by Beth Ciotta
I stopped cold. I felt cold. Like a cadaver. Beat, heart, beat. “Gina?”
“I don’t know her name, just that she’s an ex-cop.”
Oh, God. I sank back down on the footstool, massaged my chest. Beat, dammit. It explained her bitchy behavior. On the cruise and after. Was she in love with Arch? “I have to go.”
“I just…I want you to be happy, hon.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it. Sober up and go back to your wife. Goodbye, Michael.” I signed off and dropped my head in my lap. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“Stone got remarried?”
I snapped up at the sound of Arch’s voice. Fresh from the shower, he stood on the stairway dressed in a T-shirt and faded jeans. Handsome and sexy. I hated that I noticed. “He’s honeymooning in Paris as we speak,” I said past the lump in my throat.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had an affair with Gina?”
He dragged a hand through his wet hair. “Stone’s a bloody bastard.”
“Sometimes. But in this case I think he meant well. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was over and done.”
At least he didn’t lie and deny it. But, damn, the truth hurt. I massaged my injured heart.
He sat on the bottom step, not far from where I sat on the footstool. He clasped his hands loosely between his knees. “There’s nothing between Gina and me, Evie.”
His words fell on deaf ears. I was numb with shock. Numb with anger. “Does she know that?”
“Aye. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. I ended it before she was ready and I didn’t end it well. Bad form, I’m ashamed to say. She was pissed at me but she took it oot on you. I’m sorry for that, yeah?”
“I suppose you thought you were sparing my feelings by withholding the truth.”
“Why would I tell you aboot a brief affair with another woman? It meant nothing. It happened before I met you. Over and done.”
“But Gina knew. And you knew. And—” cripes “—Beckett?”
Arch nodded.
Unbelievable. My heart bumped to life, pounded against my ribs. I was on my feet again, pacing, venting. “I feel like such a fool. I thought I was special, but I’m just another bird in the flock. If Pam Jones hadn’t wrecked her car on her way to the airport that day, you would have been boinking her on the cruise! For God’s sake, Ace, do you seduce every woman you work with?”
“I’m not going to apologize for my past affairs, Evie. What matters is now.”
He looked so calm, so flipping in control. I wanted to rattle him. I wanted to…“So I’m the only woman in your life? The only one you’re seeing? The only one—”
“Aye.”
I stooped and rifled through the jacket I’d piled with our discarded clothes. I snagged the spiffy slim cell and tossed it to him. “Who’s Kate?”
He palmed the phone, stared daggers into the carpet.
“I wasn’t snooping. The phone rang and I thought it might be important. Her name flashed on the screen.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. Either she thought she had the wrong number or was shocked to hear a woman’s voice and got frazzled. Or miffed. Who is she?”
“Someone from my past.”
Great. Just as I’d thought. Another conquest. “So why is she calling now? Why is her number stored in your phone?”
His gaze flicked to mine. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?”
“We have a mutual interest.”
“Aside from music?”
He raised a brow.
“Culture Club was playing in the background.” His MP3 player was loaded with ’80s classics. I had a sudden and intense dislike of a decade I used to love. Or at least for Boy George. “This mutual interest,” I said when he said nothing, “is it grifting?”
“Yes and no.”
The room buzzed with tension, and it wasn’t coming wholly from me. I sat back down before my knees gave way. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
He stroked a thumb over the silver flip-top. “There are some aspects of my life I’m not ready to share, Sunshine.”
“Some? You’re the most secretive person I know! Take that phone, for instance. I asked straight out if you had a new one and you said no.”
“It’s not new. I’ve had it for some time.”
I grunted. “All right then. Why do you carry two phones?”
He pocketed his cell. “This one’s for private stuff, yeah?”
I narrowed my eyes. “I get it. You’re referring to my journal.”
“Would you be comfortable allowing me to read the contents?”
