All About Evie (13 page)

T
HE SEX WAS GREAT
.

In my dreams, anyway. I fell asleep talking. Stretched out on the cushy, queen-size bed, I'd spewed my fears about drowning. Although, maybe that was preferable to enduring the demise of my career—
Did I mention three casinos are requesting lounge bands with twentysomething members only?

Arch mostly listened to my self-pitying rant. Unlike Nicole and Jayne, he didn't add fuel to the fire. His calm demeanor eventually cooled my jets. I fell asleep reminiscing, telling him about the time I fell off a trapeze in a casino showroom. I guess that's why I dreamed about having creative monkey sex in a Bungee Sex Swing. No, I didn't have practical experience. I saw it featured on
The Tonight Show
. But there could be a first time. Call me adventurous—my new motto.

I woke up disoriented and frisky, a man's arm wrapped around my waist. At first I basked in the fact that I wasn't alone. I felt safe and cherished and, if this was a lucid dream, I never wanted to wake. Spooning was heaven, except…Michael didn't like to spoon. Reality poked at my hazy brain. Something else poked at my backside. Something massive and granitelike. Not Michael, I realized, now fully awake. Arch.

Oh, boy, oh, boy.

I blinked at the sunshine pouring through the parted drapes like a spotlight. My heart pounded. My body froze.
Showtime.
Only I was unsure of my lines, the blocking. What should I say? Do? This was totally awkward. He was either sleeping or pretending to be asleep. He was
not
taking the lead. JT, however, was ready to rumble.

I hadn't partied with the one-eyed monster in over a year. I'd never partied with a John Thomas as daunting as Arch's. Not that size mattered. At least, I don't think it does.

One way to find out,
Nicole taunted from afar.

My hoo-ha tingled in anticipation. Have mercy, I begged. Instead, time dragged. Maybe he was waiting for me to make the first move. Waiting for a sign. I could wiggle my fanny against him or turn into him and run my fingers through his devilish dark hair. I could flash a playful smile, sing a line from an old disco fave.
“Do you wanna get funky with me?”
But not with morning breath and bed-head. And, crap, no makeup. Could I ease out of his arms, sneak into the bathroom, brush my teeth and hair, apply minimal cosmetics and crawl back into bed without waking him?

Not the way my luck had been running.

If he woke up while I was in the bathroom, he might rise and start his morning rituals—my chance for sex blown. Or maybe he'd instigate conversation and I'd say something stupid and wilt his erection—my chance for sex blown.

My mind continued to spin the possible scenarios. I'd fallen asleep without that stupid splint. What if I opened my mouth to respond and it locked open again? What if he deemed me unfit for this job? Left me behind at the first island stop? No money, nowhere to go but home where there was no work, no husband, no
life.

Maybe we could have sex without kissing.

Not.

Arch was an Olympic kisser—gold medal. No way did I want to miss out on that. My mouth watered just thinking about his naked body. Exploring all that sinew would be a sensual thrill. Nipping and licking that six-pack was at the top of the list, followed closely by running my tongue along that tribal tattoo.

I thought about him nipping and licking me and the tingling intensified. Except wait. That meant him seeing
me
naked. No sinew. No sexy piercings. And sans the extreme-cleavage bra, no boobs. Well, I have boobs, of course, perky boobs—that's a plus—but they're small. Although, wait. Arch was a leg man, right? I had decent legs. Maybe he'd focus on those.

“I can hear your wheels turning.”

Did he mean my teeth grinding?

“Morning, Sunshine.” He kissed the back of my neck and rolled away and out of bed before I could act. Hadn't considered
that
scenario.

“Well, darn,” I mumbled as he shut himself in the bathroom and day two of this gig began—
without
a bang.

 

M
ENTAL NOTE
: Cruises are fattening. My waist expanded two inches just reading the culinary choices featured on the daily itinerary sheet. Aside from regular meals, the ship offered round-the-clock pizza and hot dogs and a midnight buffet. And what was up with the ice-cream-sundae-making contest? Let's not even talk about the twenty-four-hour room service—Arch's choice for breakfast.

As was our routine, he ordered while I showered. The fact that we
had
a routine fascinated me. We'd known each other less than three days and yet we joked and bickered like old friends. Old friends with the hots for each other. I'd never experienced anything like it.

Sitting across from each other at the suite's balcony table, tropical skies as our backdrop, I was superaware of the sexual tension we'd yet to address. No way would I bring it up first. What if I'd misread the situation? What if the attraction was, in reality, one-sided? Maybe that morning wood had been the result of a sexy dream.

What did a man like Arch fantasize about, anyway? Probably something really risqué. Probably something I shouldn't ponder over breakfast, especially since he was way more appetizing than my veggie omelet.

I nibbled on a piece of rye toast and refocused on the itinerary. Arts and crafts, bingo, a fashion show and cha-cha lessons. Plenty of contests and activities to keep Sugar-the-social-butterfly fluttering.

“Something wrong with your food?”

I glanced from the itinerary to my traveling companion, my boss, my stage husband, the man I'd slept with, only literally. He'd yet to apply the prosthetics, so I was forced to endure his staggering good looks. I swallowed a groupie sigh. “No. There's just a lot of it.”

He lit a cigarette, shrugged. “Not so much. You
didnae
finish your meal last night, either. You must be starving.”

“Not so much.” Not for food, anyway. I watched him take a long drag, blow out a lazy stream of smoke and marveled that I actually found it sexy. Why did he have to be so flipping bad-boy gorgeous? And so
young?

Yeah, boy, when he wasn't sporting Charles's wrinkles and silver hair our age difference remained a tough pill to swallow. “How old are you, anyway?”

