All About Evie (16 page)

“Call me Vic, and, by the by, I wasn't talking about my beer.”

So he was talking about
me?
He'd compared me to a two-by-four. A piece of wood. As in rigid. Frigid.
Cold.
Only his bold appraisal had ignited my temper and triggered a meltdown. I'd planned to accidentally stomp on his toes, but he'd spun me away in the nick of time. He'd read me like a book, seen through Sugar's carefree persona. That worried me. And bugged me. I decided I didn't like
Vic
any more than Ms. Tall, Dark and Beautiful.

“I say, Beau, I think you're right,” Charles piped in. “Sugar should perform a number at that party.”

“I should?”

Something clicked. Yes, we'd been
on
all day, whenever in public. But this moment I felt like Arch and I had taken center stage. This was it. This was real. A premium performance was crucial. Just like that, Evie and Arch were no more.

“She misses the spotlight,” Charles said to the other men. “Won't admit it, but, at times, I do believe she's bored to tears on the estate.”

“I'm
not!
You take that back,” I said, fussing with his ascot. “I can't think of anything more thrilling than being Mrs. Charles Dupont!”

“Chucked your career for marriage, did ya?” Vic asked while gnawing on a swizzle stick. At least it was better than those nasty cigars.

“I didn't chuck anything, Mr. Parker. I happily walked away. Showbiz is fickle and unstable. Contracts aren't worth the paper you sign on and most of the casinos stopped investing in new sound equipment in 1981. Trust me, there is no joy in singing over an inferior audio system.”

“Where did you perform, Mrs. Dupont?” Beau asked. “Vegas? Reno? Atlan—”

“Vegas,” Charles said.

“It's where we met,” I said. “Love at first sight.”

“Married a week later.”

“This is our one-month anniversary.”

“Ain't that something?” Vic said. “The little woman and I are celebrating our anniversary, too. Fifteen years.”

“Spectacular,” Charles said. “Pour this man another ale, Beau. On me.”

“Decent of you, Dupont. Figure I can down one more while I'm waiting on Carol. We aim on making use of that pool while everyone else dines.” He grinned, winked. “The wife's fond of underwater sports, if you catch my drift.”

Oh, brother. “So where are you and Mrs. Parker from?” I asked, craving a hot shower and disinfecting soap.

“We've got a spread outside of Dallas. You?”

“Born in Brooklyn. Transplanted to Vegas. Now I'm in Connecticut with Charlie.”

Vic sipped out of his replenished mug. “On an estate, you said.”

“A lovely place with loads of privacy and a view of Long Island Sound.” My voice vibrated with excitement as I embraced the fantasy. “Katharine Hepburn owned a home nearby. Sometimes I step outside and breathe deep, hoping to absorb some of her creative energy.”

“
The
Katharine Hepburn?” Beau glanced over while loading up a server's tray with various drinks. “The movie star?”

I nodded. “Rest her soul.”

“Impressive,” Vic said, toasting Charlie. “What do you do for a living, Dupont?”

I beamed with pride and answered for him. He was, after all, painfully private about his literary pursuits. “He's a writer.”

“Must be a bestseller, one of them Tom Clancy types, if you're livin' next to a celebrity.”

I bristled. Vic was crass, although Charles didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he noticed, but didn't care.

“Alas, I am not a bestseller. I inherited my father's fortune and invested wisely.”

“Got an eye for investments myself,” Vic said.

When he didn't elaborate, I asked, “What business are you in…Vic?”

“Oil.”

“Oil?”

“Oil.”

TV junkie that I am, I flashed back to the soap of all nighttime soaps:
Dallas.
Was Vic Parker a living, breathing J. R. Ewing? A vain, conniving oil baron? A man who engineered intricate business deals using cloak-and-dagger methods, employing that same sneaky mentality to cheat on his wife?

More likely, he was a grease monkey at Jiffy Lube. Still…I sipped my Fandango, deciding, either way, the man was a slippery jerk.