I thought about my deep musings on Arch. Gushy stuff. Sexy stuff. Angry stuff. Private stuff. I’d scribbled my doubts regarding the Fish fiasco. And—oh, God—the list comparing Arch and Beckett. The pros and cons. “You’ve made your point.” Let him speculate. Let him go mad with curiosity. “So. You have your secrets and I have mine. Only you have more.”
“I’m a grifter, Sunshine. Secretive by nature whether I’m working for personal gain or for the greater good, yeah? You asked me to stop manipulating you. I’m asking you to accept me for who I am.”
I wanted to claw my hair out. “But who are you?”
“A man who’s trying to do the right thing, and I’m going aboot it the only way I know how.”
“Cryptic but noble.” I wrapped my arms around my stomach, willing away the hollow ache. I didn’t expect a straight answer, but I had to try. “How do you know Michael?”
“Long story short—in the past, he occasionally supplied me with extras when a large cast was needed for a big con and experienced grifters were sparse. Dinnae worry. The actors were never in danger. Nor did they know they were involved in anything suspect.”
“But Michael knew.” How could I be so blind to such a critical dishonest streak? Married for fifteen years. Married to a stranger. I felt another snap. The snap of finality. Over and done. The truth had set me free.
I plowed on, wanting, needing to establish more essential realities. “Do you feel any remorse whatsoever for killing Simon the Fish?”
“I thought you were going to let that go.”
“I’ve tried. I can’t. I feel guilty. Because I screwed up, you have to live with the fact that you shot a man. Accidental or not, that’s a heavy load.”
“My conscience is clear, Sunshine.”
“Really? Completely?”
“Aye.”
“I find that troubling.”
“I’m not surprised.”
I blew out an impatient breath. “Please don’t tell me I feel too deeply.”
“All right.”
“But that’s what you’re thinking.”
He dragged a hand over his goatee. “I’m thinking Simon the Fish was an evil bastard who ruined countless innocent lives. I’m wishing you wouldn’t agonize over his death. What’s done is done and in the end the world’s a better place, yeah?”
Hard to argue with that logic. Probably a true Chameleon wouldn’t try. I backed off in search of more truths. “Are you really the Baron of Broxley?”
“Aye.”
“Is your real name Archibald Robert Duvall?”
“Unfortunately.”
I cocked my head. “So your mom really was a film fanatic.”
“You’ve heard the term rabid fan?”
The twinkle in his eyes was playful but genuine. A bit of optimism filled the hollowness. “About Kate…”
“The only woman I’m interested in is sitting right in front of me, yeah?”
I wanted to believe him with all my fluttering heart, but his unwillingness to discuss Kate made my wary. “This connection, it’s…”
“Exciting? Wondrous? Hot?”
“Baffling.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Baffling but exciting.”
Busted.
I’d n
ever been one for confrontations, and when I did overheat, my temper soon cooled. Especially when the person I blasted failed to blast back. No tinder to fuel my fire. Now that my blood wasn’t roaring in my ears, his earlier words sank in. Holding past affairs against him would be petty. Plenty of single men bed-hopped, especially men who’d been ingrained with the notion that emotional attachments were dangerous. Still, knowing he’d recently bedded a succession of women, namely Gina, stung.
As for Kate…maybe a leap of faith was in order. Maybe their connection was purely business. Shady but professional. Just because he wasn’t willing to share that aspect of his life now didn’t mean he wouldn’t open up as our bond strengthened. It’s not as though we’d been together for years. It had barely been a month. A month. That essential reality put our relationship in a new light. I was expecting too much too soon. Spinning too fast on the dance floor.
I felt Arch’s warmth and strength as he reached over and clasped my hand. “You’re not the only one with reservations, Evie.”
His honesty caught me off guard. A thousand scenarios assaulted my mind. All of them hinging on my shortcomings or physical flaws. And, yeah, boy, my age. “Such as?”
“My gut says you’re dangerous.”
