All About Evie (19 page)

M
ILO WATCHED
A
RCH
limp toward the theater. He knew what was coming. Did Evie? Did she know Arch was going to fake a fall? Beg off the tour due to aggravating his wrenched ankle? Did he rehearse her reaction or was he trusting her instincts? What did they talk about when they were alone? How much had Arch revealed? What had he asked of her? What had been his
come-on?
More importantly, what had he promised in return?

For a man who normally played by the book, his partner was playing loose. A source of curiosity and frustration for Milo. Once ashore, he'd contact Woody and enlist his computer skills. He wanted answers.

Top of the list: Who exactly was Evie?

He ignored a hitch in his breath when she laughed in response to something Arch said. Bottling and selling that kind of infectious cheer could fund his retirement. He ignored the way her skintight, knee-length pants and red-and-pink T-shirt accentuated her kick-ass curves. And were those…? Hell, yeah, they were. Flowered sneakers. He ignored them, too, because they were surprisingly cute.

Even though Arch had claimed Evie was a last-minute snarl, Milo was still pissed that he'd involved an unsanctioned player. But as always, the man had lucked out. In spite of her inexperience, she made a great shill. Like Gina, she could easily distract a mark while another team member worked his magic. Only Evie was Gina's flipside. Adorable versus siren. A valuable asset. Not that Chameleon needed another full-time team member. But maybe as an extra…

Stop thinking with your dick, Beckett.

At least Mr. Happy wasn't broken.

He adjusted his cargo shorts, backed deeper into the Fiesta Theater. He had a clear view of the oncoming mismatched couple through the propped-open doors. Evie had yet to notice him because she was staring up adoringly at
Charles
. If she was acting, then she was as good as Arch claimed. If she had genuine feelings for the cagey Scot then she was screwed, and not in a good way. Arch didn't do long term.

Never attach yourself to anyone that you can't walk away from in a split second.

Gina knew Arch's creed. So why was her nose out of joint? Did she think she was different? Did she think she could change him? No. She was smarter than that. She knew the psychological makeup of a grifter. Even though Arch now worked the right side of the law, the man was not reformed. To reform one must admit to behaving badly in the first place. Career con artists were basically amoral. They felt no remorse. They could sleep at night because they believed the weak and gullible deserved what they got.

Ten to one, Arch slept like a rock last night.

Milo slept like hell.

After a premeditated R-rated swim with his
wife,
he'd retired to his cabin, his own bed, silently cursing the Scot for complicating his already knotty life. He'd mentally reviewed the Benson case and his conversations with Arch, trying to connect the dots.

Somewhere, somehow Lamont had crossed Arch or someone he cared about. Since the man kept the more intimate aspects of his life under wraps, the personal angle eluded Milo. Rolling a kink out of his neck, he tamped down his musing and focused on the unfolding drama.

With Sugar in tow, Charles Dupont cleared the threshold of the theater, the meeting place of those going ashore to tour San Juan, Puerto Rico. Gina stood a few feet away amongst the throng, obtaining the numbered sticker that corresponded with the number of their tour bus. At some point today, the roper might approach them with the same bull he'd shoveled Stokes. The bait:
“How would you like to ‘live'on a six-star cruise ship and travel the world? I know this guy, this deal. Very hush-hush…”
And so on.

Or maybe he'd make his move tomorrow. The most he and Gina could do was perpetuate the ruse. Patience was vital.

Milo made eye contact with Arch, touched the brim of his Stetson in greeting.

The conservatively dressed man raised his cane in response and—BAM!—there it was. He faltered and went down hard.

Evie yelped and fell to her knees beside him. “Charlie, baby, honey. Are you okay?”

Her shock and concern seemed genuine. If she was acting, Milo thought as he joined in the ruse, she was damned good. “Hell's fire, Twinkie,” he joked, while helping Arch to his feet. “Wherever you go, men fall at your feet.”

“Only not in the way a girl hopes,” some woman added.

Curious onlookers chuckled.

Evie's face turned as crimson as her sexy lipstick.

Arch winced for show when he tried to stand on his own. “Wretched ankle,” he complained in his concocted blue-blood accent, leaning against Milo for support.

Lucas, the golden-tongued shore excursion director, elbowed his way through the gawkers. “Should I call Doctor Drake, Mr. Dupont?”

“No need, old boy. However, I'm afraid I won't be able to go ashore. Damned disappointing, but the less I walk today, the better.”