“Carol and I are set for life,” he bragged. “Speakin' of, here comes the little lady now.”

I turned and choked on my drink when I locked eyes on a lean, mean brunette in an itty-bitty bikini.
The
brunette. Ms. Tall, Dark and Beautiful. What were the chances? Tex Aloha and Mata Hari were a couple!

Charles thumped lightly between my shoulder blades as I scrambled to recover from my coughing fit. “Wrong pipe,” I hacked out. Desperate, I nabbed a glass of water off the passing bar server's tray and gulped deeply.

Beau gasped. “Mrs. Dupont, that's not water, that's—”

Schnapps. Peppermint schnapps. It burned and overwhelmed, spraying out of my mouth and soaking Tex as I hooked my toe on the leg of a stool and lost my footing. Teary-eyed, I thrust out my hands to cushion my fall…and glommed on to Mata Hari's breasts.

“D
O YOU THINK THE
Parkers think I'm a pervert?”

“I think they think you're accident prone.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you're accident prone.”

Hard to take issue considering my calamities over the last few days. I laid my beaded purse on the nightstand and watched as my partner took off his glasses and set them on the vanity. Next he chucked his dinner jacket and dress shirt, then unstrapped the fake gut.

Thank goodness the charade, at least for tonight, was over. The Iversons had invited themselves to join us for dinner. Making conversation with Dirk and Nan was impossible as they didn't allow a person to get in a word edgewise. Enduring their company had been exhausting and irritating. Even so, not half as irritating as my obsession with the offensive Parkers. They'd consumed my thoughts all through dinner. Tex's ogling. Carol's risqué talk. The groping incident, followed by a lesbian innuendo, and then the two of them traipsing off to indulge in underwater sports.
Pah-leeze
.

“Well, I think they're perverts,” I blurted. “Or something.”

Arch chuckled as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Rather than admiring his upper body when he sat on a chair and unlaced his shoes, I turned away and took my time shedding Sugar's plentiful rhinestone jewelry.

“What struck you as twisted, Sunshine?”

“For one, she licked schnapps off his chest.”

“I've seen racier behavior.”

“Me, too.” When Michael and I had vacationed in New Orleans. The things women
and
men did for beads. “That's not the point. It's the way she took her time, like she was putting on a show.”

I heard a shoe drop.

“For you,” I added as his second shoe thudded to the floor.

No comment. But he
must
have noticed. Ms. Tall, Dark and Beautiful had been less than discreet in her appraisal of
Charles.
Gold digger immediately sprang to mind, followed by the recurring notion that she was a seducing evil agent. Neither one of us had given up that we'd met earlier in the gift shop. I'm not sure why, although I'd again sensed a competitive edge.

“I think she was putting on a show for everyone,” Arch finally said. “She likes attention.”

“Ya think?” Carol Parker wasn't loud like her husband, but she certainly made her presence known. “That scrap of material masquerading as a bathing suit screamed,
Hey everyone, check out my hot bod!”

Arch mimicked a cat yowl.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm envious. Whatever. I understand the ‘if you've got it, flaunt it' mentality. She probably worked very hard for that lithe body and her breasts were magnificent. Trust me, I know.”

He laughed.

“They're real, if you're wondering.”

“I'm not wondering.”

I glanced over my shoulder. He sat at the desk attacking the keys of his laptop computer. Again I marveled that he could type and talk at the same time. And, I confess, I itched to know
what
he typed. Did he journal his thoughts and feelings like me? Naw. Guys with beefy muscles and tribal tattoos probably aren't in touch with their inner selves. More likely he was documenting the day for business purposes, making a laundry list of things to do, entering data into an expense report.

He was certainly an enigma. He'd shed all of
Charles
but his trousers, silver hair, wrinkles and jowls. His face looked twice as old as his body. An odd combination and yet it worked because, although Arch had confessed to being thirty-nine, he had a weathered soul. I had a sudden image of a small boy who'd grown up much too fast.

I cocked a brow. “Are you telling me you didn't notice Carol Parker's breasts?”