Another unexpected revelation. Color me confused. Then I remembered he’d mentioned something to that effect on the cruise. I’ve never met a more dangerous woman. Except he’d also declared me cheeky, accident-prone, soft and—the mother of all monikers—a good girl. I smirked. “I thought I was nice.”
“From my perspective, that’s a potentially hazardous quality.” He pulled me over onto his lap, wrapped me in his arms. “But it’s a quality, in you specifically, that I’m attracted to.”
“Nice is boring,” I said, feeling unreasonably insulted.
“Nice is sweet. Admirable. Sexy.”
Okay, that rocked me down to my frog socks.
“Guys like me dinnae typically get girls like you. Not for the long run.”
I pushed off his chest so I could look up into his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“What first attracted you to me?”
“Your charisma. Your sex appeal. No, wait. Your accent. We spoke on the phone first and I had visions of…” I blushed. “Never mind. And, okay, I’ll admit it, your hot body.”
He grinned at that. “Anything else?”
“Please don’t make me say it.”
Silence.
“You’re going to make me say it.”
Silence.
“All right, I’ll say it.” Jeez. “You’re a rebel. The quintessential bad boy. Girls like me don’t typically get boys like you.” I fluttered a hand. “You know, except in our fantasies.”
He nabbed my hand, kissed my knuckles. “Bang-on.”
Now it was my turn to stare in silence.
“Bad boys are the fantasy. The joyride. Not the kind you take home to Mother. Not the kind you ride off with into the sunset. That honor is typically awarded to the nice guy.”
I would have been insulted if I weren’t hurting for him. “You think I’m taking you for a joyride?”
“Not consciously, no. I think your feelings for me are genuine. But I also think you’re enamored with my mysterious side. Learning all my secrets could be a double-edged sword, yeah? The more you know me, the less you may like me. The more you’ll be drawn to the safe guy, the nice guy, the guy you trust.”
Beckett.
Heart full, I cradled his gorgeous face. “You’re scared.”
“Cautious.”
“So we take it slow.”
“Feel our way.”
I looked into his eyes, listened to my heart. “We don’t make sense, but we connect. We just have to find our rhythm.”
His lip twitched. “You’re killing me, Sunshine.”
“Is that a good thing?”
He pressed his lips to mine—sweet, hot. “It means it’s all about you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
GIVEN THE EMOTIONAL ups and downs of today and my current cynicism regarding the entertainment industry, I really didn’t expect to have a blast that night when I stepped on stage at the Corner Tavern. Color me surprised.
I didn’t dwell on not knowing how Gish’s bust went down. I celebrated that Gish was busted. I didn’t dwell on Arch’s past. I embraced the present.
Take it slow. Feel our way.
I celebrated my parents’ love and their love for me.
I’m not sure if it was the live band, the appreciative audience or the vodka and cranberry—I’m thinking a combination—but I was flying high. Of course, I got an additional rush every time my parents applauded like crazed fans and Arch flashed a proud smile. For tonight, at least, I had the eye of the tiger.
I’d intended to sing two songs and ended up performing throughout the night. I jumped on and off stage, singing lead on assorted tunes but mostly singing backup. I have a good ear for harmonies. Love listening for the missing part and filling in the gap. Working with the other vocalists to create a rich, euphonic sound. Teamwork. When we did it right, I got the chills. Kind of like Chameleon. Everyone had their specialty, and I was learning to blend.
Magic.
Once in a while I eyeballed Jazzman to make sure he hadn’t slit his wrists. This band was all country all the time. I took it as an encouraging sign that he actually seemed to enjoy the music. Maybe that meant he’d allow me to stretch out into genres other than jazz when I started singing at the Chameleon Club. At least I assumed that would be my main job once we wrapped the case with the senator—not that I’d heard much on the status of that sting other than Gina had won an invitation to that private high-stakes game. The thought of facing her, knowing that she’d slept with Arch, twisted my insides. I knew I’d come around—everybody has a past, right?—and I believed him when he said it was over, but it still hurt. Mostly because of the way I’d found out.
