by Beth Ciotta
“That’s why those crimes are hard to convict.”
“One of the reasons, aye.”
“I don’t care about the money. I talked to Christopher and we’re going to cover the loss. It’s only six thousand,” I said, although that was a lot of money to me. “It could be worse.” Like fifty-six thousand. “At least Mom has Dad and Christopher and me. She’s not destitute. She’s not alone.” My heart broke for that fleeced widow.
Arch interlaced his fingers with mine. “You’re a good soul, Evie Parish.”
I’d given my friends the runaround, entangled my family in a web of lies, run to Beckett instead of Arch…My cheeks flushed. “Not so good.”
“Matter of perspective,” he said, studying me at length. “Remember when I said there are all kinds of lies?”
I moistened my lips. “Yes.”
“There’s more at stake here than your ma’s money. There’s her pride. Remember how you felt when you were scammed in the islands?”
Like it was yesterday. “Stupid. Humiliated. Violated. Angry.”
“Multiply the intensity of those feelings by ten, Sunshine. That was a street hustle. A hit-and-run. Gish has been working your ma for weeks.”
“She thinks they’re friends.” I felt ill. “Good friends.”
“We could finesse this so your ma never knows that Gish took her for a ride, yeah? Lead her to believe the project went belly-up. Like playing the market, she risked and lost her investment. Advise Gish to claim he’s moving on to be with his lover. The money’s gone, but her pride is intact.”
Essentially what Beckett and I had discussed earlier this evening. Only I’d planned to insert the cash, supplied by Christopher and me, in an envelope along with a letter from Gish. A letter Beckett would type and coerce the rat bastard into signing. An explanation and apology for the cancellation of the building project.
Again I felt a pang of guilt. Either Beckett had shared the details of our talk after all or he and Arch thought an awful lot alike. Taught him everything I know. I decided on the latter because it made me feel better. “You’re suggesting we lie to save Mom’s feelings.”
“I’m suggesting it as a choice.”
“By moving on to be with his lover, I assume you really mean Beckett would turn Gish in to the appropriate authorities.”
“Bang-on.”
“If Gish’s case makes the news, there’s a chance Mom will find out anyway.”
“He’s wanted on the West Coast, and though what he did is despicable, it’s not big news, love. Not to mention he played that game under another assumed name. Randolph Gish is just one of many. Dinnae see how she’d make the connection.”
I chewed my thumbnail, considered Arch’s scenario. “Handling Gish and my mom’s situation as you mentioned would take time. By finessing, you mean manipulating Gish, some sort of turnaround confidence. Meanwhile that widow has no satisfaction, no closure. And who’s to say the slick menace won’t take off on a whim. He is on the run, after all. Greenville’s just a stopover, a small town where he can lie low, pull a short con or two. And, call me cynical, but who’s to say my mom won’t fall prey to a future scam. A telescammer? An inheritance swindle?”
Arch noted the fraud and swindle books stacked on the night table. He scratched his forehead and frowned. “Dinnae know aboot you and this research, Sunshine.”
“You’re the one who said I needed to open my eyes to the real world.”
“Aye. What was I thinking?”
“You were thinking you wanted to protect me because you…care. You didn’t want me to get suckered and hurt in the future. You opened my eyes, and I learned and I won’t make the same mistake twice because now I’m educated. Mom is all about education. Part of me thinks I should show her the courtesy you showed me.”
His lips curved into a small smile. “Like I said—a good soul.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. Lately I’d been thinking good girls finish last. Now I wasn’t so sure. “What’s my other choice?” I asked, trying not to think about the way he made my body sing with that sexy mouth.
“Beckett makes use of that badge straightaway tomorrow and Gish is gone. No fuss. No reasons. Just gone. Your ma is a smart woman. If you dinnae tell her she was fleeced, she’ll figure it oot on her own. How she’ll handle it, I cannae say.”
My head spun. “Let me get this straight. Either way, Beckett’s going to turn Gish over to the authorities. What I need to decide is, do I want my mom to know she was fleeced or do I want to shelter her from the ugly truth?”