“I noticed.”

“You didn't wonder if they were real? They're
perfect
.”

“Yours are perfect and they're real.”

“Yes, but you wondered. You asked me outright, remember?”

“Aye.”

His smile was hot and lethal. Before my bones liquefied, I pivoted and palmed the cool wall. I gazed out of the porthole at the moonlit sea seeking clarity. I didn't think my chrysoprase stone covered that, not that it was working, anyway.

My mind jumped tracks and chugged toward TV land. Tex and Mata.
Boris and Natasha. Bonnie and Clyde
. Partners in life and maybe, just maybe, in crime. My imagination whipped up a steamy political scenario involving a crooked American oilman and his femme fatale sidekick en route to meet a shifty Arab sheik on a secluded tropical isle. Or maybe their identities were fake—
like ours
. They
could
be international jewel thieves…or weapons couriers. What if they're in cahoots with terrorists or Cuban militants?

The muscles in my shoulders bunched
. For the greater good
.

Was
company
code for
agency?
As in government agency? Was TCC like the CIA or FBI? I'd never heard of it. But how many people outside of the casino industry knew what the CCC was? Was Arch a real-life, Bond-type superspy? He was fit enough, cagey enough, smart enough. It would explain his subtle allusions to risk, his superior acting chops and ability to alter his appearance. Not to mention the false travel documents and his constant calm in the face of chaos. The man was unshakable.

I sneaked a peek just as he shut down his computer. Maybe he'd sent a coded message to TCC. Did this room provide Internet access?

“We were really pouring it on for the Parkers,” I ventured.

“No more than for Beau or the Iversons and everyone else within visual and audio range.”

No straight answers. Like Michael, he knew how to skirt issues. A troubling trait in a lifetime partner, but something I could forgive in a one-or five-night stand. Knowing that this was a short-run gig and that my unstable life waited for me back in Atlantic City, I wanted to milk this adventure for all it was worth. “One question. Have I met whomever it is we're trying to dupe for reasons I don't understand?”

“I'm not sure.” He opened the closet and locked the computer in the security safe.

I clenched my teeth and refocused on the meditative scenery beyond the porthole. Registering the tightness in my jaw and shoulders, I told myself to loosen up, to play it cool. As cool as Arch. “Are you sure you're not sure? Are you sure it isn't the Parkers? Because I sensed something. I can't explain it exactly. At all, really.” I furrowed my brow, pondered aloud. “Are they part of the unique deception or are they the targets? Are you friends? Rivals?”
Lovers? Ex-lovers?
“The way Carol looked at you…”

“One question, eh?” He moved in behind me and caressed my upper arms. “You worry too much, Sunshine.”

I'd heard that before. Was I blowing things out of proportion? Overreacting? The feel of Arch's hands on my bare arms and shoulders obscured my focus. Resisting the urge to lean against him, I watched moonlight dance on ripples of endless water. It would be cake to lose myself in the illusion of the moment. Floating on the Caribbean Sea, locked away in a beautiful cabin with a beautiful man. The gaga stuff that makes up the best parts of romance novels.

Except for the third-wheel feeling.

I likened Carol to Sasha, the other woman, Arch to Michael, the wandering husband, and me to me. The odd one out. “I'm not worried. I'm curious and annoyed. I know what I saw. She's interested in you. She wasn't even all that subtle. What's worse, Vic has wandering eyes, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I caught him checking me out a couple of times. Don't tell me you didn't notice.”

“I noticed.”

Was that why he'd kissed me so possessively in front of Tex? A silent warning to the guy to back off? My stomach fluttered with the possibility that he'd actually been jealous. I cleared my throat, focused. “The point is, when you're married, you're supposed to only have eyes for each other.”

“It's human nature to admire what one deems beautiful,” Arch said as he massaged my knotted shoulders. “Just as one admires a work of art.”

I worked my tight jaw. “That's all well and good if one can keep one's eyes in one's pants.” I knocked my forehead against the pane. “You know what I mean.”