I pushed Michael from my mind, wondering what I’d ever seen in him. Currently I moved onto the dance floor with Nic. Her mood seemed lighter so long as she kept her distance from Beckett. I still didn’t know what had happened between them, but I’m pretty sure she’d gotten busy with Tractor Boy. I’m pretty sure Beckett suspected the same. Not that she’d been subtle. She’d spent most of the night drinking and dancing with the local man, and he’d been darn attentive. To my parents and the rest of Greenville, it looked exactly as Arch had said: an affair gone bad. And now Nic was kissing up to another guy in order to make “Northbrook” jealous or angry. No one knew, including me, but plenty of people speculated, including me. It felt weird and uncomfortable, like an unscripted soap opera.
Beckett, who sat at a nearby table sipping beer, looked our way now and then. Mostly he ignored Nic—for show or for real, again I didn’t know. On the surface he appeared the ultimate professional, concentrating on his job as watchdog for the baron. That article had kicked up quite a bit of interest. Just now, Arch was at the bar speaking with my parents. I tried not to obsess on what they were talking about.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
I blinked at Nic, danced closer. “What?”
“I said I’m leaving tomorrow,” she shouted in my ear as the band wailed on a kick-butt song. “Now that Gish is gone and things are square with your mom and dad…” She shrugged. “I flew out here because I thought you needed me. You don’t. You’re doing fine, Evie. In fact, I haven’t seen you this happy, this optimistic, in a long time. I’m happy for you. Just promise you’ll be careful.”
“Chameleon’s not dangerous.”
“Maybe not. But juggling two men is.”
“I’m not—”
Tractor Boy cut in and stole Nic away. I stood there feeling dazed. The band segued into a slow song and someone pulled me into his arms. Beckett.
Crap.
He smelled good, not that I noticed. Okay, that’s a lie. I just tried not to enjoy the light, spicy scent. Ditto on being pressed against his hard body. “You
okay, Twinkie? Look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Nic’s leaving tomorrow.”
“It’s for the best.”
I narrowed my eyes, tried to read his mind and his body language—and failed. “How so?”
“She’s not one of us.”
Us? The word, the hope that he now thought of me as one of them, a Chameleon, stuck in my throat.
He swayed in perfect time with the music. The man was a natural on the dance floor. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but you did a nice job earlier today,” he said. “And yesterday, that bit with the memory card. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.” I flushed, unsure as to whether I was uncomfortable with the compliment or the way his hands settled on my bare back. Of all nights to wear a halter top. His palms felt warm and strong. I remembered how I’d cried in his arms, the comfort he’d easily given. The safe guy, the nice guy, the guy I’d brought home to Mother.
My neck prickled with a nervous rash. “I haven’t had two seconds with you since you returned from Indy. I’m dying to know—how did it go with your…cargo?”
His breath tickled my neck, intensified the rash. “Best have this discussion in private.”
My heart pounded in double-time. Details? Yeah, baby, yeah! But I didn’t want to disappear without a word. “I’ll meet you in the alley in two minutes.”
I breathed easier when he released me. Cripes, his touch was unnerving. Arch being sensitive to my awareness of Beckett only made it worse. He pushed through the crowd, making his way to the rear exit. I serpentined bodies and tables, heading for the bar. Several people stopped me, complimenting my singing and congratulating me on my regal hookup. The positive attention was a definite rush. It was tempting to bask in the celeb spotlight, but the promise of learning details regarding Gish won hands down.
I finally made it to the bar, but I didn’t see Arch.
Mom breezed by carrying a tray of fries and wings. “They were swamped in the kitchen,” she said. “Thought I’d lend a hand. Be right back. Oh—Dwight Miller wants to know if you know ‘Freebird.’”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. I wondered if Mom even knew who Lynyrd Skynyrd was or that some wiseacre always requests that song. I remembered Dwight Miller from school. Definite wiseacre.