“Also, do you want her to eat the loss or spin it so that she gets her money back?”
Realist and dreamer warred within. “Part of me wants to come clean with Mom. You were duped and here’s how I know. A wake-up call to the real world, my new world. I know you’re humiliated—been there—but now you’ll be sensitive to other scams. Except she’s lived most of her life in the real world, a grounded woman with narrow views. Finally, after all these years, she’s thrown caution to the wind, indulged in something artistic, indulged in herself, took a chance on the unknown, invested in a dream.”
I dragged my hands through my damp hair, wanting to rip it out by the darkening roots. “This Sweetheart scam could turn her off to ever going out on a limb again. What if she reverts to her old self—closed, wary? Not sure how Dad would feel about that. And how would their marriage fare? How would she fare? She’s happier now than I have ever seen her, Arch. She’s moved on.” Instead of pacing, I hugged my knees to my chest and rocked. “I don’t want Mom to go back. I want her to escape this mess with her pride and her money. I want to deliver Gish’s head on a plate to that poor widow.”
Humor and admiration sparked in his gaze. “You want it all.”
“Call me a dreamer.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a crusader.”
I scrunched my brow. “Really?”
“A quality that seduces and frustrates me simultaneously.”
That coaxed a smile out of me.
He reached out and took my hands, stroked his thumbs over my knuckles. “So instead of a white lie or a lie by omission, we move up to a whopper, yeah?”
“Meaning?”
“You get it all, but not withoot sacrifice.”
“Define sacrifice.”
“Keeping your family in the dark aboot Chameleon. Continuing status quo at least until we’ve handled things for Senator Clark.”
“Secrets and lies.”
“Smoke and mirrors.”
“For the greater good.”
He kissed my palm, infusing me with passion and purpose.
The connection. The bond. So implausible. So real.
“Does Beckett know about Woody’s report?” I asked.
“He’s the one who filled me in.”
“What does he think we should do about Gish?”
“He said it’s your call.”
A muscle jumped under his eye, and I realized that once again it seemed like I was deferring to Beckett’s judgment instead of trusting Arch’s experience. A Freudian slip that I scrambled to cover. “What do you think?”
“It’s your call.”
My heart pounded with resolve. “I want it all.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.” The tension in my body eased and I knew, heart and soul, it was the right thing to do. The dreamer in me made way for the crusader, a champion of noble causes, a person of action. A warrior and peacemaker rolled into one. Chief Little Turtle, with a spin. “So what’s the plan?”
“We’ll hash it oot with Beckett in the morning, yeah?” He paused, a thoughtful pause that caused my neck to itch. “Evie…I need to ask you something.”
Don’t scratch. “Yes?”
“Back at the pub…I understand that you were upset. But why did you go to Beckett? Why not me?”
Breathe, Evie, breathe. “His badge.”
“Come again?”
“Mom had just told me about Gish and
the investment. I was angry. Call it a bad case of tunnel vision. I wanted Beckett to bully Gish with his badge. To run him out of town.”
His eyebrows rose. “That’s it?”
Initially, on the surface, yes, it was. “Isn’t that enough? Essentially asking a government agent to behave like a thug? I’m pretty sure I insulted Beckett.”
He smiled at that.
Sensing he was willing to live and let live, relief whooshed through my body. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” He shook his head, laughed. “I seem to be having champion issues. Bloody unsettling.”
Okay, I had trust issues with this man, but knowing he wanted to be my champion blew my reservations to smithereens. At least for this pulse-tripping moment.
“It’s been a wild day, lass. Get some sleep.”
I clasped his arm when he tried to roll away. “Stay. Please.”
He waggled his eyebrows and adopted a Humphrey Bogart lisp. “You’re the boss, Applesauce.”
Amazing that he could make me laugh after a day like this. My body hummed with equal parts elation and exhaustion. I didn’t know what had transpired between Arch and Beckett, but something had inspired Arch to offer me an active role in this matter even if it was simply allowing me to choose the course of action. I felt empowered. It did wonders for my spirits. Earlier I’d obsessed on problems, now solutions percolated in my brain.
