All About Evie (17 page)

He snatched a tissue from a nearby box. “Jasmine, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Blowing his nose—not so roguish—he stalked toward the balcony, flung open the sliding door. A warm breeze circulated but I didn't imagine it would air out the room while I continued to stink it up. I wanted to flee to the bathroom, to shower off the offending scent, but…I clutched the bedspread to my chest. “I'm so sorry.”

“Not your fault.”
Aw-choo!

“Maybe if you took a walk—”

“I'm
oot
of disguise.”
Sniffle
.

“Right. Okay. Well, then, step out on the balcony and don't come back until you hear the door shut.”

“What door?” He turned and nailed me with a watery gaze. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Just…the bathroom. I need to shower off this—”

Aw-choo!

“Bless you. Now go back out—”

“Why do I have to hang
oot
there until…” He sneezed, three big, wet sneezes.

“Bless—”

“Bugger!”

“Would you—”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE I'M NAKED!”

He blinked, blew his nose without taking his eyes off of me, and then cocked a brow. “As in nude? In the buff? In the raw? Bare-assed—”

“Naked.” My embarrassment fast morphed into anger.

He grinned, slow, sinful. “Nothing I haven't seen before.”

I was in no mood to be teased. My seduction was ruined. What would be the point in accepting what was so obviously a challenge and baring all? He was allergic to me! He couldn't touch me, couldn't come within six inches of me without sneezing his head off and now, now…Oh, God. Was he
wheezing?
Just like a man to be more concerned about copping a look than dealing with the fact that his throat was closing up!

With a Herculean tug, I yanked the queen-size spread, taking it with me as I wormed off the bed. “Maybe you should get back into costume, visit Doctor Drake. You don't look so good.”

“You could look better yourself,” he teased, gesturing to the yards of fabric wrapped around my bare form. “Why
dinnae
you drop—”

“No.”

“If you
dinnae
want me to see you naked, then why—”

“Oh, shut up.” I had no right to be surly. He was the one with the swollen eyes and running nose. But I was pissed. Really pissed. Not at him. At Carol Parker. I could almost hear her laughing at me. If I didn't know better, and I didn't, I'd think she'd tricked me into buying that perfume. The more I thought about it, the madder I got. I shut the door, wrenched on the shower and mentally scribbled in my journal.

Dear Diary, Today I met a witch.

I
NSTEAD OF TEARING UP
the sheets with Arch as planned, I lay in the center of the bed alone. Arch had bedded down on the couch. I no longer smelled of jasmine, he'd explained, but the sheets did.

Damn you, Carol Parker.

That long shower had washed away everything except for a welling resentment. She was young, beautiful and confident. Everything Michael had seen in his new squeeze. My mind replayed Carol's every word and action, summing her up with one word:
devious.

Two o'clock in the morning and my mind still churned. No sleep for an overimaginative movie fanatic and reformed TV addict. I nurtured my hypothesis about the Parkers, the criminal angle, because I didn't like them, especially her, and I wanted a good reason other than petty envy. Also, as long as I spun political-thriller scenarios, I couldn't mourn my botched seduction. Except for the bit of teasing before I'd escaped into the bathroom, Arch hadn't mentioned the naked thing.

Honestly, I'm grateful he didn't address my intentions head-on. I mean, he had to know that I'd had sex on the brain, right? What was there to say that wouldn't A, embarrass me
or
B, turn me on? As long as we didn't discuss it, he couldn't express disinterest. My fantasy could thrive, and, believing what I thought I saw in his eyes—desire—I could make another play, another day. Like tomorrow. Maybe.

“You should put in your splint.”

I jumped at the sound of his voice. “What?”

“The mouth guard.”

“I know what a splint is.
Why?”

“You're grinding your teeth.”

“I am?” For crying out loud. Could this night get any
more
unromantic? I fidgeted beneath the sheets, my body now fully clothed in pink cotton pajamas. The bed felt big and lonely, and I had to resist wallowing in the notion that this is how I spent my nights at home. These past two days, I'd felt happy, mostly, and vital. I clung to Sugar, to the fantasy, like a lifeline.

“What's on your mind, Sunshine?”

Work. Companionship. Sex. “Stuff.”

“If you're worried—”

“I'm not.”