“I'll call for a wheelchair,” Lucas said. “Please don't try to make it back to the cabin on your own. I insist,” he added, when Arch looked as though he might argue. He scrambled for the house phone as fellow passengers voiced their concern and Sugar fussed over Charles.

Milo squelched an eye roll as Arch lapped up the attention.

Gina joined them and he prayed she wouldn't crack out of turn while battling the green-eyed monster.

“I heard what you said about not going ashore, Charles. Don't worry,” she said, her voice a husky contralto, “we'll look after Sugar.”

Shit. “Hell, yeah,” Milo said—as if he had a choice. “No reason the little lady should have to miss out on the fun while you're icing that ankle.”

“We can shop till we drop,” Gina added.

“Good of you to offer,” Arch said with an easy smile. “I'll leave it up to Sugar.”

Twinkie blinked a couple of times then chirped, “Don't be silly, baby. I'm not going anywhere without you.” She quirked a coy grin. “We'll make our own fun.”

Good girl,
Milo thought.

“Isn't that sweet,” Gina said.

“All ashore that's going ashore,” someone announced.

The crowd clamored toward the door just as Lucas greeted a steward pushing a wheelchair.

“Where's your cane, Charles?” Gina asked in her husky
Carol
voice.

“I believe it rolled down that aisle,” he said, gesturing behind him.

“I'll get it,” she said, just as Evie announced she'd grab the wheelchair.

The level of noise and activity among passengers accelerated and for a moment chaos reigned.

Arch turned to retrieve his cane from Gina, and Milo watched, amazed, as Evie tripped over someone or something and plowed into the shore excursion director.

What a frickin' klutz, he thought, as she faltered and flung her arms around Lucas, grabbing hold of the man's ass. The pair babbled apologies while catching their balance and righting themselves.

Her execution was almost flawless. If Milo didn't have a trained eye, he, like everyone else in the theater, would've missed it. He clamped down on his cigar so his mouth wouldn't fall open.

I'll be damned.

“Y
OU
'
RE A NATURAL
.”

“You're a bastard.” Heart pounding, I double-checked that we hadn't been followed, then locked the cabin door behind us. My adrenaline pumped for all kinds of reasons and it spiked when Arch sprang out of the wheelchair. I tossed my Lucy tote on the bed and slugged him in the arm. Hard.

With the exception of thirty years ago when I lost it and pummeled my know-it-all brother—much like Ralphie whaled on the bully in
A Christmas Story
—I've never retaliated physically.
Violence is wrong
. Thing was, lately my inner bad girl refused to play nice.

Annoyingly amused, Arch rolled back his offended shoulder. “And that was for…”

“Throwing me to the wolves.”

“I
didnae
—”

“You could have told me that we weren't going ashore, that you planned to fake an injury. Do you have any idea how I felt when you crumpled to the floor? I thought you were hurt for
real
.”

“Evie—”

“And then Tex—”

“Who?”

“—Vic implied I'm a dangerous klutz and called me
Twinkie!
I hate it when he calls me that. It makes me sound fluffy. Sweet.”

Arch placed his glasses and Panama hat on the vanity. “In his defense—”

“I'm not sweet.”

“If you say so.”

“I used to be sweet, before people, including my own husband, started rejecting me based on age. Now I'm bitter. Cynical, shifty and
violent
.”

I stopped in my heated tracks, slumped back against the wall. “I just hit you. I can't believe I
slugged
you. Maybe it's hormones. Maybe I'm premenopausal. Mood swings. Anxiety.” I slapped a hand to my clammy brow, wondering if I was having a hot flash. “Great. What's next? Wild chin hairs?”

Arch unbuttoned his shirt, unstrapped the fake gut. “What is it
aboot
you and your age? So you're forty-one. Big fuckin' deal. Stone didn't know a good thing when he had it and the casinos are missing
oot
on a brilliant talent.”

That prodded a tiny smile out of me. He scored points for validating my worth on both the personal and professional front. Still…“If you think I'm a brilliant talent, why didn't you prep me for your pratfall and plans to bail on San Juan? And don't you dare give me that crack-out-of-turn excuse.”

“I wanted a real moment, yeah?”

I willed the top of my head not to blow off. “What?”