He switched off the lamp, and together we snuggled under the covers, fully clothed.
I melted against his warm, hard body, wrapping my arm around his torso, throwing a leg over his thighs. I sighed when his mouth found mine. I tasted liquor on his lips, his breath, his tongue—sinful. Yet it was the tenderness in his touch that went to my head. This relationship wasn’t perfect, but it had wondrous possibilities. This, I thought, is where I want to be. This is where the party is. In this man’s arms. In this man’s life.
Dance, Evie, dance.
“Arch?” I whispered, drunk on his potent charisma.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He stroked a thumb over my cheek. “I know.”
If it weren’t for the smile in his voice, I would’ve been miffed or hurt by his arrogant, noncommittal reply. But I recognized the patter.
I love you.
I know.
A vision of an ambitious princess and a shifty pilot came to mind. “Princess Leia and Han Solo. Star Wars—The Empire Strikes Back.”
“I was hoping you’d get that reference.” He distracted me with a kiss that rocketed me into a galaxy far, far away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MILO WOKE UP WITH Nicole’s head in his lap. Hey, now.
Not wanting to wake her, he resisted the urge to shift and stretch. He blinked away the cobwebs, trying to recall how they’d ended up like this. Ah, yes, the movie and a bottle of scotch.
He faintly remembered matching Nicole glass for glass. Recalled making it to the end of All About Eve and midway through a documentary on war. He remembered she was a liberal. Not a surprise. Aside from Arnold Schwarzenegger and a few random others, weren’t all entertainers left-wing?
He didn’t remember falling asleep—sitting up, no less. And the last he recalled, she’d been coiled at the opposite end of the couch like a bespectacled black cat. Now her glasses were on the coffee table and she was curled on her side…her head in his lap.
Huh.
The light from the TV illuminated the room in a soft haze. Moe, Larry and Curly yukked it up in muted silence. He squinted at his watch. Five in the morning. He studied Nicole’s exquisite features. The little-girl braids and lack of makeup perpetuated an air of innocence. Of course, as soon as she woke and spoke, that illusion would be shot to hell. Nicole Sparks had issues. Considering he struggled with his own demons, they’d make a volatile match. Not that he was interested. Not that she’d flashed signals. They didn’t like each other. If they did, even a little, last night would have ended differently.
Instead of getting busy between the sheets, they’d passed out on the couch. A blessing, really. He’d had enough personal drama, compliments of his ex. When it came to a mate, he wanted someone with a lighter spirit, someone like…Evie.
Damn.
Okay, then, why was Mr. Happy suddenly pulsing to life?
Well, Beckett, he thought reasonably, maybe it’s because a beautiful woman’s luscious mouth is, at this moment, a scant two inches from your johnson. Oh, and you haven’t been laid in four months.
Right.
“Hell.”
Nicole shifted, doubling his misery. His cock twitched and his thigh vibrated. The latter a result of his ringing cell. Signal in the house? This morning was full of surprises.
He eased out from under Sleeping Beauty, slipping a throw pillow under her head before slipping away and out the front door. He palmed his cell, glanced at the incoming number. Tabasco. “What’s up?”
“Sorry to call so late, Jazzman.”
“You mean, early.”
“Haven’t been to bed yet.”
“You’ve been at the tables all night?”
“Mostly. Hot Legs, too. But it paid off. She’s in. Our crooked dealer not only told her about Turner’s private game, he invited her to breakfast.”
He smiled at the envy in the other man’s tone. “Don’t take it too hard. She’s prettier than you.”
“Better card player, too.”
“Surprised to hear you admit that.”
“Blame it on the bourbon. A cutie-pie cocktail waitress kept them coming.”
“Where are you now?”
“Sitting in my car in front of a Denny’s, inhaling coffee.”
“Why?”
“I told you—Gina’s inside having breakfast with the roper.”