“It's not that I'm not tempted. It's just—”

“Please don't say it.”

“—I don't mix business and pleasure.”

“Ever?”

“Messy.”

I thought about my relationship with Michael. Definitely messy. The good news was Arch and I wouldn't be working together after this cruise. I could cool my jets for now and pursue a relationship later, except I didn't want a relationship with Arch. I just wanted to dance with JT. Since man and beast could live in Scotland or England or Timbuktu for all I knew, I wanted to mix it up while I had the chance. How messy could it get?

Arch broke the silence. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said, ‘please don't say it.' Say what?”

I didn't bother lying. According to him, I stank at it. “Nice girl. I thought you were going to call me a nice girl, and that would be—”

“What?”

“Awful.”

“Why?”

“Because nice girls finish last.”

Silence greeted that statement. Even I was stunned by the bitterness in my voice. I wanted to show Michael that I could be unpredictable and wild, except things weren't going my way. I sucked at lying. Sucked at promiscuity. Maybe I needed to hang around someone like Mata Hari—watch and learn.

“Stone really fucked with your head, yeah?”

It was the first time he'd mentioned my ex since their tense phone conversation two days before. I rolled to my side and squinted at his silhouette. Lying supine on the love seat, his feet hung over the end. He couldn't be comfortable. Yet he hadn't complained or blamed me for the perfume episode even once. Unshakable. “How well do you know Michael?”

“Well enough.”

“Are you friends?”

“Business associates.”

“That's it?”

“That's all.”

I rolled my eyes. Trying to get any information out of this man was like trying to interview a reclusive celebrity. Not only was he unshakable but also a master of evasion. Did they teach those skills in spy school? Unlike him, I decided to be direct. “Are you an agent?”

“Like Stone?”

“Like Bond. James Bond.”

He laughed. “You have a vivid imagination, Sunshine.”

“I'm famous for it.” I also possessed a lesser-known stubborn streak. “So are you?”

“No.”

“Why don't I believe you?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“How would I know?”

“Exactly.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“Didn't I?”

I fell back with an
oomph
. “My brain hurts.”

“Then give it a rest.”

I imagined him smiling and it chafed. “I can't,” I snapped. “There's a lot going on in my life right now.”

“Like?”

“You mean aside from my husband dumping me?”

“Ex-husband. Yeah. Aside from that.”

“My career is on the fast road to Deadsville.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn't that enough?”

He didn't answer and I suddenly felt like an immature, self-absorbed whiner. He no doubt had problems of his own, like saving the ship from a terrorist attack or something. “My parents split up.” There. That was news to him and I even managed not to sound like a churlish kid.

“When?”

“Recently.”

“For good?”

“For a while.” I refused to think that their separation would end in divorce. Sure, they bickered, but they loved one another. They belonged together. This was just a temporary glitch. “My brother said he'd patch things up.”

“You're worried he'll fail?”

I snorted. “Christopher accomplishes everything he sets his mind to. He's smart and successful, always makes the right choices.”

“You sound resentful.”

“Envious.” I squinted up into the darkness, conjured an image of my brother chained to a regimented job and bossy wife. “Wait. That's not true. I don't want his life. He works a high-pressure nine-to-five and married a stuck-up conniver who came with two bratty kids, compliments of her first marriage. Unfortunately, Sandy and her demon offspring are now part of my family so I have to be civil. Family is family, even if they're not blood, right?”

“Tricky stuff, that.”

“What?”

“Family.”

“I'll say. Anyway, at least I don't live in Indiana anymore.”

“That's where you're from, yeah?”

“Born and raised.”

“Ah, a nice Midwestern girl.”

I flipped over and punched my pillow. “I'm not nice.”

“If you say so.”

“Enough about me. What about your family?”

“Not as interesting as yours.”

That statement roused me like a bucket of cold water. “I doubt that.” I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest. It was that or sail across the room and pummel him with my pillow. “Give it up, Arch.” I was so over his aloofness.

“What?”

“Something. Anything.” I focused on his relaxed silhouette, bristled at his blasé tone. Good grief, was he falling asleep? “You're right. I don't know you. I don't know anything about you. Including whether or not you're trustworthy. How do I even know you're going to pay me at the end of this gig?” Okay. That wasn't my biggest concern, but it's what came out in the moment's heat.