“This morning you asked for a show of faith. I
dinnae
trust easily, but I do believe in your caring nature. I knew you'd react strongly and with genuine concern when I fell. I wanted a real moment and I got it.” He toed off his loafers and padded into the bathroom.

I followed him, my heart thudding in my ears. “Yes, but after the initial fall, I knew that you were faking. I ended up acting my butt off,
improvising
my butt off because you didn't clue me in. I didn't know if you wanted me to go ashore, you know, split our efforts, or stay on board, status quo.” I twirled my ring, focused on the cheery sneakers. “I didn't want to make the wrong decision. But then I thought about Sugar's profile. She wouldn't abandon Charlie, leaving him to nurse his injury alone. She'd stay on board and fuss over him, keep him entertained. Sugar can have fun anywhere.”

“Like I said. You're a natural.” He looked over his shoulder. “That's a good thing, yeah?”

In other words, he'd just paid me a compliment. I mumbled a begrudging, “Thank you.” I was angry, not rude.

I leaned against the doorjamb, watched as he began to remove the foam latex appliances from his face. I tried not to ogle his half-naked body. No easy feat. His sculpted shoulders and tapered back were droolworthy. His arms were to-die-for ripped and that Celtic band around his bicep killed me. Amazing that I could be ticked off and turned-on at the same time. Swear to heaven, if he got in the shower, I'd join him. Best-case scenario, we'd have sex. Worst case, we'd almost have sex.

I blew out a tense breath. “I'm sorry I hit you.”

“Hate to break it to you, but your punch lacks power, Sunshine.”

“That's not the point. I lost my temper.”

“But not in public, yeah? Not where it counted. I couldn't have scripted it better.”

“Let's not go there, huh?” I watched him dip a brush in a tiny jar, transfixed and transported back to the days when I shared a dressing room with a dozen other strolling entertainers. Stilt walkers, mimes, clowns, magicians and character actors like me. Swapping makeup tips was a daily ritual. “So what do you use to make the latex adhere? Spirit gum?”

“Aye.” He loosened one edge of his faux jowls, swabbed underneath.

“So, the gook on the brush. Spirit gum remover?”

“Uh-huh.”

I watched, fascinated as he repeated the brush and peel process, gently loosening the latex appliance bit by bit. “I read somewhere that it takes hours to apply prosthetics. I know you get up early to get a head start, but you're never in the bathroom for more than ninety minutes tops.”

“I wear the tinted glasses so I
dinnae
have to screw with crow's feet or under-eye bags. Jowls and a wrinkled forehead? Pretty basic. Plus, I've had a lot of practice.”

“Where'd you learn how to do this?”

“Someone in the biz.”

“Someone in TCC? What does that stand for, anyway? The Covert Connection? The Counterintelligence Council?”

He caught my gaze in the mirror and winked. “Nice try.”

I smirked. “So, what? If you told me, you'd have to shoot me?”

“Between the eyes.”

I blinked.

He shook his head, sighed. “Christ, you're easy.”

“I prefer the term
trusting
or
naive
.” Was he
trying
to rile me? “Don't look so disgusted. There are worse things in this world.”

“Not if it costs you your pride or your savings, or worse, your life.”

“Are you talking about the vicious shark, the man who preys on gullible seniors?”

“He doesn't stop there, Sunshine.”

My pulse skipped. “What do you mean? What did he do?”

“Never mind.” He powdered the underside of each appliance, to absorb or reduce moisture I assumed, and returned them to a special case. Then he scrubbed his face with soap and water. The longer his silence, the shorter my patience. I wanted him to trust me, to enlist my help in making the world a better place.

“What's it going to take to convince you that I'm not a…a Twinkie?” I snapped my fingers.
The wallet!
I whirled and raced into the bedroom. Plucked the brown leather billfold from my Lucy tote, swiveled back around and knocked into the shirtless bad boy.

He grasped my shoulders and steadied me.

“This,” I said, waving the evidence of my deceptive behavior beneath his nose, “proves that I am not a crème puff.”

Grinning, he nabbed the goods. “And this would be?”

“Lucas's wallet.”

The grin slipped. “Where'd you get it?”

“Out of his back pocket.”

“You pinched his wallet?”

“
No
. That would be stealing. I have every intention of returning it with its contents intact. I just…borrowed it.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because maybe there's something in there to confirm or negate his little fish status. Because he probably keeps his Fiesta card in there, which means we can search his room while he's ashore.”

