “Let’s hear another.”
“‘Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.’”
“That one I’ve heard. Hold that thought.” He typed in another password, a site secured by Woody for Chameleon activity, clicked on the specified e-mail and downloaded a file.
“This could take all night,” Arch said, refilling his glass. “How do people deal withoot high-speed-modem access?”
“Almost there,” Milo said.
“Almost where, Slick?”
He glanced up and saw Nicole standing to their left. He was surprised to see her wearing glasses. Which meant she wore contact lenses during the day. Just now, it was too dark and she was standing too far away for him to tell if the contacts had augmented the color of her eyes. The vibrancy of their green had almost been unnatural. Meanwhile the glasses with the oval black-rimmed frames did little to detract from her sexy aura. She’d changed into a black lounging suit and had plaited her hair into two long braids. Face scrubbed of makeup, glasses and all, she still looked exotic as hell. At least he noticed. Hello, distraction. “We’re doing some late-night work.”
“Looks like you’re watching TV.” She moved into the room. “All About Eve?”
“Aye,” said Arch.
“Priceless.” She smirked at Milo. “Ever seen it?”
“No.”
“Story about ambition and betrayal.”
“Nice.” Milo minimized the computer screen.
“What are you drinking?”
“Scotch,” said Arch.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Yes,” both men said.
She scooted into the kitchen, presumably to get a glass.
“Pain in the ass,” Milo muttered, pulling up the file.
“Relax, mate. Anything classified in here?”
“Don’t think so.” Milo pointed at the mug shot. “That our guy?”
“That’s him. Quite a few aliases, yeah?” He leaned in next to Milo, skimmed the text. “Transient grifter. Lengthy arrest record. Made a lot of mistakes. Sloppy.”
“Who?” Nicole settled next to Milo and helped herself to the liquor.
Up close and personal now, he could see that her eyes were indeed jade-green. Unique. He frowned. “I’m asking nicely, Pocahontas. Take your drink and make yourself scarce.”
“That wasn’t a question, Slick. But here’s one.” She peeked at the file. “Is this about Evie?”
Arch kept reading. “Aye.”
“Then I’m staying.”
“Fine,” Milo said, nudging her away. He pointed to a chaise lounge. “Would you mind sitting over there?”
“View’s better here.”
He muttered under his breath.
“I’ve been called worse,” she said, then curled her feet beneath her and sipped her drink.
“No convictions,” Arch said. “But look here.”
Nicole leaned in and again Milo nudged her away. “That’s the part of the Kid’s report that caught my interest.”
“We could play it a couple of ways, you know?”
“Agreed. I say we let Evie make the call.”
Arch rubbed his hands over his face—conflicted, perturbed—but holding his thoughts close to his chest. “Agreed,” he finally said. “But she’s wiped oot. Maybe this could wait until morning.”
Nicole stirred. “She’ll sleep better if something’s settled tonight.”
“In that case,” Milo said, “would you mind asking your friend to come downstairs?”
She set aside her drink, muttered under her breath.
He cocked his head. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Wait,” Arch said. “I’ll go up and explain the situation, lay oot the alternatives.”
Milo summed up a lecture in one sentence. “Let her decide.”
Arch saluted, then rose. He may as well have given him the finger.
Milo watched as he climbed the stairs. In all the times they’d argued they’d never thrown punches, but something told him that day was near.
“What do you want to bet we don’t learn the outcome until tomorrow morning?” Nicole noted, picking up the liquor bottle and topping off both glasses.
Milo didn’t answer. He was too busy warding off images of Arch seducing Evie into submission. If the Scot had his way, they’d take down Gish without her.
“Don’t know about you, but I couldn’t sleep now if I tried,” Nicole plowed on. “What are the alternatives? Glad you asked. You could let me read that file and fill me in on Evie’s choices.”
“Or?”
“I could fill you in on what’s transpired in this movie so far and we could watch the rest while polishing off this bottle.”