He scraped white teeth over his sexy bottom lip, poured more coffee.

Cheeks burning, I set the itinerary aside and sipped my green tea. “That was rude. I'm sorry. Forget I asked.”

He stirred sugar,
real
sugar, into his java. Sure,
he
had a youthful metabolism. Never mind that earlier, while I was in the bathroom transforming into Sugar, he'd tackled sit-ups and push-ups and jogged in place for thirty minutes listening to whatever music pumped out of his MP3 player. Yeah, never mind that, I thought as I gripped and twirled my ring.

“Age is a real issue with you, yeah?”

“No.”

His mouth quirked.

Was my nose growing? “I mean, yes, obviously. Hence my rant last night.”
Twirl, twirl.
“Not that you'd understand. You're a man. A young one at that. Not that it matters.”

He glanced at my ring, at me. “It matters.”

I fidgeted in my seat. “I know you're my employer and all, but I have to tell you…that's kind of irritating. That
I-know-your-mind
thing that you do. You don't know me.”

“I
dinnae
have to know you, Evie. You're easy to read.”

“Meaning I'm predictable?”

“Meaning your body language betrays your feelings.”

I stiffened.

He snuffed the cigarette then shoved out of his chair. “You're a gifted actress, but a wretched liar.”

Was that a compliment? An insult? I sat there, contemplating an appropriate comeback as he snatched up stuffy cruise wear and a black makeup case.

“Thirty-nine,” he said and disappeared into the bathroom.

Thirty-nine years old? No way! I would've sworn early thirties, not late, although his personality smacked of a mature, confident man.
Thirty-nine?
One year from forty. Only two years younger than me. Not that I felt like the elder. I felt like a besotted teen. Two years' age difference. In the older woman–younger man scheme of things, that didn't even count. Did it?

I imagined Nicole and Jayne rolling their eyes, speaking in unison.
Jump him.

Right. The age issue melted away. Two years. Heh. Nothing. Certainly nothing like the quarter-century Michael-Sasha age difference. Still, having a hot and sweaty fling with a hot and hunky guy, an associate of Stone Entertainment no less, would absolutely tarnish my conservative crown. I'm not one to boink and tell, but, I gotta confess, I was pretty jazzed about rubbing Michael's nose in my sexcapades.

All I had to do was have one.

Come on, creative monkey sex!
The only thing holding me back was, well,
me
. I'd never been the aggressor. Never had casual sex. Before Michael, there'd been three other men—all serious relationships. I wasn't the type to seduce a mysterious, vibrant stranger.

But Sugar was….

I scrambled toward the vanity mirror, rolled up my rib-hugging T-shirt and studied my lily-white stomach. Skimping on dinner and breakfast had paid off. I didn't look buff, but I didn't look fat. Just soft. Most of the women on this ship were over fifty. I thought about Martha, over seventy and battling elephant skin and varicose veins. That didn't stop her from wearing shorts. I wouldn't be surprised if I caught her in a two-piece bathing suit.

I pointed at my reflection and spoke some nonsense at myself. “You're not Evie. You're Sugar. Age is a state of mind and Sugar's a kid at heart. You're fun-loving and proud of your body. You're sexy. Arch said so yesterday. Wear the Keds.”

I sashayed across the room, peeling off my tee and singing Sugar's new signature song. “I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt. So sexy it hurts.”

I dipped into Big Red and pulled out a bright green bikini. I dressed quickly, doubled up the padding in the cups, pulled white denim shorts over the French-cut bottoms and slipped on my flowery Keds. I was bent over, tying the laces when Arch exited the bathroom and uttered my new favorite word.

“Bollocks.”

 

I
NSTEAD OF ATTENDING
the shore excursions talk in the Fiesta Theater, Arch asked me to visit the shops in the Atrium. “I need you to make some purchases, yeah?” He pulled on the Panama straw hat, completing his transformation into Charles. “Perfume, clothes, trinkets. Whatever catches Sugar's eye. Charge it to our Fiesta Card.”

The card that doubles as room key and passenger ID. At the end of the cruise those charges would be transferred to whatever credit card Arch had provided at check-in. I had to ask. “Who's paying for this?”

“The company.”

“What company?”

“TCC.”

“TCC Productions? Never heard of them.” Truth was I no longer believed that Arch was affiliated with a legitimate production company. I suspected he wasn't a professional actor as much as a master of disguise. So what exactly was TCC and what exactly was Arch's profession? All I'd been told was that we were duping some creep for the greater good. It was no longer enough. “You and I need to chat.”

“Not now.”

“But—”

He tweaked my nose. “Later, Sunshine.”

I could do without the nose tweaking, but at least he kept eyeballing my body. Two points for skimpy attire! I'm pretty sure I'd hooked him. All I had to do was reel him in. I was banking on Sugar's help in that department.

Before she/I could act, Arch/Charles snatched up his cane and strode toward the cabin door. Once in the hall, I was sure he'd incorporate that fake limp. Why did he have to have a limp, anyway? How did that play in? More questions to be answered
later.
“Where should I meet you? When?”

“You mentioned a dance class.”

“Cha-cha Fever with Fred and Ginger.” I already knew the traditional steps,
plus
the Cha-cha Slide and the Cowboy Cha-cha. But it was dance class or a basketball tournament, and the only balls I wanted to handle were Arch's. “Eleven-thirty. Deck Nine. Poolside.”

“I'll find you.”

“You stay alive, no matter what occurs!” I mimicked in an overdramatic voice. “I will find you!”

“Hawkeye to Cora.
Last of the Mohicans.
Nineteen ninety-two film adaptation.”