A bonus, as far as Milo was concerned. A skilled flirt, if there was any inside information to glean about Turner’s private high-stakes game, she’d know it by the time her idiot date paid the bill. “Tabasco.”
“What?”
“Gina can take care of herself.” An ex-cop expertly trained in self-defense. Milo often joked she could seduce and throat-punch a man with equal proficiency.
“I know. Just watching her back.”
Standard procedure within Chameleon. His team. His family. Only the dynamics had shifted when Arch slept with Gina. And now Evie was in the mix. Damn. “I appreciate that, Jimmy.” He padded across the damp porch in his socks, breathed in the rain-fresh country air. Again tranquility eluded him. “Did Gina tell you when the game’s scheduled?”
“Tomorrow night. I mean, tonight. I really need some sleep. Anyway, I’ve been drilling her on cardsharp techniques. If Turner’s cheating, she’ll spot it.”
“And we’ll know how to spin that to our advantage. Fast work. Good work. Thanks. I’ll let the senator and Crowe know we’re making progress.”
“We’ll check in later this afternoon,” Tabasco said. “After we get some shut-eye. How are things on your end?”
“ID’d the man scamming Mrs. Parish. Hope to clear this one up today.”
“Talk about fast work. You’ve only been in town two days.”
“Helped that Evie’s brother was already suspicious of the bastard.”
“Speaking of Twinkie, how’s her cold?”
Smiling, Milo rolled back his shoulders. “You’ve been hanging around Pops too long. Later, Mama Bear.” He disconnected and slipped back inside the house. No sign of Nicole. She must’ve woken and gone up to bed. He considered settling back on the couch—he’d slept sounder there than he had in weeks—then decided on a morning run to rev his mind and body. He had a feeling today was going to top yesterday in terms of controlling his emotions.
He wondered about Evie’s decision regarding Gish. Wondered about her future with Arch. Hell, he wondered about his own damn future. At this point little was clear beyond one fact.
Change was in the air.
BREAKFAST WAS A SOMBER affair even th
ough I was in a chipper mood. In fact, my chipper mood seemed to add to the tension. Especially where Nic was concerned. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Arch and Beckett, but I was pretty sure she had a hangover. I didn’t remember her drinking much during the indoor barbecue, so she must have tied one on afterward. Alone or with Beckett, I didn’t know. I was dying to ask, but I didn’t.
“Let’s go over it one more time,” Beckett said.
“Let’s not,” Nic said, “and say we did.”
“I’m okay with running it again,” I said. “I mean, I’ve got it, but to be on the safe side, I think Beckett’s right. Fancy Feet stole a widow’s savings and left her destitute. I want to do what’s right for her and my mom and I don’t want to screw it up. If Gish suspects we’re onto him and runs—”
“I get it, Evie,” Nic snapped, then shoved her glasses higher up her nose. No contacts. Tinted glasses. Bitchy mood.
Definite hangover.
“If you dinnae want to do this, Nic,” Arch said, “say the word. We’ll alter the come-on.”
She wet her lips. “I want to do it.” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Of course I want to do it. Ignore me. Let’s go through it again.”
Heart full, I poured her another cup of coffee. “Thanks, Nic.”
Beckett, who sat directly across the dining-room table, pushed away his oatmeal and spared her a glance. Again I wondered what had happened between them last night. Although maybe it was nothing more than a clash of personalities. Nic could be stubborn and Beckett was a control freak. After a private conversation with Arch, he’d spent the rest of the morning on the phone speaking with various authorities, hashing out details regarding Gish’s arrest. I wasn’t privy to those details, but I did know Beckett hated complications, and just now Nic was being difficult.
My tension eased a little when he focused back on me. No hint of desire. Just now, the man was all business and he exuded—hallelujah—confidence. “You and Arch have a scheduled dance lesson with Gish at eleven-thirty,” he said. “Don’t be surprised if people stop you on the sidewalk and want to make nice. Word’s out. The Baron of Broxley is in Greenville, Indiana. Aside from word of mouth, we know you two made the front page of the Tribune.”