Milo shut down the laptop, snatched up his drink in one hand, the TV remote in the other, and hiked the volume. “So what’s Bette Davis’s problem?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I VENTED IN MY DIARY until my fingers cramped. My heart and mind were still jammed. I took a hot shower, hoping to ease my tense muscles and rinse away the icky feeling of betraying the man I love. Which is sort of what I did when I asked Beckett to solve my problem instead of Arch. At least I’m sure that’s how he viewed it. In all honesty, I couldn’t blame him for being bent. Especially after he’d admitted his desire to be my champion. A man’s ego, I’d decided, was as fragile as, if not more than, a woman’s.
The more I obsessed on the day, the more my stomach hurt. I regretted not driving over as I’d first intended and handling Randolph Gish in my own way. I’d second-guessed my abilities. If I didn’t believe in me, why should anyone else?
I glanced at the clock—11:00 p.m. Even though I’d been in bed for half an hour, even though my mind and body were drained, I was still wide-awake. I actually welcomed the knock on the door. “Come in,” I said, switching on the nightstand lamp.
The door opened and closed and suddenly Arch was standing next to my bed. He’d changed into gray sweatpants and a loose-fitting black tee. Nothing sexy about the ensemble, yet he took my breath away.
“I expected Nic,” I said, cursing the hitch in my voice.
“I need to speak with you, lass.”
My mouth went dry and my stomach flipped. “Are you breaking up with me?” Hello. What was I, sixteen?
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
“Good. Scoot over.”
He climbed into bed, on top of the covers, and crossed his legs at the ankles. Repositioning a pillow, he relaxed against the headboard and pulled me into his arms. “You smell good, yeah? Like soap.”
“I took a shower.”
“Sorry I missed it.”
Zing. Zap. No matter our conflicts, the physical attraction sparked like white lightning. I ignored the tingling between my thighs, braced myself for our talk. “What’s on your mind?”
“Randolph Gish.”
Not Beckett. My heart settled in my chest as I rested my cheek on his shoulder. “What about him?”
“Woody sent over a report. A criminal-arrest report.”
“So he is a con artist.” I tried to sit up, but he pressed my head back to his shoulder.
“Just listen. Gish isn’t in the league of the grifters Chameleon normally cracks. Still, he easily falls into your rat-bastard-rat category. Though he’s been arrested on various short cons, he specializes in Sweetheart scams. Nurturing relationships through Internet dating services and business ventures.”
“Like his dance lessons.”
“Aye.”
Pain zinged up the side of my face. I relaxed and massaged my jaw, skin sizzling when Arch took over the task. Gentle yet strong, his touch worked miracles. “If he’s been arrested, why isn’t he in jail?” I asked.
“Several arrests,” he said, “but no convictions. Gish is sloppy, but he keeps slipping through the justice system for dozens of reasons. Not important now. What is important is that there’s an ootstanding warrant, a victim willing to testify and enough evidence to put him away for a good bit.”
“What did he do?”
“Short story—he embezzled the savings of a seventy-year-old widow by taking and cashing blank checks over a one-year period.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-two thousand.”
My head and heart throbbed. “I suppose he pretended to love her, earned her confidence.”
“That’s the way of it, yeah?”
“Where is she now?”
He didn’t say anything, and this time I did push away so I could look into his eyes. “Where is she, Arch?”
“She’s a ward of the state. No family. No funds.”
My blood pumped. “Rat bastard.”
“Aye.”
“We have to turn him in right away.”
“That’s one choice.”
I wiggled around to face him and perched on my knees. “What do you mean choice? He has to pay for what he did to that poor woman. We have to inform Sheriff Jaffe or call whatever police department or agency that issued the warrant.”
“Blow the whistle now, make a scene, and your ma will know she was bilked.”
“Her money’s history anyway, right? Spent or stashed in an overseas bank account. Along with any other booty he might’ve scored while in town.” That’s why I’d approached Christopher about replacing the funds ourselves.
“He’s not stashing his score in a cookie jar, I can tell you that.”
“And the fact that he’s still here signals he intends to soak Mom for more. Shooting for another fifty grand, maybe?” I curled my fingers into fists. “I could wring that thief’s neck!”
Arch angled his head. “Remember, lass—he didnae steal your ma’s money. This was a crime of persuasion.”