“Don't insult me, Evie.”

“For the greater good. Whose good? Your good? The country's good? What country? You won't even own up to your birth nation.”

“Scotland.”

“What?”

“I'm a Scot.”

I noted the strained revelation, wondered why it had cost him so much to share so little. “But you sort of sound…the words you use…sometimes you sound British.”

“I've spent a lot of time in England.”

“Oh.” I didn't know where to steer the conversation. There was so much I wanted to know and yet I instinctively knew deeper questioning at this point would prove fruitless. Even though Arch was easy to talk to, even though we had entered swiftly and easily into what suspiciously felt like a friendship, the man himself was a closed book. A mystery. An enigma. Which, truth told, was probably a huge part of his appeal. Well, aside from the obvious physical aspect.

“So what's on tomorrow's agenda?” I asked.

His head lolled sideways and, because of an exceptionally well-directed moonbeam, I made out his perplexed expression. He blinked. “Sorry?”

I grinned, pleased that I'd tipped his infuriating balance. “The ship's docking in San Juan. Are we going ashore? Or staying aboard? Where do you think our…what would you call the person we're trying to dupe? Our victim?”

“Mark.”

The term was familiar. I'd once worked a two-week stint as a magician's assistant. My friend, known as Marko the Magnificent in theatrical circles, had referred to an audience member we were about to play a trick on as a mark. Not that I thought Arch was a conventional magician. More like a charming trickster—smoke and mirrors. “Where do you think our mark will be?” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, gripped the mattress to keep myself rooted. It was that or pace off my nervous energy. Since I'd been rolling in the sheets I probably smelled like jasmine again. The last thing I wanted to do was to stir up scents and set off another allergy attack.

Sit tight and
talk
it off, I told myself when he failed to answer my question. “How can you not know whether or not I've met the mark? Don't you know who we're after? Who we're trying to fool? Is that why you said the world is our stage? Because this guy could be anywhere, so we're, like, what? Trying to smoke him out?”

“Go to sleep, Evie.”

“Is he even a he? Or are we dealing with a she?” Mata Hari sprang to mind.

“He's a he. A crew member. Hospitality or entertainment.”

“One of
my
people? Is that why I'm here? Like attracts like?”

He sighed, an unusual show of exasperation. “You're here because you were in the right place at the wrong time.”

“You mean right place at the right time.”

“No, I don't.”

I skated over that, circled around the mysterious crew member. The faster my mind churned the tighter my hold on the mattress. “What did he do? Why is he dangerous? You know, I could be more effective if I were better informed.”

“Need-to-know basis, Sunshine.”

“And that's all I need to know?” My heart raced, my voice jumped an octave. “That we're trying to fool some man, some member of this crew, someone like, well, like me, into, what? Into believing we're happily married and…rich. The money thing. That must be key because we've spent a boatload. No pun intended. And…” I chewed my bottom lip, processed conversations we'd had throughout the two days in front of various crew members. “And we want him to think that I'm bored in Connecticut and happy as a pig in mud on this floating party. And there's the expendable income thing.” I snapped my fingers.
“To Catch a Thief.”

“What?”

“Hitchcock classic. 1955. Cary Grant and Grace Kelly.”

“Evie—”

“Grant pretends to be someone he's not, utilizing rich eye candy Kelly, to catch a thief. So, what? Does this guy sneak into passenger's rooms when they go ashore? Steal their jewels? Their money?” I slapped a hand to my pounding chest. “Or worse. Personal information so that he can rob them later. Identity theft. That's, like, a huge thing now, right? I—”

I gasped as he hauled me to my feet and into his arms. When had he crossed the room? Why was he holding me? “What are you doing?”

“Giving you something else to think
aboot
.” He crushed his lips against mine.

Who could think?
Oh, my God. Oh, my God
. Heaven. No, hell. This was hell. Hot. Sinful.
Wicked
. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on for dear life as he kissed me dizzy. My knees quaked as he claimed and conquered. Tongue. Lips. Teeth. One hand cradled the back of my head. The other, holy…down my pants. Fingers. Touching me…there. Holy…Cripes. Friction. Intense. Erotic. Can't think. Can't breathe.