“Where did you learn how to pick pockets?”

I frowned. “You make it sound criminal.”

“It is.”

“No, it's not. It's hoodwinking. You know. Calculated deception. The Misdirection—distraction. The Dip—dipping into the pocket, taking the wallet. A little sleight of hand to hide it, in this case, in my Lucy tote.” I shrugged. “All it takes is practice.”

“Plus steady nerves and bang-on timing.” He stared at me as if I had two heads. “Who taught you?”

“Someone in the biz,” I said, tossing his own words back at him. “A magician friend,” I added when a muscle jumped under his left eye. Jeez, had I finally managed to piss him off? “His regular assistant had to take a maternity break and I filled in for a few weeks. Lifting an item from an audience member was part of the act. Took me a while to get the technique down. Since I haven't done it in a while I assumed I'd lost my touch. Guess not.”

I grinned for a millisecond before losing my patience and huffing a breath. “Why are you looking at me that way? It's not like you're Mr. Clean. You forged my passport. So I borrowed a wallet! I thought you'd be happy or impressed, not annoyed. It's for the greater good, for goodness' sake. Say something, dammit!”

“Bollocks.”

He tossed the wallet on the table and yanked me into his arms. Suddenly, I was crushed against a wall of half-naked bad boy. He smothered my gasp with his mouth, blew my mind with his tongue.

I didn't protest, hell, no. That would require coherent thought and speech. He'd robbed me of both. I flung my arms around his neck, pressed closer, kissed deeper. I wanted this. I wanted more. I ground my pelvis against him to let him know I was game. Given our height difference, it was my lower stomach that endured the sweet, torturous pressure of his hard-on. Apparently criminal behavior was a turn-on for this man. I filed away the knowledge while smoothing my hands down his muscular back. I grabbed his stellar butt and bemoaned the fact he was still wearing pants.

Whatever Midwestern inhibitions I harbored vanished when his hands slipped beneath my T-shirt and splayed across my bare skin. His fingers skimmed and unhooked my bra strap and—
tingle, zing, zap
—I was his for the taking. Lest he miss the
take me, take me now
vibes I radiated, I gave him a more concrete
go
. I unbuckled his belt and fumbled with his fly, trembling with an exhilarating dose of anticipation.

I whimpered when he broke our hot, wet kiss. Mentally cheered when he tugged my shirt over my head, simultaneously ridding me of my bra. I stood before him topless and aroused, and loving the hungry look in his eyes as his gaze swept over my small, but perky breasts.

“I
dinnae
do relationships, Sunshine.”

I took that as a
If you want me to stop, speak now
. “How convenient,” I croaked, his heavy accent raging through me like an injected aphrodisiac. “I don't want one.”
Not with you,
I thought as I boldly dipped my hands into his white briefs.
You're a heartbreaker
. He was also hard and huge and I couldn't believe I was actually caressing JT.

He groaned—Arch, not John Thomas—when I stroked his impressive length.

“Payback,” I said, reflecting on last night. Since he'd taken liberties, I figured I was entitled to a little groping myself. Only he had something different in mind. In a flash, I was flat on my back—the bed beneath me, Arch above, kicking off his pants while peeling away my capris.

“I've wanted you naked from the moment you tripped though the airport's revolving doors.”

His blunt admission struck me dizzy. I felt desired, and emotional. A warning bell gonged in my head causing me to go rigid when he pressed his magnificent body against mine and kissed my neck.

“I haven't done this in a while,” I whispered, my nipples pebbling when he nipped and sucked my earlobe. “In fact, it's been aeons since I've done it with anyone but—”

“I'll take it slow, yeah?”

“No.” The tenderness in his voice undid me. “I don't want slow. I don't want intimate.” That would summon affection and compromise my fragile heart. “I just want—”

“Sex.”

He flipped me onto my stomach and straddled me. I felt the weight of his erection on the small of my back as he skimmed his fingers over my shoulders and back, featherlight. I shivered and moaned. Delicious sensations rolled through me as he shifted his weight and swept his hands over the swell of my backside, his fingers probing and stroking the wetness between my thighs.
Yes.

My feverish brain flashed on the image of us, of me in bed with a seriously hunky bad boy. Having sex. With a spy…or something. With a man I barely knew. I felt naughty and sensual and desperate to feel him inside of me, filling me. “Do it,” I whispered as want and need assaulted my sexually deprived body.