“Aye.” He kneaded the strained muscles in my neck. “You were magnificent this evening, Evie. You stayed in character, rolled with the punches. Bloody brilliant.”

Heat flooded from my hair follicles to my pinched toes. Damn these narrow pumps. I was more flattered than turned-on. I shifted to thank him and found myself staring at his bare chest, that Celtic tattoo, his piercing, hypnotic eyes. Okay, maybe I was more turned-on.

He moistened his bottom lip and I thought about making love with a superspy, a man who risked torture and death for leader and country. As fantasies went, it was a knee-buckler. I tilted my face upward, closed my eyes and waited.

And waited.

“I'm going to wash
oot
this dye, yeah?”

Noooo!
I opened my eyes, sagged against the wall as he zipped into the bathroom.

He mumbled something and shut the door.

Unbelievable.

Disappointment whacked my system like a baseball bat. After years in the fickle entertainment business, you'd think I'd be numb to rejection. No such luck. Just as with failed auditions, I obsessed on where I'd gone wrong. Was it my breath? My timing? Was my obvious infatuation a turnoff? James Bond never ran from a ready and willing lady. What the hell?

Then I thought about what he'd said. He wanted to wash away the remnants of Charles. Maybe he was in a hurry to clean up so we could get down and dirty. Yeah, that was it. I'd showered before dinner, slipped into this sequined cocktail dress. Now I needed to get out of said dress and into something sexy.

Sexier
. Except, I didn't own any risqué lingerie.

Last night I surprised my husband wearing this fragrance and nothing else.

Not that I wanted advice from Ms. Tall, Dark and Beautiful, but if she could do it, so could freaking I!

I stepped out of my heels, peeled off the dress and panty hose and tossed the whole kit and caboodle into Big Red. Naked as a blue jay, as Mom would say—don't think about Mom!—I rooted through my beaded purse for face powder and red lipstick.
Pat, pat. Swish, swish
…done. I fussed with my hair while examining my reflection in the vanity mirror. If I wanted to get picky I could bemoan a few crow's feet and soft spots. Then again, bemoaning would undermine my confidence. I closed my eyes and imagined Sugar, ten years younger with ten times the confidence.

Steeled, I sidestepped the mirror and searched the dresser drawer for this afternoon's purchase. I bit my lower lip and liberally doused my body with Les Fleurs de Provence Jasmine.

It promotes self-confidence and, best of all, works as an aphrodisiac.

Yeah, baby, yeah. Work your magic. Giddy with anticipation, I shut off all but one light and dived into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. Gripping the edge of the cream-colored spread, I waited, listening for the sound of the shower shutting off, calculating the time it took him to finger gel through his hair and to step into sweatpants. The door squeaked open and I pasted on what I hoped was a come-hither smile.

He stepped into the room wearing boxers and a baggy gray T-shirt. He looked dark and roguish and utterly edible. My heart raced like a rabbit as he moved at a snail's pace across the room. He finally made it to the edge of the bed. “You're tuckered out, yeah?” “No.”

He sneezed. “No?”

“Bless you. No.”

He sneezed again. Twice more. “Bloody hell.” He backed away, sniffed the flowers in the vase.

I turned on my side, careful not to expose anything, and propped myself up on one elbow. “What's wrong?”

“Not these. These are silk.” He backed up, neared the bed and sneezed again…and again.

“What is it, Arch?”

“Something's triggering my allergies.”

I swallowed a lump of dread. It couldn't be. “What are you allergic to?”

He sneezed four times in rapid succession. “Certain flowers and nuts. Almonds. Lilacs. Jasmine.” He sneezed twice more. “Fuck me!”

I wish
. “Here's an idea,” I said, scrambling to the opposite side of the bed as he neared and sniffed. “Why don't you go out for a breath of fresh air and I'll—”

He sneezed three times fast. “It's you.”

Curse you, Mata Hari! “You said to buy something. Trinkets, clothes, perfume. I bought perfume. I didn't know.”